Читать книгу Hard-Headed Texan - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 7

The phone rang, startling Antonia awake. She sat bolt upright, heart pounding. Beside her the cat stood up, looking at her balefully for disturbing her nap, then stalked off. Antonia blinked, her sleep-fogged mind adjusting to her surroundings. It was the clinic, she told herself. There was an emergency at the clinic. The telephone shrilled again, and she picked up the receiver.

“Dr. Campbell,” she answered, relieved that she had managed to make her voice come out calm and cool. She didn’t want anyone here to know that the least thing could make her panic.

There was no sound on the other end of the line, and she repeated her words, more loudly. Still there was no answer, even though the phone had the sound of a live connection.

“Hello?” she said, fighting down the upsurge of panic-nerves in her chest. “Who is this? Can I help you?”

Still there was no reply, and Antonia slammed down the receiver. Her hands were shaking, and there was a tight, cold knot in the center of her chest.

It wasn’t him, she reminded herself. It was probably just a wrong number or one of those strange connections that went awry—it happened with some regularity when the caller was using a cell phone. The silence on the end of the line did not mean that it was Alan. Alan did not know where she was; there was no reason to think that he did. This was just blind, unreasoning, atavistic fear, and she refused to give in to it.

Antonia took a deep, calming breath and went over all the reasons why she was safe now. Alan was in Virginia, and she was here; he did not know where she lived. It had been years since their divorce. He had not bothered her since she moved to Texas.

Still, she got out of bed and went to the front door, checking to make sure that it was locked and the chain was on. The little red light of the security monitor was blinking, showing that the security system was in effect. She went to the front room window of her small house and lifted the edge of the drapes to peer outside. It was dark outside, though beginning to lighten into a predawn grayness. She could make out the shapes of the trees in the front yard and her SUV parked in the narrow, old-fashioned driveway beside her house.

She would have preferred a house with an attached garage, but the charm of the 1920s-style bungalow had outweighed other considerations, and the passage of years had lessened her bunker mentality. A security system, an old neighborhood imbued with small-town friendliness and nosiness, her own hard-won vigilance—these were enough, she’d decided. She could not let her entire life be ruled by the fear that Alan might find her; if she did, she was letting him control her still.

Antonia walked around the small house, checking each of the windows and the back door to make sure that they were all locked. Reassured, she turned on the coffeemaker, already prepared the night before for ease in getting ready in the morning, and sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

It was pointless trying to go back to bed, she knew. Even though she had calmed down and was reassured that she was safe, it would take her a long time to go back to sleep, and her alarm was set to go off in thirty minutes. A veterinarian in a small ranching community kept early hours, just like the owners of the animals to which she tended. Antonia was usually in the office by seven and often on the road to one ranch or another soon after that.

That morning she arrived even earlier, before the receptionist or either of the technicians. Dr. Carmichael, the other veterinarian, never came in before ten o’clock. It was the reason he had brought in another vet, he had told her—the heavy workload and the early mornings were getting to be too much for him, and at seventy-two years old, he had decided to take life a little easier. Only the night watchman, Miguel, was there. A shy young man who loved to read, he was a perfect person to be on night duty with the animals. He was intelligent; only the fact that he came from a large, poor family had kept him from attending college. He knew as much as most of the techs, and he also had a rapport with the animals that was invaluable. A self-proclaimed insomniac, he had no trouble staying awake all night, and the long hours alone and doing nothing except making hourly rounds did not bore him as they would have most people. He was quite happy to read one of his books.

“Good morning, Dr. Campbell,” he said, coming out of the kennel door when she drove up.

“Hi, Miguel. How’s it going?” Antonia stepped out of her SUV, not bothering to lock it, another habit she had gotten into since moving to Angel Eye three months ago. Because their offices contained drugs, as well as for the safety of the animals, the clinic had a state-of-the-art security system, but there had never been a break-in—or even an attempted one. Everyone who parked in the clinic lot was more interested in finding a shady spot to protect their vehicle from the broiling Texas sun than in locking their doors.

“It’s okay.” Miguel knew that her question was more than rhetorical. “All the animals got through the night, even Dingo.” Dingo was a mixed-breed dog with liver problems, and it had been touch-and-go with him all day yesterday. Owned and much loved by a family with two little girls, Dingo had captured most of the clinic staff’s hearts, as well.

