LOVE OF A RODEO MAN (MODERN DAY COWBOYS) (6 page)

Carol’s affection for her husband was patently clear in the
loving way she fondled the work roughened hand cradling her neck and turned her head to give him a smile full of love. “It’s the best sort of life I could ever imagine,” she said.

Sara felt a strange constriction in her chest, not envy, but wistful recognition of something rare and beautiful as she watched Bill and Carol Forgie. Here was a couple with a common dream and a wealth o
f love for each other that literally shone around them like an aura.

Would she find that kind of relationship someday? Her eyes drifted down to the
rounded shape of Carol’s pregnant middle under the blue gingham smock. How wonderful it must be to carry a child for the man you loved, to create that child from shared passion, bear it, watch it grow and develop.

The memory of a recent kiss made her hotly aware of the man sitting across the table from her, and she glanced at Mitch, lounging casually back on his wooden chair.

She found him watching her intently. It made her uncomfortable because she had the uncanny feeling that he was reading her thoughts and remembering the intensity of their embrace just as she was doing.

He raised one eyebrow at her quizzically.

She had the strangest feeling he was asking a silent question.

Sara was an early riser. She made a practice of arriving at the veterinary clinic before 8:00 a.m.

It was only seven twenty-nine the next morning when she pulled up in front of the old house Doc rented as a clinic and parked on the deserted main street of the small town of Plains. It was Saturday, which usually meant fewer calls to attend to at outlying farms and more drop-in clients with small pet problems.

It also meant Floyd wouldn’t make it in until late, and when he finally did appear, he’d be nursing a monstrous Friday night hangover.

Unlocking the back door of the wood-frame building, she was greeted by a chorus of mewing as the three clinic cats converged on her demanding breakfast. Sylvester, as usual, was firmly in charge of the two females, Tinker and Agnes.

“You disgraceful bully,” Sara chided him, crouching down to give each of them a rub and a comforting scratch behind their ears, holding Sylvester firmly back with a foot so the girls could share in the affection.

“I swear it’s never dawned on you that you’re neutered and ought to be growing fat and lazy,” she murmured to the battle-scarred orange reprobate when his turn came. She had to laugh as he hissed menacingly, thinking he was intimidating the females.

“Just wait until the girls find out you’re all talk and no action, buster.”

Sara opened cans of cat food for them and then filled the coffee maker and set it to brew. Her eyes felt grainy from lack of sleep, but conversely, the same strange sense of exhilaration and ridiculous excitement that had kept her awake most of the night went right on bubbling inside her this morning.

No use pretending it had
much to do with the safe delivery of the Forgies’ foal, either, she admitted, washing out grimy mugs at the sink and wondering if Floyd ever cleaned anything up after himself. He methodically used every single mug there was in the cupboard, abandoning them anywhere in the building he happened to be when the last drop of his corrosively strong tea was drained. What in heaven’s name must his apartment look like?

She rinsed the dishes with boiling water from the kettle and wondered idly if Mitch was tidy. Why did every thought pattern she’d had in the past twelve hours revert to Mitch, resulting in a mental image of his tall frame, his unruly, soft dark hair, his green eyes? Not to mention his kisses.

Her imagination stubbornly ended up every time with her being held tightly in his arms. Leaning her bottom against the sink, she folded her arms across her middle and took stock.

Face it, Wingate, you’ve allowed yourself to get all dreamy and distracted over this guy. A person would think you’d never been kissed before, the way you’re mooning about. Now get your tail in gear, there’s work to be done, and Mitch Carter’s wasting your time.

Sara hurried into the room off the kitchen that Doc Stone had set aside as an infirmary and set about briskly cleaning out cages and feeding and watering the few patients in residence. The job was actually Floyd’s, but animals couldn’t be expected to wait around until his hangover abated enough for him to finally come to work. Sara had taken over their morning care shortly after she’d started working at the clinic.

In the other room, the co
ffee maker belched loudly, signaling that it was ready just as Sara reached the last cage. The inhabitant was Daisy, a small, pampered terrier scheduled for surgery later in the morning. Daisy was to have what her delicate lady owner referred to as “correction of a female problem.” Sara had tacked a more succinct note on the cage.

Spay: No Food or Water.

