Clara cocked her head, listening, as she walked with him to the back of the stables. “I wish it would cease altogether.”

As they approached Betty’s loose box, a low groan emanated from within. The unsettling sound made Clara stop short. “What in heaven?”

Mr. Cross brushed past her to open the door. She caught a brief glimpse of Betty before he shut it behind him. The little pony was lying down on the straw, her tail raised, and her sides heaving.

A shiver of foreboding quickened Clara’s pulse. She came to lean over the door of the loose box. “Is she foaling?”

“Trying to.” Mr. Cross knelt down beside Betty on the straw. He talked to her in a low, soothing voice as he examined her.

“But it’s too early, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” His hands moved slowly over Betty’s swollen belly. “Something’s wrong.”

Clara’s mouth went dry. She knew little about physicking horses, and even less about assisting in a difficult equine labor. But as she looked at Betty’s trembling body—and at Mr. Cross’s somber expression—her spine stiffened with resolve. “What can I do to help?”

Mr. Cross’s eyes met hers over the door. “Find Danvers.”

Chapter 14

Neville murmured to Betty as he palpated her belly. He’d helped to deliver foals before, and knew enough to recognize that this particular one wasn’t in the right position. It was turned the wrong way around in the womb, and would have to be righted if Betty was to have any hope of a safe delivery.

How long had she been in this condition?

He cursed himself for not having gone to her first. For having wasted time preparing mash for the other horses. But she’d seemed well enough when he’d checked on her last night. She’d been restless of course, but he’d attributed that to her confinement. To her need for exercise.

There had been no other symptoms of impending labor. None that he’d noticed. A mare usually exhibited signs. A distended udder, or the appearance of a yellowish wax on her teats. Betty had shown evidence of neither, which had led him to believe it would be another week, at least, before her foal would come.

Had he missed something important? Had he been so distracted by his burgeoning feelings for Clara that he’d failed to see what was right in front of his eyes?

Betty groaned again, her head moving restlessly on the straw.

Neville stroked her neck. “Easy girl,” he murmured. “You’ll be all right.”

He prayed to God that she would be.

After everything Betty had been through, all the obstacles she’d overcome, surely she couldn’t die in labor. A wild pony, breathing her last in a dratted loose box of all places. What sort of end was that for such a majestic creature? To die in captivity?