“Good. Well, let me get into my lab coat, and we’ll make the rounds.”

“Sure, Dr. Campbell.” Miguel grinned shyly, not quite meeting Antonia’s eyes.

Antonia was aware that she intimidated the young man. He was shy to begin with, but the fact that she was a towering six feet tall, with the cool, blond good looks of an East Coast society princess, had turned the poor kid nearly speechless when she first came to the clinic. Antonia often had that effect on people, so she was not surprised. She didn’t try to be distant or icy; in fact, her basic nature was warm. But she was by nature and experience somewhat reserved, and the years of training in the proper demeanor expected of a young lady that she had received from her mother—“a lady does not cry in public,” “a lady doesn’t show a vulgar display of excitement,” “a lady does not display unseemly curiosity”—had given her a vaguely aloof air that she did not know how to shake. Even in the casual shirt and jeans that she typically wore on and off the job, she still looked like someone who should be on her way to a Junior League meeting. Today, for instance, she wore jeans and a plain blue shirt, with her hair pulled back and arranged in a practical French braid and only the barest hint of makeup on her face, yet she was somehow elegant.

Antonia usually dealt with her looks by ignoring them. Once she was ready to go in the morning, she rarely glanced in a mirror the rest of the day. Her clothes were invariably practical. Her skin care regimen consisted of little beyond simple cleaning, moisturizing and frequent applications of sunscreen to keep her fair skin from burning. Her technician and friend Rita Delgado, whose devotion to skin care and makeup was profound, was frequently appalled by Antonia’s blasé attitude.

“What is sickening,” she would say, shaking her head, “is that you do almost nothing and still look the way you do!”

Antonia went to her office and pulled on a clean lab coat from the closet, then walked down the hall to the locked door that led to the back part of the clinic, where the sick animals were kept. Miguel was waiting for her there, and they started on their rounds, beginning with Dingo, who was miraculously hanging on.

She had checked over only three animals, approving one for dismissal that day, when the door from the main office burst open and Lilian, the receptionist, bustled in. Lilian, a middle-aged widow of very precise habits, was often the first person to reach the clinic. She liked to have the coffee made and her book work done before the clinic opened at seven-thirty. Lilian had a rather militaristic bent, Antonia thought, and she wanted to have her supplies lined up and her plans in order before she did battle with their clients.

“Dr. Campbell!” Lilian’s soft-featured face, so at odds with her crisp, no-nonsense personality, was creased with concern. “Daniel Sutton just called. He’s having trouble with one of his mares. He said to come right away. She’s been in labor for a while, and she’s losing ground.”

“Daniel Sutton?” Antonia asked, already unbuttoning her lab coat and starting back toward the front of the clinic. “The ranch I went to last week?”

“No, that’s Marshall. His father. Daniel’s on the same road, though, about ten minutes further west. Marshall Sutton’s a cattleman, but Daniel raises horses. He’s knowledgeable. If he says there’s something wrong, then there is.”

“Okay. I’ll take the mobile.” Antonia hung her lab coat on a hook beside the back door, listening as Lilian gave her detailed directions to Daniel Sutton’s horse farm. She took the key to the clinic’s mobile vet truck from another hook. It was the task of whoever drove the truck last to make sure that it was filled with gas and stocked with supplies so that it was always ready to go the next day.

She ran lightly down the steps and crunched across the gravel lot to where the mobile truck sat parked beneath a shade tree. Dr. Carmichael had told her many tales of his early days in the area, when he had driven around to the nearby ranches in his old International Harvester truck, a forerunner of the modern SUVs, with a stock of supplies in the back that he would need for his large animal practice. Today, of course, like most vets who practiced in rural areas, he had a modern mobile, a truck equipped with a shell, looking much like one of the smaller motor homes, in which there were sinks, refrigeration for some of the medicines and samples, and nearly every kind of instrument or medicine needed for working on animals in the field. It was generally far more practical for the vet to go to the horse or cow than for the animal to be loaded into a trailer and brought to the veterinarian.