Daisy whined piteously, and Sara paused to talk to the nervous little animal for a moment before going into the kitchen to pour herself her first cup of coffee. The hot, strong liquid was both comforting and revitalizing, reminding her of that cup of coffee yesterday after the safe delivery of the foal.

In an instant, she was back beside Mitch, sitting as she had the evening before in the Forgies’ kitchen, drinking coffee and mostly listening as Mitch talked with Bill about hopes and dreams that Sara mentally filed away. She must have a file going, because every detail was there in her head the instant she relaxed her guard.

Like now. She sighed, stroking Agnes, the witch-black cat that had landed in her lap the instant she sat down. She gave up the effort of shoving Mitch Carter into the corners of her mind. Instead, she let him take over, sorting through impressions as the coffee in her cup dwindled and the street outside the clinic slowly came alive with early Saturday business.

Mitch had lost a brother he loved, his only brother. H
e’d reluctantly left a lifestyle that suited him to come back here and work with a father he obviously didn’t get along with. He hated pigs, loved horses and kept a remarkably cool head in emergencies...probably a trait he’d acquired on the rodeo circuit. Certainly every working day contained an emergency of some sort when you were a rodeo cowboy. He’d been a hero in his field, yet despite the recognition he’d earned, Mitch was anything but egotistical. In fact, he was endearingly bashful at times...a wry grin twisted her mouth. And boldly confident at others.

At stra
tegic moments, Mitch Carter wasn’t backward at all, she remembered with a shy smile that faded abruptly. He must have had an awful lot of practice over the years, to learn to kiss like that. She gave herself a mental shake and shoved Agnes off her lap. Here she was, like any spinny teenager, mooning over a kiss in a barnyard.

The phone rang.

“Stone’s Veterinary, can I help you?”

“My dog has a terrible case of worms, can I stop by and get something for him? You’re that new lady vet, aren’t you? Well, Doc Stone always used to give me...”

Back to work, Wingate.

By ten forty-five, she’d answered a dozen phone calls, seen to a puppy’s sore paw and given him his shots, and was in the process of advising an eccentric old woman in a black bowler hat that her cat had a diaphragmatic hernia and needed an operation as soon as possible.

The cat’s owner, Miss Emily Crenshaw, didn’t take the diagnosis well at all. She promptly burst into tears. “But I haven’t any money, Doctor, only my pension, and that barely covers essentials. I can’t afford an operation. How much will it cost, Doctor?”

Hurriedly reducing her own fee for the surgery, Sara named the lowest figure she could possibly quote. Emily still looked profoundly shocked and shook her head sadly, chin quivering and tears dripping down h
er faded cheeks as she lifted her nondescript-looking black cat off the examining table and into her arms, shuffling toward the door.

“An operation’s out of the question. She’ll just have to live with the pain, won’t you pet? That’s far too expensive for us, isn’t it, Queenie? We’
ll just have to get along without it. Poor old Queenie.”

“But the trouble Queenie’s having with her breathing will get steadily worse, Miss Crenshaw. You see, she has a tear in her diaphragm, and each time she runs or jumps at all, it enlarges. It could easily prove fatal.”

But Miss Crenshaw simply shook her head hopelessly. Feeling like a money-grubbing, unfeeling monster, Sara watched the pathetic figure clutch her precious cat to her concave bosom and heard herself saying the instant before the door closed behind the cat and its owner, “Look, I’ll have a talk with my boss, maybe we can work something out.”

Sara knew what they’d work out. She’d do the surgery free and meticulously deduct the cost of the medications she’d used out of her own check.

Emily’s tears dried up as if by magic. “Oh, you are a dear girl. When shall I bring Queenie in?” Resignedly Sara checked her schedule. “How about Thursday morning at eight? No food or water after six the night before.”

When the old woman and the cat were gone, Sara
slumped into a chair, one of her professor’s words ringing in her ears. “Some pet owners will try about anything to trick you into treating their animals free of charge. Be very careful about people who insist they can’t pay for treatment. Some may be telling the truth, but an awful lot are shysters.”

Surely Emily Crenshaw wouldn’t try anything like that. The woman looked penniless. Still, Sara’s only major problem with her job had nothing to do with the animals she treated; it was this matter o
f dealing with their human owners that daunted her. And the poor, pathetic old ones like Miss Crenshaw usually ended up costing her money instead of earning it for her.

