The Cowboy and the Princess. Myrna Mackenzie

Do something,” she said.

      “What?”

      “I don’t know. Eat.”

      Theron laughed. He sat down again. She ignored him and continued on her way.

      The scent of growing things and something animal filled her nostrils and she breathed in deeply, acclimating herself to the unfamiliar. This was the perfume of life, not the palace.

      Staring around her, Delfyne took in the endless miles of land, the buildings that were clearly not living space and a number of big, hulking, unfamiliar vehicles.

      She smiled as Jake and Alf, two of the ranch dogs, ran around barking as if vying for her attention, jumping around so much that Alf nearly stepped on the paw of a little orange cat that came too close.

      “You two behave yourselves,” she ordered affectionately, scratching Jake behind the ears. “And watch where you’re walking. You nearly squashed this little guy.”

      Indeed, the cat was limping slightly, but when Delfyne tried to pick him up he gave her a look that said, “I’m a rough tough ranch cat. I don’t need coddling,” and continued on his way.

      She knew the cats here had no names. They were working animals, not pets, and there were too many of them. “But I’m calling you Tim,” Delfyne announced to the cat’s retreating back. “As in Tiny Tim.”

      Her parents would have groaned. Her father in particular had worried about her tendency to request bedtime stories with happily-every-after endings. He’d taken to giving her warnings about the tales, telling her that in the original story of The Little Mermaid, the heroine had not married her prince, and that in her favorite Xenoran legend, King Vondiver, the hero, had given up his crown to pursue his love of a common woman and had suffered a terribly alarming, sad and lonely ending. Surely she didn’t want to end up like that.

      Her parents needn’t have worried. Delfyne knew that stories weren’t real, and she had absolutely no desire to have her life turn out like the endings of those tales. She just liked hearing them. Vondiver’s story in particular always left her misty-eyed.

      “Getting teary over a silly story can be downright embarrassing, Tim,” she said.

      The cat continued to ignore her, and Jake and Alf had already run off, attracted by something else.

      “On my own again,” Delfyne said with a sigh. “But I refuse to feel sorry for myself. Princesses don’t. When we find ourselves in less-than-ideal circumstances, we do something about it!

      “So stand tall,” she said, quoting from that ever-present supply of lessons that had been fed to her as a child.

      Some princesses might take that a step further and take action, she thought. Okay, that had never been part of her lessons. It was from her own personal, flawed guidebook…which meant she was on the verge of doing something ill-advised. “But I have to do something,” she muttered.

      She looked around again. Owen was nowhere to be seen, so Delfyne continued on toward one of the large structures. Was it the barn, perhaps? She had no idea, but she wasn’t about to be deterred now that she’d made up her mind to escape the house. She was almost to the door when she heard a rustle and a shout.

      “Damn it, Ennis, stop messing around and get over here and help me!”

      That was unmistakably Owen’s voice. It was coming from the structure next to this one. Delfyne didn’t hesitate. She followed Owen’s voice, slipping inside the building.

      What she saw stopped her in her tracks.

      There was Owen, all broad shoulders and lean hips, his damp shirt plastered to his body as he bent over a cow that had its head in some sort of contraption. He shook his head toward the man standing beside him. Ennis, Delfyne assumed.

      “Get Len. We’re going to have to operate,” Owen said. “This calf isn’t coming, even with the chains. And when you get back, wash up. Make sure this area is disinfected. Come on. Hustle. She’s suffering.”

      His words brought Delfyne’s attention back to the cow, which did appear to be in serious distress. And that contraption…

      A small sound escaped Delfyne, and Owen looked up. A curse word escaped him.

      “Go back to the house,” he told her.

      His tone brooked no opposition. She bit her lip.

      “What are you going to do to her? That machine doesn’t look comfortable.”

      Was that a growl? “It’s not, but it’s necessary so she doesn’t hurt herself or kick out and kill one of us while we help her. Now go. You don’t belong here.”

      “Will she be all right?”

      He grimaced and started to answer. She was pretty sure he wasn’t going to offer her any platitudes, but she’d never know that for sure because a man shrugging into a pair of pristine coveralls came loping in at that moment and started barking orders. He must be the vet.

      “Ready, boss?” the man asked.

      “She’s yours, Len,” Owen answered, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he deftly assisted the man, following Len’s orders quickly and efficiently, as if he’d done this hundreds of times before.

      “She’s bleeding too much,” Len said. “Give me the hemostat. Come on. Quick. Quick, dammit.”

      Owen slapped the object in the man’s hand and Len went to work. There was so much blood.

      Delfyne felt light-headed and weak. She reached for the wall and tried to stay quiet. Apparently unsuccessfully, because Owen swore and started toward her. “You look like you’re going to faint. I’m getting you out of here now.”

      But when he moved toward her and away from the cow, Delfyne realized that the animal might not survive because “the princess” had drawn Owen’s attention and hands away from the task at hand.

      “No. No, I’m all right. Go help.” She motioned him back, gulping in air. Her voice was shaky but she remained standing.

      He hesitated.

      “Owen!” Len was yelling.

      “Go!” Delfyne yelled, too. She had a crazy urge to say, “I command you,” even though she’d never said that in her life.

      Without another word, Owen returned to his place with Len and the distressed creature. Side by side, the two men barked orders at each other and worked in concert, a team that had obviously done this together before.

      They made another incision and eased out the calf. Owen checked it over and gently laid it aside. Then he turned back to its mother. Based on the men’s brief, guttural exchanges, Delfyne caught the merest hint of what was happening. Antibiotics were involved. She heard the word antiseptic. Stitches were made. Finally, Ennis took the apparently healthy calf away and then came back for the woozy, tipsy but on-her-feet mother, promising to keep watch over both of them. He glanced at Delfyne, a question in his eyes, but he said nothing.

      Len was obviously less cautious about asking questions. After washing up and changing his coveralls for a clean shirt, he came over and held out his hand, flashing her a devilish smile that she was sure he reserved for women he was interested in. “Well, hello there, pretty mystery lady. You must be one of the visitors we were told about. I’m Len Mayall. And you’re…”

      “None of your business, Len.” Owen’s words were quiet but firm as he came up behind them. He had shed his shirt and put on a new one but he hadn’t had time to button it yet. Delfyne tried not to notice what a fine, muscular chest he had, but her fingertips tingled. And he had said—

      Delfyne frowned sternly and gave Owen a pained look. “I’m Delfyne,” she said.

      Which clearly wasn’t what Len had wanted to know, by the questioning