Читать книгу The Texas Ranger - Jan Hudson, Jan Hudson - Страница 10

“You sure do seem to be humming a lot these days,” Suki, the housekeeper, said as she placed Skye’s breakfast on the table.

“Must be the lovely weather.”

“Humph. I’d bet my last dime it has more to do with a tall drink of water named Sam Outlaw,” Suki said.

Gabe lowered his newspaper. “Something going on that I don’t know about?”

“Lots of things going on around here that you don’t know about,” Suki replied. “You spend more time at Belle’s place than you do in your own house. You ought to marry that gal if you ask me.”

Skye smiled as Suki stomped from the kitchen. Suki and her husband Ralph had worked for Gabe for years, Suki as housekeeper and Ralph as overseer of the compound, and were more like part of the family than employees. Ralph was a big, easygoing man, but Suki was a tiny thing with flashing black eyes who didn’t hesitate to speak her mind about everything. Skye adored them both.

“Yeah,” Skye said, “when are you and Belle going to get married?”

“As soon as she says the word.”

“And what word is that?”

“Yes.” Gabe folded his newspaper. “Don’t change the subject, baby sister. What’s going on with Sam?”

“Nothing’s going on with Sam. I’ve only seen the man once in my life. At the party.” She dug into her cereal. “He seems nice. I liked all of Belle’s family.”

“So did I. And don’t get me wrong, Sam’s a great guy, but I don’t think he’s your type.”

A sudden flash of anger jerked her head up. “Really? And exactly what is my type?”

“Whoa. I didn’t mean to insult you, honey. I just meant that he seems a little rowdier than someone I’d pick for you.”

“Define rowdy.”

The doorbell rang, and Gabe seemed decidedly relieved. “That must be Napoleon.”

“Suki will let him in. Define rowdy.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly mean rowdy. Maybe high-spirited would be a better term. He’s a rough, tough kind of guy in a rough, tough occupation.”

“And you don’t think I would appeal to a man like that?”

“Skye, I think you’re a lovely woman who would appeal to any man. It’s just that you haven’t shown any interest in anyone since…well, in a long time.”

“It’s Carlotta ringing the bell,” Suki shouted. “And looks like Napoleon is coming up the drive.”

Skye sighed and rose. “I guess you’re right, Gabe. Let me go tend to Carlotta.” She grabbed a banana, then she and Gus headed for the door.

Carlotta was her banana-loving pal, a llama that nobody wanted any longer and had ended up in their pasture. In a moment of mischief, Skye had taught the smart creature to ring the doorbell. It ceased to be amusing after she started escaping from the pasture frequently and trying to get into the house.

“I thought you said Carlotta was going to quit getting out and pulling them shenanigans when you got those sheep for her to tend,” Suki said.

“You’ll have to admit she’s better nowadays. This is the first time she’s rung the bell in a long time. Napoleon and I will put her back in the pasture.”

She stepped out on the porch and patted Carlotta as the llama nuzzled close to Skye and sniffed the banana.

“She get out again?” Napoleon asked.

Napoleon Jones, an ex-tackle from Texas State and a hulking brute of a guy, climbed the steps to the porch. Not only was Napoleon her bodyguard, but he was also her assistant at the clinic. Even as fierce-looking as he was, animals adored him, and he was loving and gentle with every fury and feathered creature she treated. He picked her up every morning, drove her the quarter of a mile to the clinic, and stayed by her side until he dropped her off after seeing the last patient in the evening. He’d been with her since before she opened her practice, and she’d be lost without him.

Carlotta’s soft lips nibbled the piece of banana that Skye held out to her, and she and Napoleon easily got her back into the pasture with the two sheep. Skye had gotten the sheep for Carlotta to tend and keep her from being lonely. It had worked until today, and the arrangement would continue to work as long as Skye remembered to give her a bit of attention now and then. And a banana.

