LOVE OF A RODEO MAN (MODERN DAY COWBOYS) (14 page)

“It’s a date. See you then.”

She watched him walking away, admiring his loose-limbed cowboy’s stride, until at last the deepening evening turned his form into an indistinguishable mass against the darker background of the trees.

Then, slowly, she went inside, turning on the small lamp on the bureau and catching sight of herself in the round mirror above it. Her shiny, makeup-free
face was somber, her eyes worried, and she stared at her reflection.

A dance on Saturday, a ride on Sunday.
In Gram’s old-fashioned lingo, Mitch was courting her with a vengeance. She’d told him that she was falling in love with him, and she was... more intensely each time she was with him. Already her job had interfered with their time together. It was ridiculous to think that it wouldn’t go on doing so; having a vet practice in a small community and keeping regular hours were diametrically opposed.

So what was there to do about the inevitable conflict? Give up her job? It wasn’t even a consideration. Give up Mitch? Just as unthinkable.

She’d simply have to bungle along, juggling work and romance as best she could, hoping Mitch would understand when one thing conflicted with the other.

Friday began with Emily Crenshaw waiting for Sara on the steps of the clinic at just past seven in the morning. “I’ve been here over twenty minutes already,” the little woman announced with more than a trace of irritation in her high-pitched voice. “I thought there was someone here all the time. I’m shocked you leave the poor animals all alone for hours and hours. Does this mean that my poor Queenie has been alone all night, no doubt in pain and with no one to take care of her?”

Sara stepped past the woman and fitted the key into the lock. “One of us always does a late-night check if we think it’s necessary, Miss Crenshaw. I lo
oked in on Queenie yesterday afternoon, and she was recovering nicely.”

Fat lie that was. The abominable feline had pretended to be pathetically groggy and totally docile—until Sara opened the cage door and reached in to check her incision.

The cat went berserk at that point, hissing and spitting, and Sara narrowly escaped a bite just like the one Floyd was nursing. Queenie was one bad-tempered cat, and Sara looked forward to giving the animal back to its owner as fast as possible.

The clinic’s female cats, Agnes and Tinker, were voicing their impatience for breakfast and half tripping the two women as Sara led the way into the infirmary. She opened the door, became immediately aware of sounds that shouldn’t be occurring and came to a halt so quickly that Miss Crenshaw bumped into her and then peered under Sara’s arm to see what was going on

“Ohhhhh... Queenie, my poor darling Queenie...”

Miss Crenshaw’s wail fitted right in with the howling, hissing and spitting erupting from the cage where Queenie was being kept. Sylvester, back from wherever he’d been for the past week, had climbed on top of Queenie’s cage, and, with both front paws batting feverishly
, he was doing his best to subdue the hissing female demon inside, cursing and spitting at her, tail waving madly from side to side.

Queenie, the stitches across her shaved midsection raw and angry-looking, was lying on her back, ears laid back as far as they’d go, murderous intent in her eyes and voice as she sought to grab Sylvester’s paws as they swiped within inches of her belly.

The noise seemed much greater than two cats could make between them, and Emily Crenshaw’s immediate wails of anguish and outrage filled any momentary seconds of quiet there might have been. She darted past Sara like an avenging demon and, plastic handbag flying in Sylvester’s direction, went to Queenie’s rescue.

“Shoo, you bad animal, get, get, go on...”

Sylvester saw her coming and beat a hasty retreat, leaping down and scurrying out the front in a clever zigzag pattern that got him safely past the virago with the handbag.

Miss Crenshaw promptly turned the force of her wrath onto Sara, brandishing her purse as if she might wallop Sara with it.

“What kind of place is this,” she shrieked, “allowing a vicious animal like that to terrorize poor Queenie after what she’s just been through? I have half a mind to report you, young lady! This is a disgrace. Queenie is the gentlest of cats, and that ugly monster...”

