Читать книгу Tennessee Rescue - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 13

CHAPTER THREE

SETH NOTICED WHEN he stripped off his wet clothes that his socks didn’t match. That woman—he’d better learn to call her Emma, since they were way beyond Ms. French—probably figured he was either color-blind or incompetent. Which was how he felt at the moment.

Emma was a nice old-fashioned name. Not that she was a nice old-fashioned girl. Far from it. Probably never bought a pair of jeans from a discount store in her life. Heck, the way hers fit, they were worth the investment.

He poured himself a small Scotch and sank onto his saggy leather sofa with his feet on the slab of hundred-year-old oak he’d salvaged from a downed tree. One of the few pieces Clare had left when she’d walked out. And which was now covered with dust like everything else in this house.

He leaned his head back and laid his hand on the sofa where he was used to feeling Rambler’s deep furry pelt. Now that Rambler had died of old age, Seth needed another dog. Dogs didn’t present insoluble problems with beautiful women. They didn’t care whether a woman was beautiful or a clone of the Wicked Witch as long as she petted and fed him.

Why did he invariably get involved with women who complicated his life and didn’t belong to his world? He’d tried to convert Clare to country living, but in the end she’d moved to Nashville and married a dentist. A rich dentist. She really had tried to put up with living in the back of beyond—her words—with a man who frequently stank of blood or fish and came home covered in mud or dirt. At least she’d tried for a while. He knew now that she’d assumed he’d quickly be promoted to a desk job so they could buy a suburban house and have a country club membership. Meanwhile, he’d assumed she’d loved the country as much as he did. Talk about a lack of communication.

Thinking back, the water moccasin marked the true end of their relationship. He’d tried to teach her about good snakes and bad snakes, but she never understood. Snake was snake to Clare. He wasn’t thrilled to meet copperheads or rattlers or water moccasins either, but he was fond of the king snakes. Keep a big king snake around, you never saw a poisonous snake. Well, mostly. Didn’t have to worry about rats or mice either. A good king snake would beat a barn cat every time when it came to killing mice. And a king snake sucked down the whole mouse—didn’t nibble the edges like a cat did and leave you to clean up the remains.

That moccasin she’d nearly stepped on wasn’t even coiled. Just stretched out across the front porch steps sunning itself. Couldn’t have struck Clare if it had tried—not without coiling first.

When he’d been with the department less than six months, he’d had to deliver a baby for a woman who couldn’t make it to Jackson to the hospital. He’d never heard screams like that before, and he’d prayed he never would again.

Clare’s screams when she saw that snake as she started up the porch step put that other woman to shame. Who was that comic book character that could move so fast? Clare would’ve beaten that guy back to the car. She dived in the passenger side, screaming, “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

When he explained to her that snakes are protected in Tennessee, she hit him so hard he’d had a bruised shoulder for a week. He’d walked over and checked, then reported back that the snake had removed itself from the porch, no doubt annoyed that its nap was interrupted. She refused to get out of the car. Ever.

They’d spent that night in the local motel. Not exactly the Peabody. She’d been upset about that, as well. It was clean, and the Patels were nice people, but the towels were thin. Clare hated thin towels. He’d finally convinced her to come back to the house, after he spent a couple of hours patrolling the yard and shed for the snake, but that was the beginning of the end. A week later, she moved out. A week after that, she served him with divorce papers. He never saw the snake again; Mother Nature might say that snake had done its job by getting rid of her. Took him a long time to admit that, even to himself.

He’d give Emma French about three days before she moved out and back to the city. At that point, the skunks would become his problem. Hell, they already were.

He checked his watch and was surprised it was only a little after nine. He dug out his cell phone and hit his speed dial.

He got the clinic’s voice mail. “This is Dr. Barbara Carew. The clinic office hours are eight thirty till six, Monday through Friday. Saturday eight thirty till one. If this is an emergency, please call our emergency service at...”

He waited to leave a message, then said, “Barbara, it’s me, Seth. I need some advice. Please meet me at seven tomorrow morning at the café. I’ll buy you breakfast. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’ll be there. This is important.” He hung up. She’d pick up her messages before she went to bed. If she wasn’t out working on a colicky horse or birthing a calf, she’d meet him. He let his head fall back against the sofa. He could feel that Scotch down to his toenails. Or maybe he was feeling simple exhaustion. He was too damned tired to feel lust.

Whom was he kidding? A man would have to be dead and buried not to lust after Emma French. But in his present state of weariness, he might not be capable of doing much about it.