Time, of course, was of the essence when a mare was having problems foaling, and the long distances between farms and ranches here ate up that precious time, so Antonia stepped on the gas when she left the outskirts of Angel Eye, bringing the truck up to eighty. She doubted that any sheriff’s deputy in this ranching community would interfere with a speeding vet on her way to save a horse.

Lilian’s directions were as precise as she was, and Antonia had no trouble finding the Sutton horse farm. She turned off the highway onto a graveled road, blocked by a mechanized steel gate. She pushed the button on the small raised platform, and almost immediately the gate began to swing open.

“I’m in the foaling pens, Doc,” a deep male voice, tight with worry, said over the intercom. “Better step on it. She’s in a bad way.”

Antonia stepped on the accelerator and started up the long drive. Automatically she noted the details of the farm as she drove toward the house and barn in the distance. It was obviously a working farm—there were none of the expensive decorative touches that marked the rich hobbyist horse farms. Everything was plain and serviceable, from the front gate to the black metal fences to the old farmhouse at the end of the drive. However, there was nothing shabby or ill-kempt about it, either. The fences, the road, the barn, the paddocks, even the two horse trailers sitting beside the barn—all were in good repair and of good quality. It was a neatly kept place, and the horses in the pasture beside the road looked equally well taken care of.

She pulled to a stop between the barn and the lower-roofed stables and hopped out of the truck. Grabbing her doctor’s bag, she hurried toward the stables, presuming that the foaling pens were there. As she did so, a tall man came out of the building, squinting in the sun. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, stared for a moment without moving, then came toward her at a lope.

He was long-legged, with a lean, muscled build that came from years of hard work rather than an intimate acquaintance with weight-training machines. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore boots, worn blue jeans and a white short-sleeved T-shirt, and he looked so unutterably male that Antonia’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped where she was, a little taken aback by her own reaction. Tight jeans and a wide chest didn’t usually make her stomach flutter anymore, and she had seen plenty of cowboys since moving to Texas. None of them, however, had sent this jolt of pure, instinctive lust shooting straight down through her.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his dark brows drawn together in a deep frown, as he stopped a few feet from her. “Where’s Doc?”

He glanced toward the veterinary truck, then back at her. He was a big man, taller by several inches than Antonia, who was accustomed to looming over most men. He wore no hat, and his hair was thick and black and a trifle shaggy. His skin was tanned from years of exposure to the sun, and there were deep sun lines at the corners of his dark eyes. He was handsome and just as intensely masculine up close as he had appeared at a distance.

Much to Antonia’s astonished dismay, she simply looked at him, unable to speak.

“Damn it!” the man went on. “I told her I needed Dr. Carmichael. Didn’t she understand? The foal’s in the wrong position. I gotta have a vet, not some tech fresh out of school!”

Antonia stiffened at his words, a quick rush of anger coming to her rescue. “I am the vet,” she told him crisply and extended her hand, pleased to see that it didn’t shake despite the bizarre inner turmoil that afflicted her.

The man stared at her, his jaw dropping comically. “What?”

“I’m the vet. Dr. Carmichael’s new associate. I am Dr. Campbell.” She dropped her hand, unsure whether shock or simple rudeness had kept him from shaking her hand. “Now, where’s your mare?”

“But you can’t be—” he said, a stunned look on his face. “You’re a girl.”

“I will take that as a compliment to my youthful appearance rather than a male chauvinist remark,” Antonia said coolly. “However, I am the vet. Dr. Carmichael needed someone younger to help with his practice. I take the early morning calls.”

The man let out a brief, vivid curse. “We’re talking about a horse here, not a cat or dog. You can’t—”

“In fact, horses are my specialty, so you’re in luck,” Antonia went on, struggling to keep a hold on her temper.

“Damn it, I’m not losing my best mare because Carmichael decided to go all politically correct and hire a woman vet!”

“You won’t lose that horse because of me!” Antonia shot back, fury shooting up in her. “I am fully qualified to—”

“A woman doesn’t have the strength to doctor a horse. I’ve seen big men who couldn’t—”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Antonia bit out, “I am scarcely delicate. I am six feet tall and I work out. I can handle a horse. Usually I use my brains to overcome the difference in strength, and if brains won’t do it, I could turn it over to you. How’s that?”