She went on and on the e
ntire time it took Sara to prudently don a pair of canvas gloves and gingerly open the cage door to find out whether any real harm had been done to Miss Crenshaw’s cat.

Sara did her best to ignore the invective,
checking the patient and dodging teeth and claws in the process. “There’s absolutely no harm done, Miss Crenshaw,” Sara finally announced. “Queenie’s incision is healing nicely.”

Too bad her disposition wasn’t as well.

Gingerly Sara lifted the demon cat out and placed the animal into the arms of her owner. “Sorry about all that, but Queenie’s fine, and that’s really all that matters, isn’t...”

Miss Crenshaw clasped her cat to her flat bosom and gathered verbal steam. Gone was the meek, pathetic little woman Sara had felt sorry for; in her place was a vicious, nagging little troublemaker threatening, of all things,
a lawsuit against the clinic in general and Sara in particular. “I have friends, you know, people in positions of authority who wouldn’t hesitate to take the stand in a court case against you.”

It took fifteen
exhausting minutes to edge Miss Crenshaw and her ill-mannered cat to the door and half shove her through, still yattering.

Sara had managed to hold her temper, but only barely. She promptly locked the door and
, shaking, went about making a pot of coffee, double strength.

Sylvester was sitting in the middle of the kitchen counter, happily lapping up milk from an overturned pitcher.

“Traitor,” Sara accused, lifting him down none too gently. “Troublemaker.”

Days like this t
hese she definitely knew she ought to have taken computer science and forgotten all about vetting.

Mitch pulled a cigarette out of the package in his shirt pocket and lit it as his father opened the thermos and poured them each a cup of lemonade. It was hot, and they’d been fixing fences all morning under the cloudless sky. The break was more than welcome.

Mitch slumped down against the shady side of the pickup, drawing the smoke in and breathing it out, enjoying the peacefulness of the surrou
ndings, the smell of open country.

Even the old man was in good spirits today, not finding one thing yet to complain about. It might be just the right time to discuss what Mitch had been planning.

“I’m gonna have Misty bred,” he announced, handing his cup back for a refill.

“Good idea. She’s a fine mare.” Wilson sat down heavily in the shade from the truck. “Hank Shorten has a pretty good-looking stallion over at B
uffalo Ranch,” he said, filling the cups to the brim and handing Mitch his.

“I’m taking her to a place outside of Missoula where they breed top rodeo stock,” Mitch announced.

Wilson paused, cup halfway to his mouth, and gave his son a disbelieving look from under the brim of his hat. “What kind of stupidity is that?” he demanded. “Taking time off to transport a mare to be bred when there’re perfectly good stallions right around here. Pack of nonsense, I say.” He snorted. “Damn fool waste of time. And money, too. Bet they soak you a bundle for stud fees on a deal like that.”

“Yeah, it’s expens
ive,” Mitch admitted. “But it’s the route to go if you want top quality colts,” he insisted, recognizing the growing irritation in Wilson’s voice and thinking he should probably just shut up about the whole thing. But damn it, this was important to him. Wilson had to know sooner or later, anyway. Might as well make it sooner.

“I’ve been talking to Bill Forgie. He’s starting a br
eeding stable for Arabs, and that’s what I want to do eventually, Pop, only mine will be quarter horses for rodeo stock. There’s good money in it once you get started and develop a name for yourself.”

Wilson snorted. “Why the hell can’t you just settle down and work the ranch? I never saw anybody as restless as you are, always after some drea
m or another. Starting a breeding stable’ll cost you a bundle, maybe cost you the ranch in the long run when you end up pouring all your time and energy and money into horseflesh. We’ve got a good balance now, with the hogs, sheep and the cattle. Hell, Mitch, I haven’t worked my whole damn life just to watch you fritter away a good ordinary living I’ve spent my lifetime building up.”

Mitch felt his temper escalating.