As Napoleon drove her over to the clinic in the Jeep, Skye thought about what Gabe had said. Sam might have made her as giddy as a teenager with her first crush, but she couldn’t imagine him fitting in with her lifestyle. Sometimes she got so angry and disgusted with herself that she wanted to scream. Maybe she should consider therapy again.

SAM WAS STANDING AT THE SINK shaving when he heard the siren outside his townhouse. He dropped his razor and grabbed his gun as he hurried to the door.

An ambulance had stopped at his elderly neighbor’s home. Two EMTs raced for the house while her maid stood on the porch calling, “Hurry! Hurry!”

“What’s going on?” Sam asked.

“It’s Mrs. Book. I think she’s had a stroke.” The woman was bug-eyed and wringing her hands.

A small hunk of fur came racing out of Mrs. Book’s place, shot between Sam’s legs and zipped inside his house.

“Oh, that dog! She’ll be the death of me!”

“What can I do to help?”

“Lord, I don’t know. They’ll be taking Mrs. Book to the hospital, and I need to go along with her. Can you see to Pookie?”

“Sure,” Sam said.

In a couple of minutes, the EMTs wheeled out his neighbor, loaded her in the ambulance and took off, siren screaming. The maid slapped a key in Sam’s hand, ran to her car and peeled out behind them.

Sam checked to make sure his neighbor’s door was locked, then went back inside to finish shaving the other half of his face. Slapping on some aftershave, he walked around calling the dog.

Why in the hell would anybody name a dog Pookie?

He was sorry about Mrs. Book’s stroke—if that was the problem. Since he hadn’t lived there long, he didn’t know any of his neighbors very well, mostly just enough to nod to them. He’d met Mrs. Book when she’d pecked on her window one day as he’d walked by. She’d needed a light bulb changed and wondered if he’d mind doing it. She’d seen his Ranger badge and gun and figured he was safe. Since then he’d done another small favor or two for her, and she’d baked him cookies. Good ones, too. Chocolate chip with pecans.

She didn’t have much family except a nephew who never came around. Pookie was her constant companion. The dog was cute, spoiled rotten, and the little rag mop had taken to Sam. Every time he grilled on the patio, she managed to crawl through a little hole in the fence between their places and dance around his feet until he gave her a bite of whatever he was cooking. She was partial to rib eyes.

“Pookie! Where are you?”

Sam heard a faint whimper under his bed and got down to check. He found the dog there, cowed down and shaking like a leaf. “Come on out, girl.” He scooped her from her hiding place, held her in the crook of his arm and stroked her. “It’s all right, darlin’. I know you’re scared. Just calm down.”

He could almost hear the dog sigh as she relaxed, and she rooted closer to him.

In a few minutes, Sam set her on his bed. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He went next door and gathered up Pookie’s stuff, including food and bowls, her toys and bed. He even found a small carrying crate and lugged it back to his house as well. He figured he could handle one small dog for a day or two. At least she liked him. Most animals did. Except for Gus.

Thinking about Gus reminded him of Skye. Then, of course, lots of things reminded him of Skye. She’d been in his thoughts a good deal.

He glanced at his watch. Damn! He was going to be late. He finished dressing and turned to look for Pookie. He couldn’t find her anywhere.

Oh, well, she’d come out sooner or later.

He left out plenty of food and water in the kitchen and left her bed and toys in his bedroom. She’d be fine until he returned.

SAM WAS LATER GETTING HOME than he figured on. And later than Pookie had figured on as well, from what he found on the floor. Honestly, he’d forgotten about the dog, so he didn’t scold her. Instead, he let her out the back door and cleaned up the mess without too many cuss words. He’d try to remember to come by home a couple of times during the day tomorrow to let her out.

When he checked on her a few minutes later, the patio area was empty. As he went outside to search for her, he heard whining and scratching. He climbed up and looked over the fence and saw Pookie crying and clawing on Mrs. Book’s back door.

He felt sorry for the little thing and went and got her.

“How about you and me going to get a hamburger?” he asked her. “I’m hungry.”

