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Читать книгу: «Don't Mess With Texans»
“She pay with cash or check?” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY SIX Copyright
“She pay with cash or check?”
“Something better, Doc. She said she was fresh out of cash.” Carol Anne plucked something shiny from a drawer and dropped the tiny object into his palm. “Here’s how she paid. She said to send her the change care of this address—” she waved a piece of paper at him “—once we’ve hocked it.”
Tag lifted the ring to the light “A diamond!”
“If you believe that, Doc.... It’ll be a zircon, I guarantee, worth fifty if we’re lucky.”
They both looked up as headlights swept the room, followed by a second pair, then a third. Brakes yelped in the parking lot Doors slammed.
As Tag threw open the door to the clinic, another car wheeled in off the road.... No, this was a van. With the logo of the local TV station emblazoned along its side. It was a media frenzy. With its prey in sight.
“Dr. Taggart! Why did you perform unauthorized surgery on the finest racing sire ever bred in America?” Voices receded into the yammering din of white noise. Somewhere, Susannah Mack was laughing at him. laughing at him while his life ended up in ruins.
“No comment” He’d save his comments and his own questions for the one woman who could answer them. He gazed into the cameras, because he knew she’d be watching. Read it in my eyes, Susannah. You can run. You can bide. But I’m gonna get you, if it’s the last thing I do!
Dear Reader,
“She’s from Texas,” my oldest friends roll their eyes and say whenever I stick out my chin, take the law into my own hands and charge off to seek Justice—and usually find Trouble instead. Like the time I dognapped one hundred and twenty pounds of bellowing mutt that was terrorizing our neighborhood at 3:00 a.m. and tied him to the police station back door, with a doggy confession looped round his shaggy neck. (I’ve been barking again.) Or the time this five-foot-two-inch woman got indignant and tried to stop a large and irate shoplifter all by herseff—not one of my better ideas.
And maybe my friends’ explanation is the best one—call it a mental holdover from the Wild West days, when Texas Rangers were few and far between. So if a lady wanted justice—or revenge (which we all fondly imagine to be the same thing)—well, she just had to find it herself.
Whatever, this Texan found it easy to imagine a woman like Susannah Mack, who needed revenge—shoot, she earned it!—and who was spunky enough, indignant enough and reckless enough to fight for it against overwhelming odds. And then to imagine her ideal partner in adversity—Dr. R. D. Taggart, a man practical, tough and tender enough to see his Texas Pistol safely through her wildest schemes to the happy-ever-after ending she so richly deserved.
So here’s Susannah’s story. I had a lark writing it, and I hope you will reading it. All the best!
Peggy Nicholson
Don’t Mess with Texans
Peggy Nicholson
This book is for my mother, Marguerite Grimes, the first
horsewoman I ever knew. Her endearing spunk and
stubborn gallantry inspired my heroine,
Susannah Mack. It’s also for Ron duPrey,
only my sun and moon and a northwest breeze
at dawn.
With special thanks to John Civic, D.V.M., for his
kind advice on veterinary procedures. Any technical
mistakes this author may have made were despite
his bemused help—You want to what?—rather than
because of it.
CHAPTER ONE
SIX HOURS AFTER SURGERY, the tomcat was looking like a keeper. “Gums couldn’t be pinker,” Tag assured him. So he wasn’t bleeding internally. He let the cat’s upper lip drop and the torn slashed at his leather glove, then retreated to the back of the cage. Reflexes coming back nicely after anesthesia. His pupils were equally dilated and no wider than they should be. “So what day of the week is it?” Tag murmured, and got a sing song growl in reply.
“Wednesday, right. First week in January, last year of the century.” The car that hit him last night must have just grazed him, breaking his jaw as it tossed him aside. But his brains didn’t seem to be scrambled. “And who’s the president?”
The tom’s ragged ears stayed flattened to his furry skull. Another subsonic moan issued through wired jaws.
“Who cares? You wouldn’t give three fleas and a dead rat for every politician in the country,” Tag translated. “Can’t say I blame you.” Neither would he. Politics was a pastime for comfortable people with time on their hands and steady paychecks coming in. For his and the cat’s kind, survival was the name of the game. And living well was its best revenge.
Still, to live well this stray would have to learn to tolerate humans. Because as soon as he mended, Tag meant to find him a home. He hadn’t spent half the night patching him up just to boot him back out on the street when he was healed. He shut the cage door, then lingered, talking soothing nonsense till the cat stopped growling.