“I’m not suggesting going to the bank and mortgaging the damn ranch, Pop. I’m not buying a dozen horses right away or asking you for anything. I’m trying to tell you about an idea of mine.”

“You were always full of flighty ideas, all right.”

Mitch threw the cigarette away and lurched to his feet, glaring at his father. “You want me to be Bob, don’t you, Pop? You can’t forgive me for not being the son who did everything right, who was your fair-haired boy.”

Mitch felt the angry blood pumping through his veins, the words forming on his lips faster than he could spit them out. “Well, I’m not him, old man. I cared for my brother, but I never wanted to be what he was. Thing is, you’re stuck with me now, with having to deal with me instead of him. You may not like it, but you’re stuck with it, because brother Bob is
dead.
”

The last words were spoken with quiet intensity, and too late, Mitch caught sight of his father’s face, shielded from sight before now by the brim of his hat.

Wilson’s rugged features had turned sickly pale under the ruddy tan, and there were deep lines around his eyes, knifing down from nose to mouth. There was agony in his eyes, and Mitch felt a stab of remorse.

“Look, Pop..
” he began to apologize, but Wilson held up a hand, like a cop stopping traffic.

“Shut up,” he ordered
. “You’ve said enough. Although you’re right about one thing at least, I do miss your brother, damned right I do.” Wilson turned on his heel and stalked off across the open field, walking away from Mitch until his figure became small and foreshortened in the shimmer of the sun.

Where the hell was he
going? Mitch wondered, staring after him. There wasn’t a damn thing out there except grass and a couple of trees. After a few moments he began to berate himself for his outburst, yet feeling wounded by what his father had just admitted.

Mitch knew he wasn’t the type of man Bob had been. He’d never wanted to b
e. Why couldn’t Wilson just accept him the way he was? The old man was enough to drive a guy nuts. And that was no excuse for the things Mitch had said. But the words must have been festering inside.

Not knowing what else to do, Mitch gathered up the tools and began tightening the s
agging barbed wire, working full out.

It was forty minutes be
fore Wilson came back. Without a word, the older man picked up his own tools and went to work with Mitch. The only words exchanged for the rest of the day were ones absolutely necessary about the job.

Several times that afternoon, Mitch wondered why he hadn’t said to hell with the Carter ranch and gone on with his own career last spring instead of coming home.

Home.

That was a laugh. Home was supposed to be somewhere you wanted to be. Well, he wasn’t wearing a ball and chain. Why the hell didn’t he just get on a bus? After all, the rodeo life was still out there; he could pick up right where he’d left off.

By the time he and Wilson drove home silently for supper, Mitch was sorely tempted to do just that. There were several things stopping him. One was his mother. He didn’t think he could just walk off and leave his mother the way she was. The other was Sara.

Sara managed to finish her last farm visit of the day by seven-fifteen Saturday evening, and she did it by skipping lunch and dinner. During the course of the afternoon, she gobbled two apples and several raisin cookies a farmer’s wife gave her.

When the last call was finished, she exceeded the speed limit every mile of the way home. Then she showered, dressed and swiped on lipstick and eyeliner in rec
ord time. She was trembling from both hunger and exertion by the time Mitch tapped on her cabin door, but damn it all, she was ready.

And it all seemed worth it when she opened the door and his eyes
narrowed as he looked her up and down. Then he whistled, a soft, appreciative wolf whistle that thrilled her.

She was wearing a soft blue cotton sundress, with a nearly bare top and straps that crossed in the back, and high-heeled sandals. She’d left her hair loose and wild, curling around her head and shoulders.

“You look real pretty.”

“So do you,” she replied, ta
king in his Western cut, steel gray suit, the high gleam on his boots, the new looking deep gray Stetson on his head.

They stood smiling foolishly at each other.

“Well, lovely lady, let’s go dancing.” He gathered her close to his side, and they were already halfway down the path when Sara’s cell began to ring.

Sara hesitated, and Mitch groaned.