A light flared in his eyes, and he came a long step closer, looming over her. Antonia was not about to be intimidated, and she, too, stepped forward, so that they were now so close she could see the thick dark lashes that ringed his eyes, making their dark brown color appear almost black.

She looked him straight in the eyes, putting her hands on her hips pugnaciously, and said, “Dr. Carmichael is not here. I am. Now, I can leave and you can wait until Dr. Carmichael comes into the clinic and can drive out here, by which time your stubbornness will probably have cost you a mare and a foal. Or you can show me your mare and let me try to save them. Which do you want to do?”

A vein pulsed at his temple, and for a moment Antonia thought that Sutton was going to explode, but then he stepped back. “This way,” he said shortly, and turned and walked back into the stables. Antonia followed him.

The mare was obviously in trouble. A splendid bay quarterhorse, with a white stripe down the center of her face, she stood with head lowered and feet spread apart. She was shivering, and her body was covered with sweat. Antonia took in the details of the stall automatically as she examined the mother, even as she had noticed the condition of the farm. Here, too, all was in order and prepared. The foaling stall was clean and floored with fresh straw, and several buckets stood at the ready, along with a supply of towels, and a shelf containing various bottles and tubes and a box of latex gloves. A large sink stood a few feet away, between this and another foaling stall, and at it were a nail brush and antiseptic soap. No matter how obnoxious the owner might be, he ran a good farm.

Talking soothingly to the mare, Antonia ran a calming hand down her neck and side, moving around to the back to examine her. “When did she go into labor?”

“During the night,” Sutton said, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead. Antonia saw, now that the anger had subsided from it, that weariness and worry stamped his face. “Five o’clock, maybe,” he told her in a deep, rumbling voice. “She started waxing up yesterday evening, and I knew it would be coming soon. I slept on a cot in the other stall. I checked her right after her water bag broke, and I couldn’t find the foal’s head, so I knew it was turned around. I called the clinic, and I’ve been walking her around.” He paused, then went on. “She’s my best mare, and the sire is Garson’s Evening Star at Mason Farms. It should be a good foal.” He sighed and looked at Antonia. “I don’t want to lose that mare.”

“I’ll do my best to save both of them,” Antonia said, softening a little at the undercurrent of emotion in his voice. This man wasn’t just talking about investments; he obviously loved his animals, and as far as Antonia was concerned, that fact made up for a multitude of sins. “Okay, let’s get to work.”

She went to the sink and began to scrub her hands. It was obvious that Sutton was right. The foal was turned around. It was trying to emerge; one tiny hoof protruded from the mare. But it was a rear hoof, instead of the two front hooves that should come out first in a normal delivery. The poor mare, in obvious pain, was struggling to deliver. The first thing Antonia did was examine the mare, reaching in to locate the foal’s head and forelegs. That in itself was difficult enough to do, but she finally determined that its head was twisted to the side, and the foal was more or less wedged sideways.

“You’re right. I’ll have to turn it,” she said, explaining the position of the foal as she once again scrubbed her hands and arm. “First I’m going to give her a tranquilizer to calm her down, as well as an epidural. This will take a while.”

Once she had administered the drugs, she went to work to turn the foal inside its mother. It was a long, tedious process, for she had to find the head and pull it back, as well as push and pull and twist until the foal was in the correct position, forelegs and head facing forward. Time after time, she tugged on the muzzle to no avail. She could not find one of the forelegs, and when she did, it slipped from her grasp.

Finally, however, she managed to get the leg secured with an obstetrical chain around it, then grasped the muzzle and wiggled and pulled until it slid around to the correct position. “I’ve got it!”

She began to pull, and slowly the foal slid forward until its forelegs and the tip of its muzzle emerged. Behind her Sutton let out a whoop. Antonia dropped her arm; it felt like a lead weight, numb from the strain. She shook it a little to get the feeling back, then began to pull again. The foal stuck at the chest and shoulders. It was large, and the mare was weak and tired, barely able to stand. Antonia was afraid that the mare would go down at any moment, and she was certainly no longer capable of expelling the foal.

Sutton moved up beside Antonia and grasped the muzzle and one foreleg. Antonia glanced up at him. He winked, surprising her, and said, “Looks like this is my specialty, as you pointed out earlier.”