“Got time for a paying customer, Doc?” Carol Anne Kopesky, Tag’s medical technician/receptionist, frowned at him from the doorway leading to the front of the clinic. Hired some twenty years ago by Tag’s senior partner, Dr. Higgins, and trained by that grimly practical gentleman, she took his same dim view of charity cases. And now that Higgins had suffered a mild heart attack and taken a leave of absence, Carol Anne was watching their bottom line with even more than her usual zeal. Tag was earning for two now, till Higgins returned to the Green Mountain Veterinary Clinic next Monday. And even then he would only be practicing part-time.
“Mrs. Allen’s in room one,” she briefed him as Tag stretched his tired bones to his full six feet, one inch. “With her Irish setter, Jebbie, for his yearly checkup and vacs.” She lowered her voice. “A month late. I was afraid we’d lost them to you-know-who.”
A new practice had opened in Bennington, twenty miles to the west, last summer. Their competition was a small-animal man with glitzy new facilities and all the toothy charm of a TV game-show host. Higgins had brought Tag in as his junior associate to counter that threat.
A bell rang as the clinic’s front door opened.
“That’ll be Mrs. Rafferty with Gigi,” Carol Anne added as a yap-yap! like two strokes of an ice pick to the skull rang out from the reception room. “Here to have her toenails trimmed, and don’t even think of suggesting we knock her out to scale her teeth. Gigi has a delicate constitution.” She rolled her eyes and departed.
“Right.” Let the day begin. Tag rotated his shoulders under his white coat and headed for exam room one. Four hours’ sleep last night, and five the night before, with that false alarm out at the Great Dane kennel on the edge of town. A firsttime mother’s delivery, except that she hadn’t. No doubt she’d drop tonight—about the time he dropped off.
Three dogs, two cats and a molting parrot later, he heard a truck rumble down the driveway. Tag injected the last c.c. of distemper vaccine into a squirming Lab puppy and glanced up in time to see a dusty two-horse trailer, hitched to a pickup, glide past his window and on to the barn. Damn. Somebody who hadn’t heard that Doc Higgins was out of commission.
Higgins ran a mixed practice, serving small animals and large, for what had been a rural farming community. But dairy farms were giving way to computer analysts’ country retreats, where the largest animal in residence was more likely an English sheepdog than a sheep. Tag, in keeping with changing times, was a small-animal specialist. Unless the occupant of that trailer had a very simple problem, he wouldn’t be much help.
“You’d better go see,” he advised Carol Anne as he set the syringe aside and took hold of the puppy before it could leap off the table. “Paws like pie plates, he’s going to be a bruiser,” he added to the proud owner. “Have you thought about obedience school?” The bell chimed at the front door. Driver of the truck and trailer, he supposed.
While Tag gave his views on various trainers around the state, he listened with half his attention to the voices down the hall. Carol Anne’s was rising and taking on a hard edge. Some sort of disagreement going on out there? Her opponent’s responses were barely audible, a low liquid murmur and pause, insistent for all its softness. A woman, he thought. Any man would have recognized Carol Anne’s no as no and stomped off by now.
“So Carol Anne can give you Mrs. Dearing’s number.” He eased patient and owner out the door and down the hall toward the debate. “I believe she has a class starting next month.” He gave the puppy a farewell ear scratch. “Meantime he’s looking terrific. You’re doing a great job with him.”
As they reached the reception room, a girl—woman—spun away from the desk to face him. Hair the color of marigolds, flying out from her head as she swung. Cheeks pink with emotion, big eyes meeting his own like a slap. “Are you the doctor?”
High-heeled boots rap-tapping on the linoleum, she came at him. For a moment Tag thought she’d march right into the puppy’s owner, but at the last instant the women do-si-doed and she was toe-to-toe with him, looking up. Despite threeinch heels, she stood no higher than his heart. Pointy chin, lush lips. “You’re Dr. Taggart?” She caught his sleeve.
An emergency, that was clear. Half his mind was already listing the instruments and meds he might need—tourniquets, splints, horse-size syringes, painkiller? The other half was taking her in the way a punch-drunk boxer takes it on the chin, one hit after another, with no time between blows to recover. Drawl like hot honey in spite of her urgency. Her hair wasn’t standing on end; it just seemed that way. Eyes blue as a summer thunderstorm, pink-rimmed with recent tears or maybe lack of sleep, long-lashed in gold. A faint scent of flowers overlaid with a whiff of...bourbon? Maybe it was just some component of her perfume.