Floyd still hadn’t turned up by eleven thirty, and neither had Doc Stone.

Sara couldn’t put off the surgery on Daisy any longer. The dog’s owner was planning to take her pet home later that afternoon, and Sara knew there’d be an ugly scene if the operation hadn’t been done when the woman arrived.

There’d been a lull in patients for the past half hour, and Sara took advantage of it to prepare the surgery and then sedate the little dog, hoping each moment that Floyd would finally make an appearance. She’d already begun the operation when her assistant stuck his head in the door of the surgery, eyes as red as the blood she was mopping from the neat incision in Daisy’s abdomen.

Floyd had an air of importance about him that Sara knew from past experience was simply an act designed to deflect her anger away from its rightful object.

“Mornin’
, Dr. Sara. Sorry I’m late in, but...”

Sara didn’t wait for the
implausible and imaginative excuse she knew Floyd would come up with.

“I’ve put the answering machine on the phone
, take it off, will you, Floyd?” she interrupted. “And I also have a note on the front door that says back in half an hour, take that down as well. I can’t very well do this and monitor the waiting room by myself,” she said pointedly.

“Do you have any idea what time Doc Stone might be coming in today?” Sara couldn’t control the trace of annoyance in her tone. The senior vet was supposed to have an agreement with her about Saturdays. Sara had offered in the beginning to work from eight until one, and then the older man would take over, leaving her with a precious free afternoon. Except that in the six weeks she’d been working for him, Doc Stone had appeared to relieve her exactly once.

“Ahhh, me head’s not on straight just yet.” Floyd was the very essence of abject apology. “Doc said yesterday to tell you he was going out to the horse auction in the valley so he wouldn’t be able to come in until late today. It slipped me mind entirely.”

Floyd shut the door hastily behind him when she glared at him, and Sara returned her attention to the inert body of the animal on the table, deftly stitching up the incision she’d made and forcing herself not to think about Doc Stone or Floyd at the moment.

Daisy would be just fine in a day or so. Sara felt pride at a job well done as she tenderly carried the small, limp form back to its cage in the infirmary. She made the dog comfortable before she allowed herself to dwell on Floyd, Doc Stone and the difficult situation she’d landed in by taking this job.

It was a subject she’d stu
diously avoided facing for several weeks. Stripping off her gloves and the protective green operating smock, she washed in the antiquated bathroom and wandered back into her tiny office, mulling it all over.

The thing was, she’d desperately wanted the job only months before and had been humbly grateful when the acerbic little vet hired her. She loved the work and th
e surroundings. It was the people she worked with that she found unreliable at best, irresponsible at worst. It hadn’t taken her a week to figure out that being Doc Stone’s assistant actually meant assuming almost full responsibility for his busy rural veterinary practice.

As soon as he’d realized she was fully competent—two days after he’d begrudgingly hired her, it seemed to Sara—the wily old vet had all but disappeared, leaving her to run the entire business nearly alone, while paying her the meager salary of an assistant. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Over the past weeks, she’d begun to suspect that it was a blessing her boss didn’t do more of the actual vet work.

Doc Stone was making mistakes, serious errors in judgment that troubled Sara.

The first indication had been a puzzling emergency call Sara made to a ranch that raised feedlot cattle. Doc had visited the ranch
the day before and used a relatively new drug while medicating the animals’ feed. Sara was called because several of the animals were unsteady on their feet and had stopped eating. Meticulous checking on Sara’s part revealed that the cattle were suffering from a drug overdose.

Doc had gotten the new drug dosage wrong—fortunately not enough to kill the animals or leave residue in t
he meat. But for several horrible days, Sara wasn’t entirely certain of that. Because she was able to correct the dosage almost immediately, there was no lasting harm done.

The farmer didn’t ask exactly what the problem had been; he seemed relieved that she was able to correct it and of course Sara didn’t volunteer the fact that Doc had caused it. He was a respected practitioner in the area. She didn’t want to publicly embarrass him.

But then she’d realized that Doc was using old syringes and needles routinely, a practice guaranteed sooner or later to result in contamination of one animal by another. She’d tried to talk with him about both problems. He’d been angry and defensive.

“I’ve been a vet in this area longer than you’ve lived, young lady,” he’d snapped, and his totally bald head had seemed to glow with rage. “No female fresh out of college can tell me how to do my job.”