Antonia had to grin, and she reached up to take the other foreleg. They began to pull again. It was a stubborn animal, big and slippery, and the two of them had to pull mightily, but then suddenly the shoulders popped through, and a moment later the foal was out, still wrapped in its amniotic membrane.

“Yes!” Antonia cried, triumph surging through her as Sutton gently laid the little animal down on the ground, close to its mother’s head.

She squatted down beside the man to strip the membrane from around the foal’s face and mouth. The mare would do the rest. Sutton turned to Antonia, a huge smile breaking across his face, and she grinned back at him.

“We did it!” he exclaimed, and as they stood up, he suddenly reached out and swung her up into his arms, whirling her around in a paroxysm of joy. They were both filthy, their shirts and arms covered with blood and amniotic fluid, but neither of them cared. The joy of bringing life into the world filled them. Antonia laughed, exhilarated, curling her arms around his shoulders as he spun her.

In the next moment she became aware of the reality of his body against hers. His hard chest pressed into her breasts; his arms were around her like a lover’s. She could feel the dampness of his sweat against her skin. A sudden, fierce desire slammed through her, almost frightening in its intensity. Antonia wanted to kiss him, to press herself against his muscular body. She wanted to taste the salt of his skin, to rub her face against his hair, to breathe in the healthy masculine smell of him.

Her breath caught in her throat. What in the world was she doing! She stiffened, embarrassment sweeping through her. This was a client! And her behavior was anything but professional.

Sutton seemed to become aware of the peculiarity of their situation in the same moment. Quickly he set her down and stepped back.

“I…ah…” He fixed his eyes on a point just over her shoulder. “Sorry. Got a little carried away, I guess.”

“Yes. This kind of thing doesn’t happen every day,” Antonia agreed, trying to smooth over the awkward moment. Her heart pounding against her ribs, she turned back to the mare, who was now engaged in licking her foal clean. The foal lay there, adjusting to its new world, its mother’s lifeblood still filling it through the umbilical cord. Antonia never cut the cord right away, as it would deprive the foal of much-needed nourishment.

“It looks as if everything’s proceeding normally,” she went on, aware that her voice sounded a trifle prissy, but she felt as though she had to say something, with the sudden, awkward silence settling around them.

“Yeah. I—usually Doc uses the shower out here in the barn to clean up. But—” He glanced doubtfully down the wide hallway. “Maybe you ought to use the one in the house. I’ll take this one. I mean…that is, if you have something to change into. I could loan you a shirt, of course, but…” His eyes fell to her slender legs, encased in denim. “Course you’re pretty tall. I reckon you could, you know, wear something of mine…if you wanted…you could roll them up—Oh, Lord, why don’t you just shoot me and shut me up before I make a complete fool of myself?”

Antonia had to smile. “A shower would be very nice, thank you. I appreciate it. I’m sure the one here in the barn is perfectly fine. And I carry a change of clothes in the truck. Unfortunately for the state of my clothes, I often wind up looking like this.”

They waited for the expulsion of the afterbirth, to make sure the mare was all right; then Antonia cut the umbilical cord, and they watched in fascination as the little foal staggered to its feet and wobbled to its mother and began to nurse. Antonia grinned, warmth flooding through her. No matter how many times she saw this sight, it never failed to fill her with happiness. She glanced over at Daniel Sutton and saw the same feeling reflected on his face.

Afterward, he directed her to the shower down the central hallway. It was small and spartan, but it was clean, and the water was hot and plentiful, which was enough for Antonia. She had many times made do with much less. Once again clean and dressed in a faded T-shirt and an old pair of jeans, she pushed her feet back into her boots, brushed through her long hair and neatly rebraided it, then made her way to the side door of the farmhouse.

She knocked on the door, then entered when a voice called to come in. Daniel Sutton stood at the kitchen counter in clean jeans and a fresh shirt, his hair slicked back wetly. He was pouring water into the coffeemaker, and he glanced over his shoulder at her as she came in.

“Cup of coffee?” he asked.

“That sounds nice,” Antonia replied, feeling a little shy. There was a certain intimacy to the scene—both of them obviously fresh from the shower and him making coffee—that was rather suggestive. She told herself that it was foolish to think that way, but she could not suppress the feeling.