* * *

ACROSS THE STREET Emma called her father to tell him she had a roof over her head that didn’t leak and a dry, if lumpy, bed to sleep in. She got his answering machine. Of course. She could call her stepmother Andrea’s cell phone instead, but decided she was too tired for explanations.

She didn’t mention her invaders on her message to her father. He would be horrified. He was already haranguing her about moving to the country instead of coming home to stay until she found a new job. Which he would no doubt find for her with one of his cronies regardless of whether they needed her.

Not happening. At least, not yet. She had enough savings to survive for a bit. If she rented out her town house, she’d be able to hold out quite a while.

She got ready for bed, set her alarm for midnight—four hours since the babies were last fed.

She hadn’t answered any of Trip’s calls on her cell phone. Sooner or later she’d talk to him, but not yet. He’d sworn he still loved her, wanted to make things right between them. As if. He’d even fooled David French. Her father had welcomed him as her fiancé. Although in this case his usual mantra—that the man wasn’t good enough for her—was accurate.

She was always afraid men would realize she wasn’t good enough for them.

* * *

THE MIDNIGHT FEEDING went okay, but at four, Emma hated slipping out of her warm bed and into the cold house to heat up...whoa, she should’ve asked Seth how warm the jar of milk that presently resided in her refrigerator should be. She put her hand on her cell phone to call him, then set it back on the kitchen counter. The man was exhausted. She couldn’t repay his kindness by waking him from a sleep he obviously needed.

She ran the jar under hot water in the sink to take the chill off, but not enough to heat it up. That should be safe.

As she cradled Sycamore, who already had this nursing business down pat, she wondered whether her semiconscious state was what human mothers felt during the late-night feedings. Remembering her half brother and half sister as newborns, she decided that these skunk babies were a bunch cuter than their human counterparts and didn’t scream blue murder between feedings.

Would she ever have that mother feeling with her own newborn? Didn’t look like it at the moment. She wanted a man she could count on, who believed in fidelity. Trip obviously did not. If he could cheat on his fiancée, what would he do to his wife?

The whole situation had looked so perfect at the start. Even her father had finally agreed that marrying Trip would be a good choice. Well—goodish. Daddy’s take was that no man who’d ever lived was good enough for his Emma, but Trip would keep her safe and happy.

Now, she’d come to the realization that even if Trip wanted her back, she did not now or ever want to marry him. Whatever she’d thought she felt for him, she knew it was never love. Convenience? Appropriateness? Timing? She wasn’t sure she’d recognize real love if she ran into it like a brick wall.

Maybe she’d move to Montana or Alaska or somewhere there were more men than women. The pool of eligible bachelors in west Tennessee that she hadn’t already crossed off her list was getting smaller and smaller.

Okay, she’d been raised to be picky. Even in high school her father had second-guessed her crushes.

He’d guessed wrong on Trip. Daddy simply couldn’t understand why she’d broken her engagement. If she had her way, he’d never know.

Actually, losing her job working for Nathan was worse than losing Trip. Maybe she should take up fostering abandoned baby scapegoats. She’d be right at home being the mother of that herd. Accepting blame for something that was her fault was one thing. Being fired because of someone else’s screwup made her angry. She hadn’t even had a chance to plead her case before Nathan fired her.

She settled Rose next to Sycamore and picked up Peony. She could already tell them apart not by their looks—although their stripes were different—but by their personalities. Sycamore was a bit of a bully and certainly greedy. Rose was gentle and liked to be cuddled. Peony was sweet, but Emma decided she didn’t have a brain in her soft little head. The poor baby tried to figure out the nursing thing, but the practical aspects simply eluded her.

Eventually Emma managed to get enough milk down Peony’s throat, rather than on her fur, that she felt comfortable returning her to the nest. She put the remaining milk back in the refrigerator and realized she’d have to make a run to the grocery for another gallon or so come morning. She had enough for only one more feeding.

Seth had left a couple of cans of dog food on the kitchen counter, but she’d better do some internet research on how to feed her charges before she offered them dog food. She’d ask Seth tomorrow, as well. Maybe just a tiny bit mashed up in the milk. But how would she get the solid food into their mouths through that syringe?

Relishing the still-warm bed, she snuggled down again. This time sleep eluded her. The whole country-life thing had turned into a major fiasco. She ought to pack her duffel bag and go home. What did she know about living in the country? Rehabbing a run-down house? Feeding skunks?

