Winter at Mustang Ridge (4 page)

The cat flicked one ear back, then yawned.

“Your call. I’m heading up.” Another guy might be worried about getting caught talking to his cat, but a vet could get away with stuff like that without losing his man card.

After draining the last of the root beer and three-pointing the can in the recycling bin, Nick shucked off his lab coat and headed across the office to hang it up. He was halfway across the room when the buzzer rang, letting him know someone was coming down the long driveway. A moment later, headlights crested the hill and lit the picture window out front.

“Guess I spoke too soon, huh?” But, hey, at least he was still downstairs, and not in the shower, wearing nothing but shampoo. Been there, done that. And, besides, this was part of the deal when you ran a one-vet clinic and lived on-site. “Let’s see what’s up.”

He pulled the coat back on and got it buttoned, and headed out into the reception area just as snow boots thudded on the front porch and the door swung open. A blast of frigid air swept in, haloing a bundled figure that stumbled past him into the waiting area. The furry pink boots and five-foot-something height said female, possibly young, but the rest of the details got swallowed up in a huge pink parka, blue wool hat, and a striped scarf. And the sight of a big, blanket-wrapped dog in her arms and smears of blood on her coat.

Never a good sign.

Adrenaline kicking in, Nick did a quick mental rundown of which pieces of equipment would need time to warm up. “Come in, come in. You can go straight back to Exam One.”

Instead she swung back and gaped at him, her bright blue eyes widening in the gap between hat and scarf. “You’re not Doc!”

M
aybe it was the adrenaline coming from the near-miss with the truck plus the rushed drive to the clinic on a road that got slippery when the snow started to fall, or the relief of getting there in one piece, but Jenny’s mind blanked at the sight of the stranger standing in Doc’s office.

Brain freeze. Nada.

He looked like a young Harrison Ford, with tousled brown hair, a square jaw, sparkling hazel eyes, and a long, lean body clad in jeans, a lab coat, and battered hiking boots. Okay, so maybe he didn’t look all that much like Indy—there was no leather, fedora, or bullwhip in sight. But there was something about him that rooted her in place. And she wasn’t one to grow roots.

Slightly uneven teeth flashed behind a charming smile, and a pair of killer dimples popped into view. “Doc Lopes retired and handed the practice over to me about six months ago. I’m Nick Masterson.” Nodding to the blanket-wrapped bundle, he added, “Who do we have there?”

The question kicked Jenny’s brain back into gear, bringing a flush and sidelining her surprise that Doc wasn’t Doc anymore—and the new guy was hot.

“I don’t know. He was up by our driveway. I was trying to get him, almost had him, but . . .” Her voice cracked. “He got away from me and wound up under an eighteen-wheeler. I don’t know how bad he was hit.”

His eyes sharpened on her. “Are you okay?”

She shook her head no, then changed it to a nod. “I’m fine. But the dog—”

“I’ll take him back and see what we’ve got.” He held out broad, competent-looking hands to take the blanket-wrapped bundle. “Or do you want to stay with him?”

Over and over during the drive to the clinic, she had reminded herself:
This isn’t Rusty, and it wasn’t your fault
. And if she kept telling herself that second part, eventually it might start feeling like the truth. “No. I’ll . . . ah, I’ll wait out here. Unless you need help?”

“Not for the initial look-see.” He took the dog gently in his arms, showing none of the strain she had felt at lugging the fifty-some pounds of deadweight. “I’ll be a few minutes.” As he headed down the short hallway that led to the exam rooms, he said over his shoulder, “In my office, there’s soda in the fridge and a friendly orange cat sacked out next to the computer, if you could use either. Through the door behind the reception desk.”

Then he disappeared into one of the exam rooms, leaving her alone in the waiting area, surrounded by empty chairs, well-thumbed animal magazines, and posters that alternated between
ADOPT A PET NOW
and info on the life cycles of fleas.

Gravitating to the fleas, she stuck her hands in her pockets and read up on third-stage larvae. Except when she was done with the short paragraph, she couldn’t have repeated any of it—her mind was stuck on the
varoom
of the truck and the way things had gone to hell in a split second.

If she had just held on to the dog, they’d be sitting next to the woodstove right now. Or maybe tucking into Gran’s chicken and biscuits.

“Hang in there, buddy,” she said softly. “There’s a dog bed back home with your name on it.”