She tugged him toward the door. “Would you please, please, please help me?”
He would, in a heartbeat.
“I tried to tell her,” Carol Anne said angrily from behind the counter, “that Dr. Higgins is out. That if she’d just drive to Bennington, I’m sure she could find somebody who’d—”
“I haven’t got time!” his captor snapped without turning. She transferred her grip from his sleeve to his forearm. Slender fingers, and strong. “If you’d just come see...”
“Of course. Show me.”
“Doctor! Honestly, I never—”
The door slammed on Carol Anne’s reproach and they burst out into cold, crisp air—a warm day for January in Vermont, low forties with sunshine. Her breath smoked. “He’s around back.” She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, but she was all leg in her tight blue jeans and short denim jacket. Matching him stride for stride, she tugged him down the drive, and he went willingly, wanting to laugh, in spite of her urgency, because of her fierceness.
“What an old dragon! I thought she’d chew me up and spit me out before you showed up. Though she’s right, this is terrible, me landing on you out of nowhere like this, ’thout an appointment, but I...” She shrugged and smiled up at him for the first time in apology. Beautiful teeth, something Nordic in her blood with that high coloring. She pronounced her long Is as ah. Ah thought...Ra-aht, instead of right...
Georgia, he guessed. What was she doing up here in the cold north? “How did he hurt himself?” And if she could smile like that, how terrible could it be? Half of him hoped for a false alarm, an easy fix. The other half wanted something serious that he could heroically cure. Dr. Taggart at your service, m’lady.
She shook her head. “He’s not hurt. Not yet.” Her smile faded and she darted ahead. “Here he is.” She threw a bolt on the trailer and swung open the rear door. “My baby.” She pronounced it mah. “Hey, Pookie, sweetheart!” She tipped her head in from the side, to peer past a dark brown flank and black tail. “It’s gonna be okay now. Ollie, ollie oxen free. Dr. Taggart’s gonna fix you up jus’ fine.”
Pookie was enormous, or maybe it was the confines of the trailer that made him seem so. Horses always looked enormous to Tag. Had ever since he was a boy back in Boston and saw the mounted cops’ animals, unpredictable and dangerous as their riders, with steel-shod hooves that could mash a mouthy slum kid’s feet to jelly. Though he’d handled horses at veterinary college, first impressions were hard to lose. Why couldn’t she have had a cow in need? Cows weren’t half so intimidating.
She bent over, denim stretched tight around trim curves, and Tag’s attention swerved sharply and stuck fast. Clearly he hadn’t been dating enough these past five months. Too busy, with Higgins dropping like a stone not six weeks after Tag bought into the practice. And even if he’d had the time, he hadn’t seen a woman up here he wanted to chase. Till now.
Metal rumbled as she slid a gridded ramp down to the ground. Tag found his voice. “Wait a minute. If he’s not hurt, what’s the problem?”
“Not a problem, exactly. I mean it is, but—” She vanished into the empty stall to the right of the horse. Hooves thudded on padded metal, then the horse, a stallion, backed ponderously down the ramp. Tag retreated several hasty steps. Miss Blue Eyes reappeared, holding the animal’s lead, then clattered down to ground level, caught his halter beneath his chin and turned him around. “Ta-da!”
The stallion tossed his dark head and she staggered, then laughed and flattened a hand high on his glossy neck. “Pookie, meet Dr. Taggart.”
The stud’s head towered high over her red-gold ripply curls. Horse-mountain. Dark eyes focused on Tag with an almost human curiosity. The stallion snorted, and the gruff “Huh!” sounded like an opinion.
“What precisely do you want me to do for...Pookie?” All half-ton-plus of him?
She gave him a dazzling smile. “I want you to Bobbitt this ol’ boy for me.” She slapped the stud’s shoulder for emphasis.
Oh, boy. “You mean...”
She nodded vigorously. “I mean fix him. Geld him. I bought him for riding and he...” Her eyes slid away to follow a crow winging over the barn, then back to Tag’s face and she shrugged. “His octane’s a bit high.” Her chin tipped up a notch. “I mean I can handle him, but...”
Tag didn’t know much about horses, but he knew this one was no lady’s ride. One toss of his head and the beast could have flipped her over the barn. “Um...if he’s Pookie, then you’re...?”
“Susannah,” she said, and held out a fine-boned hand. “Susannah...Mack.”