She sat down at the table and glanced around. It was a large, old-fashioned kitchen, but, like the rest of the place, neat and well-kept. She wondered if there was a Mrs. Sutton and was a little surprised to realize that she hoped there was not.

“I was at another Sutton’s last week,” she said, deciding to probe a little. “Inoculating calves.”

“That’d be my dad, Marshall. Just up the road.” He nodded in the direction of his father’s ranch. “This was a piece of land I bought from my grandmother.”

“It’s nice. You run a good operation, I’d say.”

“Thanks.” He had finished with the coffee and now stood facing her, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed in front of him.

“Nice house, too. I like your kitchen.”

“Thank you.” He glanced around, then shrugged. “James isn’t messy. We manage to keep it up okay. It helps not to cook a lot.”

Antonia relaxed a little. That statement didn’t sound as if there was a woman living here. “James?”

“My son. He’s a teenager, but he’s a good kid.”

Antonia smiled. “You sound as if the two terms are contradictory.”

He grinned. “Well…”

“How old is James?” And where is his mother? She could think of no polite way to ask it.

“Eighteen. This is his senior year. He’ll be graduating in a few weeks. Next thing you know, he’ll be in college.” He made a face. “Whew, makes me feel old, saying that.”

“You must have married young.”

“Straight out of high school. Our parents thought we were stupid, and, of course, we were.” He shrugged. “But I guess we all have to make our own mistakes. We split up before James was three.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Long time ago,” he replied briefly, his face shuttered.

There was a long pause. Daniel looked down at the floor, then out the window. Finally he said, “Look. I’m sorry about earlier.”

Antonia gazed at him questioningly.

“You know, about wanting Doc Carmichael and all. I was wrong. You did a good job. I—I’m usually not, you know, all chauvinistic and thinking women can’t do things. I mean, I guess I am kinda old-fashioned in a lot of ways, but my sister’s put me straight any number of times. The thing was, I was worried about my mare.”

“I know.” Antonia was sure that was true, and she was inclined to give him a second chance. But it didn’t seem that she ought to let him off the hook quite yet.

“And I’m not used to women vets,” he went on. “I mean, well, actually, I never put much thought to the subject before. I just didn’t see how a woman could handle some of the things a horse doctor has to. It’s, well, you know, hard work.” He stopped, color rising in his cheeks. “Blast, that came out wrong, too. I meant, it takes a lot of physical strength and…”

He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

Antonia relented. “Yes. It does. And women don’t usually go into a large animal practice because of that. But I’ve found that horses and cattle are pretty much stronger than men, too. It’s all a matter of degree. You just have to compensate for it. I haven’t yet had to turn an animal away because I wasn’t strong enough.” She grinned. “I have to admit, it might be different if I weren’t six feet tall. Long arms make a difference.”

He smiled. “I hope that means you accept my apology. I was wrong. And you did a great job. I hope you’ll work on my horses again.”

“I’d be happy to.”

After that, she couldn’t think of anything to say, and silence grew uncomfortably. Fortunately, the coffeemaker finished, and Daniel was able to turn his attention to pouring them cups of coffee. He set the cups down on the table and added a carton of milk from the refrigerator and a canister of sugar from the counter.

“Sorry.” He cast a rueful eye on the sugar and milk. “I’m afraid we don’t have those things…”

“Sugar and creamer?”

“Right.” He quirked an eyebrow. “We’re kind of plain here. Bachelor household.”

“That’s okay. I’m kind of plain myself.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

Antonia’s eyebrows sailed upward. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He glanced up at her, looking uncomfortable. “Sorry. Have I put my foot in my mouth again? You can see I don’t get out much. I didn’t mean anything bad. It’s just that you look—I don’t know, not plain, anyway. You look sort of like Grace Kelly, like some guy in a tux ought to step out onto the veranda and take you back inside to the Harvest Ball.”

Antonia chuckled. “Is that a compliment or a putdown?”

“I meant it as a compliment. You’re beautiful,” he replied simply.

Antonia felt herself blushing. “I…uh…”

“Don’t worry. I’m not coming on to you. Just a statement of fact,” he said quickly, then sighed. “I’m making a real mess of it, aren’t I? James would despair of me if he were here. He thinks I’m the lamest when it comes to women, and he’s probably right.”