A niggling voice in the back of her mind whispered, “But Seth knows how to help me.”

Another niggling voice followed. “Yeah, but I’ll bet he won’t.”

* * *

BARBARA CAREW’S MOBILE vet van was already sitting in the parking lot at the Forked Deer Café when Seth pulled in beside it. She was reading the Marquette County Gazette in the back booth of the café and cradling a giant mug of coffee.

“You ever sleep?” he asked as he slid into the banquette across from her.

“When the animals let me,” she said. She folded the paper, put it down on the patched leatherette bench and took a swig of her coffee. “This helps. Good morning, Seth.”

A brawny arm and hand carrying a mug of coffee the size of Barbara’s reached across his shoulder and set the cup on the table in front of him. “Hey, Seth,” a gravelly voice said. “The usual?”

“Thanks, Velma.”

“You have bags under your eyes,” Barbara told him.

“Those bags probably have bags,” Seth muttered.

“Rough day yesterday?”

“No worse than usual. At least not until last night. Then things got complicated.” He laid out the entire scenario, from Emma’s knock on his front door until he left her with her black-and-white invaders.

“Here ya go, sweet thing.” Velma set the plate with sausage, hash browns, eggs and grits on the table, then added a large glass of orange juice.

“If I ate like that, I’d be even fatter than I am,” Barbara said. “Here I’ve got one country ham biscuit. Life is not fair.”

“You are not fat,” Seth said. “Just not skeletal.”

“Way I work, I should be—skeletal, that is.”

Seth cut into his eggs. “So, what should I do?”

“About what? The woman or the skunks?”

“Take your pick. I doubt the woman will stick around for long, but if she does, what should I do about the rules on skunks?”

Barbara got up, went behind the counter and brought back the coffee carafe. She refilled both their cups, then returned the carafe to the hot plate. “Okay. I’m going to give you a bit of motherly advice.” She scowled at him. “I am a mother, you know, even if mine are both semigrown. This, however, is advice from my mother. When Patrick hit the terrible twos, John and I had just taken over my practice and were trying to keep from throttling him. Seemed he was into something every minute. River otters are said to have two states—asleep or in trouble. I swear that kid has river otter genes instead of human. Anyway, one day when I was absolutely at my wit’s end, and my mother was visiting, she said, ‘Barbara, dear, do not see so much.’”

“What if he’s hanging off a precipice by his fingernails?” Seth asked.

“That, of course, you do see. But if it’s nondangerous stuff that you don’t know how to handle, simply don’t see it. In most instances, the problem resolves itself without you or the kid going to jail for first-degree murder. If this Emma is doing something that’s against the rules—rules you say you don’t believe are appropriate in the first place—is she doing it under your nose? Can you see or hear those skunks from inside your house or your car?”

“No, but I know they’re there.”

“Can you see them?”

“Of course not. But I need to check on her, make sure she’s managing.”

“Can you see the skunks from her living room?”

“They’re in the pantry.”

“Stay out of the pantry.”

“I’m sworn to uphold the regulations.”

“You are sworn to protect wildlife.” Barbara reached across the table and laid her hand on his. “If you get caught, I had nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, thanks, I appreciate that.”

“We need to get those babies up and weaned as quickly and quietly as possible. Return them to the wild far enough away so they can’t show up back on this woman’s doorstep, and in the meantime, you forget they exist.”

“I can’t do that.”

“The alternative is to come down on her like a ton of bricks, take those babies away from her and abandon them to the coyotes and the foxes before they even have their scent glands functioning. Can you do that?”

“No, but—”

“I’ll stop by her place on my way back to the clinic to introduce myself. I’m the only vet in her neighborhood, and she’s a new neighbor. Does she have any pets?”

He shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”

“Okay, then I’ll do the neighborly thing. I’ll help her with those babies. First of all, rabies shots all around. It’s early, but not dangerously early to give them the shot. You go on to work and put it all out of your mind.” She shoved her plate away. “I’ll go check on Skunk Lady. Velma, honey, fix me a couple of sausage biscuits and a small orange juice to go, please.” She turned to Seth. “Vets bearing gifts. Good ploy. You pay for breakfast.”

As he watched her van drive out of the parking lot, Seth thought, The skunks are one thing, but no way can I put Emma French out of my mind. I’m already stuck with her. Heck, I may be stuck with her for the rest of my life. I can’t get her out of my head. I don’t even know whether that’s good or bad.