He liked her strength as they shook, liked even better that his hand dwarfed hers. She had calluses, just enough that her touch was interesting. “Susannah, if you just bought him... He’s a looker, but isn’t he a bit more horse than you need? Maybe you should consider taking him—”
Her eyes went steely. “There isn’t anything on four legs I can’t ride. That’s not the problem.”
“Then the problem is...?” And why the rush?
She stared at him unblinking as the tomcat he’d saved last night, then looked down at her toes. “Problem is we’re new in town. Just up from...the South.”
Tag glanced automatically at the trailer’s license, but it was too muddy to read the state. Looked like they’d forded a river on their way.
“We drove all night, and now we get here—” She scuffed at the frozen dirt “—I find the stable where I’d made arrangements won’t take him. I forgot t’mention he was a stud. They have only one turn-out pen, lots of mares, and they’re afraid he’ll...” She laughed.
“He will.” Tag rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. The last time he’d gelded a stallion, it had been a Shetland pony who’d almost returned the favor. He’d sported a tiny, blue-black hoofprint on his upper thigh for a month. He’d gone along to watch Higgins on a Saturday and that canny veteran had taken one look at the pony, then pressed Tag into service. The time before that had been in vet school. “What about some other stable?”
She looked up from her boots. “I want that one. And it’s just going to be the same ol’ story, wherever we go.” She drifted closer and put a hand on his arm. “Please do it? I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do if you don’t help us.”
When she put it like that... And she was determined, that was clear, and he was damned if he’d have her turn to any other man—any other vet—for help. “All right, then.” Let’s get it over with. “When did he eat last?”
“Not since ’bout ten, last night.” She let Tag go and backed off a step, still holding him with her storm-cloud eyes.
“Good. Then his stomach’s clear.” The clinic barn was clean, with a freshly bedded stall waiting for the patients Higgins might never see again. And the older man’s instruments were stored in the surgery. “If you could walk him around the grounds for fifteen minutes or so, settle him down, I’ll turn on the heat in the barn and set everything up.” And snatch a quick look at his text on equine procedures.
And face down Carol Anne’s outrage when he told her to postpone his first two afternoon appointments. Luckily Susannah had descended on him at the start of his lunch break. An experienced vet could geld a horse in half an hour or less. But he’d want to take his time, measure twice and cut once, as the saying went. Oh, boy. Tag turned and headed for the clinic.
CHAPTER TWO
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, hands freshly scrubbed and jaw clenched tight on all the words he’d not said back to his assistant, such as Who’s the vet and who’s the med tech here? Tag stomped out the back door of the hospital, his home-visit bag swinging at his side.
“You don’t know her from Adam, that’s not your specialty, and she didn’t even make an appointment!” Carol Anne had protested, the last apparently being Susannah’s greatest sin. “Just waltzes in here, flaps those big eyes, says pretty please and you jump. Men!”
There was nothing like a little opposition to make him cast his own doubts aside. Tag stopped to scan the fields beyond the barn and his cottage, which he rented from Higgins. No long-legged lovely with King Kong horse. His gaze swung to her trailer and he frowned. Something about it... He spun on his heel as Carol Anne leaned out the back door of the clinic.
“I phoned Doc Higgins, but he’s not answering. But I left a message that if he came in anytime soon, he should call you on the barn line and—”
“Cancel that.” Tag didn’t need him or want him for this. And Carol Anne should know by now that he sometimes took advice, but he never took orders. They glared at each other for an ice-cold, unbending minute, then she banged the door shut.
He needed to calm down. Animals could sense your tension before you felt it yourself. Tag took a slow breath. Bedside manner of quiet, sunny confidence, that’s what was wanted here. Piece of cake, really, this procedure. The premise remained roughly the same whether you did tomcat or elephant. Laying him down would be the scariest moment. Horses were more fragile than they looked. And the danger cut both ways. A horse like that, toppling, could smash a man flat. His eyes lit on the barn door, an inch or so, ajar when he’d left it tightly closed. Ah.
They were waiting for him in the corridor outside the stall. The stud lifted his head and pricked his ears as Tag entered the barn. Susannah didn’t stir. She stood at his shoulder, face pressed to his chocolate-brown hide, one arm hooked over his withers. Asleep on her feet like a horse? “Susannah?”
She swung her head lazily Tag’s way, mouth, nose and forehead sliding across the stallion’s sleek coat. A sleepy, sensual move as if dragging her face across a warm pillow. To face a bedmate. The hair lifted along his arms. She was something! Cheek resting against the horse, she smiled at him. Her eyes glistened.