She seemed happy enough when she stood in his lap and looked out the window as they went to the fast food place a few blocks away. She hadn’t touched the dry food he’d left in her bowl, but she downed a good portion of his second hamburger—except the pickles and onions.

Pookie even whined her way into his bed that night. He could understand that she was confused and probably slept with Mrs. Book.

The next day he called the hospital to check on his neighbor, but the one he’d assumed she’d been sent to didn’t have any record of a Mrs. Book. He tried a couple of others with the same result. He couldn’t contact the maid; he didn’t even know her name. Nor did he know the name of her nephew. Sonny, she’d called him.

Sam was even more concerned when he came home at noon the next day to let Pookie out and saw a van in front of Mrs. Book’s house with the name of an auction house on its doors. He walked over and spoke to a man who was there, hoping it might be Sonny.

“I’m doing an inventory for the estate sale,” the man said.

“What estate sale?” Sam asked.

“Woman who lived here died. Her nephew said to auction off everything.”

That was fast. Disgusted with Mrs. Book’s family, he managed to get the nephew’s name and phone number. When Sam called Sonny to find out what to do with Pookie, the man said, “I don’t give a damn what happens to that dog. Send it to the pound if you don’t want it.”

Sam slammed down the phone and looked at Pookie, who sat watching him, her head cocked to one side, an imploring look in her eyes.

Hell, he couldn’t have anymore sent her to the pound than he could have sent his own mother.

He called Skye Walker’s clinic in Wimberley and made an appointment for Saturday, then he went to the building supply store and bought the stuff to make a doggy door.

WHEN SAM GOT TO WIMBERLEY and stopped at the gate, he wasn’t sure he had the right place. Why in the world was there a manned guardhouse? He first thought it might be the entrance to a park or something.

Sam rolled down his window. “I’m looking for the veterinary clinic.”

“And your name is?”

“Sam Outlaw. I have an appointment.”

The man checked a list. “Yes, sir. I have you here. Go straight down the road and take a right at the Y. You’ll run into the clinic.” He punched a button and the metal barrier opened.

Must be an upscale place, Sam thought as he drove through. He’d heard of gated communities, but he’d never been to a gated vet’s office. He parked in the lot in front of a white Austin stone building with a red tile roof, retrieved Pookie and attached a leash to her collar. When he got to the front door, he was even more mystified. The door was locked. What the devil? Had they closed already?

He rang the doorbell, then knocked.

He waited. And waited. The door opened a crack. “Mr. Outlaw?” a woman asked.

He started to say, “Joe sent me,” but, instead of smarting off, he answered with a simple, “That’s me.”

The door opened wider. “Please come in and have a seat. Dr. Walker will be with you in a moment.”

Pookie balked at the threshold, and Sam had to pick her up and carry her inside. She was shaking again.

“It’s okay, girl,” he said, stroking her. “Dr. Skye’s one of the good guys. She won’t hurt you.” How was it that animals always knew when they were going to the vet? He’d had to drag Pookie from under the bed this morning when he was ready to leave.

He heard voices at an interior door, then it opened and the mayor walked out with his Doberman. Wouldn’t you know? The dude glanced at Pookie and smiled. “Cute dog.”

“My neighbor’s.”

“I see,” the mayor said. “Sam, isn’t it?” He held out his hand.

“Yes.” Sam stood and shook hands with him.

A guy roughly the size of a tank followed the mayor out of the interior. He checked the peephole in the front door, then flipped a switch on the wall, unlocked and opened the door for the mayor.

“Good to see you again,” the mayor said.

John? Jim? Sam couldn’t remember. He only remembered that he didn’t much care for his toothy smile.

As soon as the lock clicked into place and the switch was flipped back up, the tank turned to Sam. “I’m Napoleon, Dr. Walker’s assistant. Come with me, please.”

Sam didn’t argue. He was meaner looking than any man he’d ever seen on death row, and, although Sam didn’t often meet anyone who made him nervous, the tank put him on guard. This guy didn’t look like he’d go down unless you shot him—a bunch of times.

