~ Stag In the Woods ~
Chapter Two
Eleanor was frantic, exhausted, and utterly out of her depth. The days blurred into one another — an endless cycle of feeding, cleaning, and snatched fragments of sleep that left her hollowed out.
She barely slept. Every two to three hours Rufus — named on the third night for the rich red-brown of his damp coat — would wake with a high, insistent bleat and root desperately against her chest. He was voracious. Tiny hooves kneaded at her, his damp muzzle pushed and searched, nursing with single-minded intensity until her breasts ached and her body felt drained dry.
At first she let him. Some deep, ancient instinct told her this was what mothers did. But within days she was light-headed and trembling, leaking far less than he demanded. Her human body simply could not keep up with the appetite of even this small red deer fawn.
One grey afternoon, after yet another session that left her dizzy and him still fussing, Eleanor made a decision.
She drove to the village in Thomas’s old car, headscarf pulled low, and bought two litres of fresh goat’s milk from the farm shop on the outskirts. The woman behind the counter gave her a curious look but said nothing. Back at the farmhouse, Eleanor warmed a little and offered it to Rufus in a shallow dish.
He sniffed, bleated in confusion, and turned away, immediately pushing back toward her chest.
“Come on, little one,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “Please.”
He refused.
The next day she drove thirty miles to the agricultural supplier and returned with a lamb feeding bottle and a tin of calf milk replacer. She mixed it carefully, warming it to body temperature, and tried again while holding him in her lap.
Rufus took one tentative suck, then jerked his head back with an indignant bleat. He butted the bottle away, nostrils flaring. Wrong scent. Wrong texture. Wrong taste. This was not Mother. He cried piteously and tried to crawl up her shirt again.
Eleanor’s eyes stung with frustrated tears.
For two long days they fought the same battle. She offered the bottle. He refused and wailed. She gave in and let him nurse until she shook with fatigue. Then the cycle repeated. Over and over, the same exhausted thought circled in her mind: I can’t do this. I’m not enough for him.
On the third night, after another fruitless struggle, she sat on the floor with Rufus curled against her, both of them trembling. She stroked his spotted back and whispered, half to him and half to herself.
“I’m trying, Rufus. I’m trying so hard.”
She offered the bottle again.
This time he fussed and complained, but hunger finally won. He took a few cautious pulls, then more. His dark eyes watched her warily the whole time, but he drank. When the bottle was empty he gave a small, milky burble and immediately began rooting for comfort against her chest.
Eleanor let him nuzzle there, even though there was almost nothing left. The warmth of his small body and the steady rhythm of his breathing slowly eased the knot in her chest.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t natural. But it was something.
Over the following days he gradually accepted the bottle more readily, though he still preferred to fall asleep pressed against her, mouthing gently at her skin as if searching for the comfort he truly wanted. Eleanor’s days settled into a new, relentless rhythm: mixing formula, washing bottles, stealing whatever rest she could when he slept, and watching her impossible fawn grow stronger with every feeding.
She spoke to him constantly in the quiet of the farmhouse. Soft stories about Thomas. Gentle warnings about the world beyond their ten acres. And always, always, the same promise.
“Strangers are dangerous, Rufus. If you ever see anyone who isn’t me, you run home and hide. Only I am safe.”
Her little fawn would flick his ears and press closer, as if he already understood that she was his entire world.