Had she been crying? “Susannah?” He reached for her, but Pookie thrust his nose out between them. Tag switched his attention to the stud, who had teeth the size of dominoes, offering the back of his hand for inspection, fingers curled away, ready to dodge. But the horse was satisfied with a lusty whiff of him, not a chunk. “Good Pook, nice Pookie.” Tag got a hand on his halter, rubbed his neck, turned to study her. “You all right there?”
“Um.” She nodded and pushed off from the horse. The hand that had been hidden from view held a small silver hip flask. “Just fine.” She cleared her throat and her voice gained conviction. “Finer than fine.” She thrust the flask at him. “Like a sip?”
“Not while I’m working.” He took the container and sniffed-bourbon—closed it with the cap that dangled from a silver chain. This was beautiful workmanship, with the name “Brady” engraved elaborately across its face. Who’s Brady? He tucked the flask into her jacket pocket. She was shivering, all the feverish vivaciousness of their first meeting faded to a braced stillness. And her eyes were much too bright. “You know,” he said, “we don’t have to do this right now. We could board him here for a day or so, if no stable will take him.” Of course, that meant Higgins would insist on doing the job once Carol Anne reached him.
Her lips slowly parted—and Tag’s brain went blank for half a dozen heartbeats. Then thought returned as his blood flowed north again and she shook her head.
“Nope. I’ve made up my mind. Let’s do it.”
Then he’d better get on with it. He had a full slate of patients this afternoon, beyond the two appointments he’d made Carol Anne reschedule.
He decided to give the stallion his first shot right there in the corridor. A tranquilizer, intramuscular injection. Susannah gripped the stud’s sculpted nose with one hand, held the halter tight with her other. If he reared, she’d go flying. Tag slapped Pookie’s neck smartly, the impact supposedly disguising the following prick, then inserted the needle. Pookie let out a grunt of surprise. But no fireworks. Tag had treated poodles that struggled more. “Good boy.”
Then a quick exam while he waited for the preanesthetic to kick in. Pulse, taken at the submaxillary artery along his lower jaw, was thirty-six. “Good...” Tag placed his stethoscope on the left side of the stallion’s chest just behind the elbow to check the heartbeat, then over the lungs for the respiratory rate. Ten breaths a minute, average for a horse at ease. He glanced at Susannah. “Any idea if he’s had a tetanus booster lately?”
“It’s up-to-date.”
She looked dead certain of that, so he left her stroking the stud and crooning endearments while he went in to check the stall. He spread more hay from the new bale in the corner, though the bedding was clean and deep enough already. Nerves. “Okay, you can bring him in now.”
Filled with a seventeen-hand stallion, the stall seemed the size of a shoebox. “Can you put him up against the wall there, head toward the door?”
She could, handling him as deftly as a trucker backed an eighteen-wheeler alongside fuel pumps, one small sure hand flattened to the monster’s ribs as she shoved him over. Pookie allowed himself to be parked, his left side nearly touching the wall, then turned his head to look at her with a snort of surprise while Tag swung the gate around. This was a hinged device Higgins had built years ago, a wide padded rail that hemmed the horse in against the wall. “Duck under, Susannah.” She ducked and he swung the rail all the way parallel to the horse, then dropped the front fitting into its reinforced slot. Let out a breath of relief. Not that the stud couldn’t still kick his way free if he took the notion.
She grabbed a lapel of the leather jacket Tag had thrown on over his lab coat. “You’re gonna put him to sleep, aren’t you? I don’t want—”
“It’s okay, Susannah.” He caught her wrist. Unlike her stallion pal, her pulse skittered wildly and her skin was clammy-cold. “He’ll be sleeping like a baby in a minute. Won’t feel a thing.” You could do a stud with a local, but he’d just as soon this brute was safely in dreamland when he stole the family jewels.
“The gate lets him drop straight down, nice and easy. We don’t want him falling sideways.” He rubbed a thumb across her silky skin, then had to consciously pull away to stop. “Why don’t you sit on that bale while I get organized?
“You wouldn’t know what he weighs, would you?” he added over his shoulder as he spread out a sterile sheet, then laid out his surgical pack, the various antiseptic scrubs, several pairs of gloves.
“‘Bout twelve hundred an’ fifty-five,” she drawled.