Part of her wished she had followed the vet into the back room, but even if the dog regained consciousness, it wasn’t like her being there would help. Besides, she needed a minute to regroup. She’d driven up here expecting old Doc Lopes, and instead gotten a guy who looked like he’d be right at home in a mosquito-netted tent, with a very different world outside.

The disconnect was the same as seeing her dad back at Mustang Ridge, like the scenery and the people didn’t go together.

Flea eggs take two to fourteen days to hatch. Hatching occurs only when the environmental conditions are exactly right for their survival.

“No problem there.” Jenny sighed. “These conditions aren’t right for anything. Except maybe making daiquiris.” Not that she would want a frozen drink right now. She was only just beginning to thaw out in the clinic’s warmth, enough that her feet ached and her fingers were going pins and needles.

When conditions are warm and humid, the flea egg will hatch and the larva emerges.

“They’d like Belize,” she mused.

“Never been there.”

“Oh!” She spun, flushing inside her layers when she found the vet standing behind her, looking amused.

“I talk to the cat all the time. Never tried the artwork before.” Taking pity on her, he continued. “I’ve had a look at the dog, and wanted to talk to you before we go any further.”

The flush cooled. “Is it bad?”

“He’s in pretty decent shape, all things considered. It doesn’t look like the truck wheel rolled over him, which is good, but I won’t know how good until I take some X rays and run a few tests. Beyond that, he’s got a healing wire cut on a front paw and he’s skinny as heck. I’d say it’s been a while since he saw any love, though he’s friendly enough that he must’ve at some point.”

Jenny’s chest tightened. “Poor old guy.”

“He’s actually not that old. I’d say three or four years, which is going to be in his favor for recovery.”

“Good.” Relief came out of her in a whooshing breath. “That’s good. Do what you can for him. I’ll cover the bill and give him a home.” Granted, she was making a promise that Krista and the others would be keeping when she left, but any of them would’ve said the same thing.

The vet hesitated. “It could get expensive if the damage is worse than it looks.”

“I’m good for it. X rays, tests, surgery, whatever he needs.”

“Is there someone you should check with first?”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”
Or fishing for whether I’m taken?
He wasn’t wearing a ring, but she didn’t think that was where it was coming from. Either way, the conversation felt out of sync, like she was missing something.

“I’m just making sure you know what you’re getting into.”

That was when she realized what was so strange. He wasn’t treating her like she was an extension of Mustang Ridge, wasn’t assuming that she knew the drill.

Wow. Weird. And kind of nice, actually.

“I can handle the dog and the bill. Run a tab, Doc, and let’s get this party started.”

A crooked smile crossed his face, making her think of Indy again. And the fact that there hadn’t been any really good adventurer movies out recently.

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned away and headed for the reception desk. “I’m going to need you to fill out some paperwork. You can leave it on the desk, along with a number where I can reach you with an update.”

“Can I wait here until the X rays are done?” She didn’t know where the impulse came from, but it felt right.

“It’ll take some time. An hour, maybe longer.”

A glance out the window warned that the snow was still falling, but the Jeep had four-wheel drive and there was no rush getting back. “Like you said, it’s been a while since anybody cared about him. I’d like to wait.”

He handed over a clipboard with a pen stuck at the top. “Make yourself comfortable. There are magazines in the basket over there, and a restroom on the left.” With a half wave that wasn’t quite a salute, he disappeared into the exam room.

Not letting herself glance back over at the fleas—had he really caught her talking to a
poster
?—Jenny dropped into a chair and fumbled for the pen. It wasn’t until her gloves got in the way that she realized she was boiling, and not just from embarrassment.

How had she not noticed that she was overheating inside her Stay-Puft Marshmallow of a coat and six-mile scarf?
Because for the past couple of days you’ve spent way more time shivering than sweating
, she thought, and shucked off her vest, hat, and hoodie, piling them off to the side. Which left her sitting there in jeans and a clingy turquoise thermal that had come out of the high school section of her closet.

She dragged her fingers through her hair, like that was going to fix anything. She had asked the film crew’s hair stylist for an Audrey Hepburn do, and with a little work she could come close to that mark. Add in some hat head, though, and she was more hedgehog than Hepburn.

And she was primping. Which was ridiculous.

Okay, so Nick Masterson was seriously yummy and he seemed like a nice guy, but she was here to work, not play. And he was a local.

