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time in the
birthing canal may lead to suffocation. Preferred methods involve
forcibly removing the fetus from the… ‘ “
    “Enough, Stevens,” said Nicholas, resting his
head on the mare’s flanks, “I know the conclusion.” His large hands
stroked the mare’s muzzle as he whispered calming words to her now
and again. He pondered if he should ask for the pistol now, and
then he wondered for just the merest fraction of a second who would
benefit from it more—he or the mare. The sound of someone coming
distracted him.
    Miss Kittridge poked her head around the
stall door. “Pardon me, sir,” she said, as she kept her eyes
trained on the straw just inside the stall. “This is the mare, I
assume then, that is experiencing a difficult foaling, is it?”
    “Yes. Why do you ask?” He lifted his head to
get a better view of her.
    “Our maid mentioned there was a great to-do
going on here. I thought I would offer my help before relieving my
father this afternoon.” She looked at the semicircle of rugged men.
“Would you prefer… that is, do you want me to go away, Lord
Huntington?”
    Nicholas arched an eyebrow and considered the
awkwardness of the situation. He was uncomfortable inviting Miss
Kittridge into this crude, dark stall filled with men. He noticed a
slight blush had reached the roots of the knot of wavy brown hair
that threatened to become dislodged.
    She was so delicate and little, almost
birdlike in her dove-gray gown. Her arms were thin; he was sure
they would snap in two with the merest yank. She ought to be more
familiar with vinaigrettes than the two tons of prime breeding
stock before her. But she had displayed her mettle in the sickroom.
The least he could do, if she was indeed going to try to help his
sister’s favorite horse, was to save her the embarrassment of a
rough-and-tumble audience.
    “Gentlemen,” he said with exaggerated
politeness, “will you please leave us now? Miss Kittridge, I humbly
beg your aid.” There was a disgruntled murmur from the assembled
group that indicated that they did not take kindly to the invasion
of a female in their domain. They stared at her in disbelief until
one dark look from Nicholas dispersed the ranks. Stevens left the
reference book in the stall and herded the group outside.
    Miss Kittridge trod across the straw and
kneeled behind the animal’s haunches, stroking the horse’s sides to
signal her presence. A ripple of movement captured their
attention.
    “Well, at least the foal is still kicking,”
she said, reaching for some clean rags nearby. She pushed her short
sleeve over the curve of her slim shoulder.
    “Have you ever done this before?” he
asked.
    “With a cow. Once.”
    “I see,” he said, with a hint of doubt. “I
haven’t been able to locate our stable master,” he said.
    She lowered her ear to the animal’s side.
“How long has she been laboring?”
    “She has been pacing for at least one hour
and a half,” he said, stroking the horse’s flanks. “She stopped
trying to stand about twenty minutes ago.”
    “That is too long for a horse, I think.
Yes?”
    “Most are delivered of their foals within a
half hour.”
    With one hand on the flank, she inserted the
other into the birth passage slowly. The feeble horse raised her
head and whinnied for a moment before lying still once again. Miss
Kittridge looked lost in concentration on her task.
    “Ah, there it is,” she whispered as she
closed her eyes. Blood seeped onto her sleeve. “I almost have it.
Yes, wait,” she said, as she seemed to be tugging with all her
strength. “No, it’s not working. I need a brace, please. Come sit
beside me.”
    He crawled next to her, ignoring the sharp
pain in his thigh.
    “That’s it. Now, please, I need to brace my
feet to gain more strength.” Her feminine voice clashed with the
intense seriousness of her purpose.
    “Perhaps I should do this,” he said.
    “No,” she said. “It is better I do it. My
hands are smaller, and I