“It’s okay,” Antonia said with a smile. “I don’t mind being told I’m beautiful. It’s a lot better than saying I look like a city girl or like I’ve never gotten my hands dirty in my life, which are also things people have told me.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was cursed with a country club background. I can’t even tell people how wrong they are. I was, sorry to say, a debutante.”

“Really?” He looked surprised. “You’re kidding. I didn’t know they had those anymore.”

“Oh, yes, still going strong in Richmond, Virginia. It was part of my bargain with my parents—I’d have my coming out if they would let me go to the University of Virginia and get a science degree instead of going to Sweet Briar, like a proper young lady.” Antonia was a little surprised at her words. She didn’t usually reveal that much of herself to strangers.

Daniel’s grin lit up the rugged planes of his face, and Antonia noticed with some surprise that it caused the nerves of her stomach to go into a crazy little dance. It occurred to her that she was feeling about the same age as a debutante.

“Well, I’d say you’re about as far as you could get from Sweet Briar now.”

“You’re right.”

“So how you’d wind up in Angel Eye, Texas?”

“I went to veterinary school at Texas A&M,” she explained. No need to go into the reasons why she had wound up there. She had found that Texans rarely questioned why anyone would have chosen to come to Texas or to remain once they had lived there a while. They considered that obvious; they were usually curious only about how it had happened. “After that, I wanted to stay in Texas.”

Proving her point, Sutton nodded in agreement.

“So I got a job with a vet in Katy.” She named a suburb of Houston on the west side of the city. “His practice had a lot of show horse farms, tax write-off cattle places, that kind of thing. I didn’t want to live in the city, but I wanted to work with horses, and, well, most large animal vets weren’t interested in hiring a woman.”

“Chauvinistic pigs,” Daniel commented, his black eyes twinkling.

“I know. Terrible, isn’t it? Anyway, Dr. Carmichael knew Matt Ventura, the head of the clinic, and he asked him if any of his associates would be interested in moving to Angel Eye and eventually taking over a practice. I was the only one. I wanted to live in the country, and I prefer real working ranches and farms. You know? Where you actually talk to the owner, not some manager hired by a bank president or some cardiologist whose tax lawyer told him to buy a farm for a write-off. Real people who care more about their animals than about how picturesque all the white rail fences look.”

“You won’t find much of anything picturesque in Angel Eye.”

“There’s its name,” Antonia pointed out. “The Spanish calling it Los Ojos de Los Angeles for the stars.”

“And Anglos shortening and anglicizing it,” Daniel added. “Yeah, I guess that’s pretty unique.”

“Angel Eye is real. It has its own unique charm. I like it. Fortunately Dr. Carmichael was getting pretty desperate by that time, so he was willing to take a chance on a woman vet.”

“I’m glad.” His eyes were warm on her for a moment, reminding Antonia of that moment in the barn when his arms had enfolded her and she had thought about kissing him.

She glanced away from him quickly. “Me too. Well…” She took a last sip of her coffee and stood up. “I’d better be going. I’ll be way behind at the clinic.”

“I’m sorry.”

Antonia shrugged. “It happens all the time. We have emergencies. Dr. Carmichael will have taken up as much of the slack as he can.” She hesitated, then said, “It was nice meeting you—well, maybe not nice, but I’m glad we met.”

“Me too.” He had risen when she did and stood, hands hooked in his back pockets, looking undecided and faintly uncomfortable.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Any time. I…uh, I reckon the clinic’ll just bill me, like they usually do.”

Antonia nodded. In a moment, she thought, the two of them would start shuffling their feet and hemming and hawing around like first-graders. Reminding herself that she was a poised, confident adult on a business footing with Daniel Sutton, she stuck out her hand to shake his.

Daniel glanced from her face down to her hand. He reached out and enfolded her hand in his. His was warm and large, the palm roughened by years of calluses. Antonia was startled by the surge of electricity that shot through her at his touch. She raised her eyes to his a little wonderingly, and for a brief moment they looked at each other, unsure, pulses quickening in a way that was a little foreign to both of them.

Then, suddenly, he dropped her hand and stepped forward, his hands going to her shoulders. He pulled her to him, and his mouth swooped down to claim hers.