Focusing on the clipboard, she skipped all the fill in the blanks and wrote
Bill to Mustang Ridge
across the bottom, along with her name. For phone numbers, she left both her cell and the landline in Krista’s office, knowing there were no guarantees when it came to cell service up on the ridge.

She returned the paperwork to the reception desk, grabbed a magazine at random, and sat back down. After using her phone to shoot off a text to Krista—
Dog got hit, at vet’s now
—she flipped open the magazine. She was halfway through an article on knitting sweaters out of pet hair when something warm and soft bumped against her shins.

Looking down, she discovered a sturdy orange tabby winding between her legs. “Hey, cat. What’s up? You volunteering for sweater duty?”

He hopped up on the bench beside her, gave her wadded-up parka a sniff, and then climbed up on her lap to sit square on the magazine, purring a cheerful chainsaw buzz.

She scratched behind an ear, and he tipped his head and leaned into her fingers. Settling back and pushing the mag aside, she made a more comfortable lap for the big cat, who lurched up in an affectionate head butt.

Leaning back to avoid a mouthful of fur, she said, “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too.”

“See? I told you the cat was a good conversationalist.”

Jolting, she looked up, surprised to find the vet not just in the room, but practically standing over her. “Oh!” she said as their eyes met. “I didn’t know you were there. How do the X rays look?”
Please say they’re okay
.

He didn’t answer at first, just stood there, staring at her like he’d caught an invisible hoof upside the head. Then, slowly, he said, “You must be Krista’s sister.”

It took a second for her to reorient, another to quash the stupid tug of resentment at being pigeonholed. Then, scooting the cat off her lap, she stood and faced Doc Hottie. “That’s right. How is the dog?”

•   •   •

“Not bad, considering. He has a couple of cracked ribs, but no displaced fractures.” Nick’s answer was automatic. Which was lucky, because the rest of his brain was jammed up with a whole lot of
wow
.

She was a few inches shorter now that she wasn’t wearing the hat. Wasn’t wearing much, in fact, and it was an effort not to stare at the way her blue-green shirt clung to her. She was slender and delicately curved, yet her stance made her appear to take up more space than she actually did. Short, chocolate brown hair framed a delicate face with high cheekbones, vivid blue eyes, and a wide, luscious mouth.

Twins,
he thought, though the woman in front of him was far from a double of her sister. Where Krista rarely bothered with makeup, her twin’s lips were full and dark and her thick eyelashes made her eyes more intensely blue. And while he liked Krista plenty, and respected her as a client, an animal lover, and all-around nice person, she had never put a sizzle in the center of his body or made him stumble over his words.

He cleared his throat. “You’re Jenny, right? The photographer?”

“How’d you know that?” she countered with a bit of an edge to her voice. Worried or defensive? He wasn’t sure.

“I was at the ranch the other day checking on one of the horses, and Krista told me you were filling in for her while she’s on the coast. Nice of you.”

Seeming to relax a little, she lifted a shoulder. “I had some time off coming.”

Krista had made it sound like it had been a bigger deal than that, and like she’d had to do some convincing to get her sister to come home and ranch-sit. He didn’t figure that bore repeating, though, so he said, “Sorry I didn’t recognize you under all those layers. I wouldn’t have given you the ‘this could get expensive’ lecture.”

“Is it going to? Get expensive, I mean.”

Okay, so she didn’t want to talk about the ranch. Or maybe she was wishing he would get to the point already. Reorienting, he forced his brain back on track. “I don’t think it’s going to be too bad, all things considered. I’d like to keep him for the next twenty-four hours. I’ll run some blood panels to make sure there’s nothing shutting down internally, and also make sure he’s heartworm negative. He’ll need his vaccinations, but I’d suggest letting him heal up a bit first. He’s already neutered, so we don’t need to have that conversation. And, well, he stinks.”

Her lips twitched. “You volunteering for bath duty?”

“Ruth likes a good grooming challenge, though be warned, she’s got a thing for polka-dot bows and perfumed shampoos.”

“I bet Old Man Plunkett loves that.”

He snorted at the thought of Ruth getting her hands on the crotchety old farmer’s livestock guardian dogs—a pair of Great Pyrs that tipped the scales near one seventy each and patrolled their flocks like militant yetis. “Okay, that cinches it. You’re definitely a local.”

She made a face. “Recovering local, please.”

“That’s right. Krista said you travel all over filming documentaries and TV shows.”