Tag blinked at the precision. How many owners knew to the pound? He glanced back and saw she’d pushed up her sleeve to consult a man’s wristwatch, one of those ugly black, multifunction sportsman’s timepieces that dwarfed her slender wrist. Her long legs were crossed and one lizardskin boot jiggled nonstop. “Won’t be long now,” he assured her, deciding to leave the special gelding tool out of sight till he’d banished her from the stall. “He’s a thoroughbred?” He didn’t know much about horses, but big and rangily graceful as this one was...
“Yeah.”
“How old?” He drew the bottle of short-acting barbiturate from his bag and shook it. “Twelve?” Pookie’s teeth weren’t those of a young horse.
“Fourteen.”
Based on the weight she’d given, Tag calculated the dose and filled the syringe. He detached the 18-gauge needle and held it between gloved fingers. “Has he ever been raced?” A lot of clapped-out racers ended up as hunters or riding hacks, the lucky ones that didn’t go to the dogs.
“Um...few times.” She sprang to her feet and went to the horse’s head. “We gonna do this or not?”
“Right now.” Joining her at the stud’s forequarters, he swabbed the jugular furrow with alcohol, then pressed down on that vein, nearer the heart. The vessel swelled with impeded blood. He smacked it with the back of his hand, then inserted the needle. No objections from Pookie, who was looking mellower by the minute. “He’s going to go down almost at once when this hits his bloodstream. Keep your hands and feet out of his way.” He attached the syringe, checked that the needle was still in place, then slowly depressed the plunger. “We’ll lay him down, then I want you to wait outside. Won’t take long at all.”
“Nope, I stay here.”
“But—”
“I want to watch.”
Great. He’d be happier fumbling his way through this without an audience, but one look at the angle of her chin, and he knew better than to argue. “Okay. Here we go.” He withdrew the needle. Pookie’s ears pricked, then wobbled. He let out a whuffling breath and swayed on his feet. The gate creaked ominously. “Hands out of the way, Susannah.”
While the stud folded slowly, majestically, front legs first, she crooned wordless sympathy and cupped his muzzle, supporting his massive head as it drooped. Tag bent to watch his back legs, folding nicely, all in order, good...good... That high, whimpering sound scared him for a second, then he realized it was the woman, not the horse. Pookie grunted and settled into the straw with a sleepy grunt.
“Oh, Jeez Louise!” She collapsed bonelessly beside his head.
“He’s fine, Susannah. Don’t worry.” Tag glanced at his watch, then swung the gate out of the way. “Now we’ve got to roll him onto his side.”
They had to brace their feet against the side wall, straighten their legs and put their backs into it. Once Pookie lay limp as a beached whale, Susannah returned to the stallion’s front end. While Tag changed his gloves, she stripped off her jacket. She levered the horse’s head onto her knees—“Lord. he’s heavy! ”—slid the jacket beneath, then settled him again. “Oh, Pookums...”
It wasn’t that warm in here, but Tag couldn’t stop now to give her his own coat to wear. And the stud’s lower eye was protected from the straw, something he should have thought of himself. “Watch his eyes and ears for me, Susannah. If you see any signs he’s waking...” There wasn’t a chance of that, but it would keep her occupied and out of his way.
Still, after a minute’s wordless crooning, she demanded, “What are you doin’ now?”
“Scrubbing him down.” Betadine, alcohol wipe, then Betadine spray. While that dried he checked the stud’s pulse at the back fetlock—slowing, but still well within acceptable range. Then his breathing—shallow, steady and slow. No worries there. Time to rock and roll. Tag reached for his scalpel, then glanced up—to see her small, greenish-white face staring at him from the far end of his patient.
With her pupils dilated, her eyes looked black, not blue. The irises were ringed entirely in white—and locked on the razor-sharp blade in his hand. He’d been an idiot to let her stay. “So here we go,” he murmured in the same soothing voice he saved for scared animals.
“Yeah...” She swallowed audibly. “Y’know, I think... maybe this is—” She vanished from view beyond the stallion’s bulk. Straw rustled.
“Is what?” But she didn’t continue and Tag’s focus narrowed to the task at hand. Steady, steady, easy there, gently... Time was of the essence now. Half his attention was focused on the dark skin under his gloved fingers, half envisioned the vital structures he knew lay beneath it. Nice and easy now...
He didn’t think of the woman again till he reached for the emasculator. If she hadn’t liked the scalpel, she’d like the look of this tool even less. “Won’t be long at all,” he murmured comfortingly, sparing her a glance.