He was led into a room where Skye waited. Gus lay quietly in a corner. Gus raised his head and glared at Sam—or did something that passed for a dog-glare. His lips twitched back over his teeth.

Dressed in a blue smock, Skye stood by a tall examining table, scanned a chart. She glanced up when he entered and smiled. “Well, hello, Sam. What brings you here?”

He held out the dog. “Pookie.”

Skye took her, and the dog almost went into ecstasy, wiggling and licking Skye. “Hello, sweetie. How are you?”

Pookie arfed. Twice.

Skye cuddled her close. “Somehow I never figured you for the type who’d choose a Lhasa apso named Pookie.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Me, neither.” He told her the story of how he came to be her new owner. “I don’t know anything about her. I didn’t even know what kind of dog she was until you said. She just looks like a dust mop to me. I don’t know about her health or if she’s had her shots. She hides under the bed a lot.”

Skye checked a tag on her collar. “Here’s the number of her vet in San Antonio. Why didn’t you call the office and ask?”

Feeling a little dumb, Sam managed to grin. “Never thought of it. Guess I was looking for an excuse to drop over and ask you to lunch.”

She laughed, took a cell phone from her pocket and punched in a number. She identified herself and asked for information on Pookie. After a few moments, she hung up and told Sam, “All her shots are in order, and she’s a bit overweight but basically healthy. Let me examine her to be sure.”

Skye set the dog on her examining table, whispered something to her, and Pookie’s wiggling stopped. She stood statue-still while Skye looked her over.

After a few minutes, Skye said, “She’s fine, just a little sad about the loss of her mistress. It’s to be expected. She likes you.”

“I feed her hamburgers and steak.”

“Leave off the hamburgers and steak, or she’ll be a real roly-poly.”

She named a dry food that she recommended for small dogs. “She can have a treat occasionally.” She ruffled Pookie’s coat. “Show dogs of this breed really do look like dust mops, and they have to be carefully and frequently groomed. Her coat has been kept clipped, and I’d recommend continuing that for her comfort and your convenience. She needs a haircut and grooming now before she starts getting painful mats.”

“Where do I get that done?”

Skye glanced at Napoleon. He nodded. “Napoleon will get her fixed up. Every few weeks you can take her to any good groomer near you.”

Skye handed Pookie to Napoleon, and the dog went into her wiggling and licking routine again for him. She didn’t seem to mind his looks. The man spoke to her softly as they left the room.

“Sam, I think it’s very sweet of you to take in Pookie.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t want to take her to the pound. Do you know of anybody who might like to have her?”

Skye looked concerned. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to traumatize her further. She’s probably best off with you.”

Sam nodded. Looked like he now had a dog. “How about joining me for lunch?”

“How about you join me at home instead? You and Pookie. Belle is coming over to go swimming this afternoon.”

“I don’t have a suit.”

“I’m sure one of Gabe’s will fit.”

“It’s a deal.” The thought of Skye in a bathing suit had him salivating. He’d bet she was a knockout in a bikini.

“You can have a seat in the waiting room until Napoleon is finished with Pookie,” she said. “I have a couple more patients to see yet.”

SKYE FELT AS GIDDY AS A CHILD at Christmas. She was sure that Mrs. Westmoreland thought she was nuts because of the way she kept smiling during the account of Puffy’s numerous hair balls. And certainly nothing was funny about George Bill’s parrot, who had picked out half his feathers, but she could barely keep her mind on her patients. She wanted to break out into song and dance around the examining tables.

Sam Outlaw was here, here in her office. She’d thought about him all week, wondering if she would ever see him again. Gabe had said that Sam wasn’t her type, but she had to disagree. Sam was exactly her type. No man that she’d met in years had made her chest tighten and her stomach do back-flips.

She wanted to kiss little Pookie for bringing him to her office. And she could hardly wait to see Sam in a bathing suit. He was sexy enough with all his clothes on. Bare-chested, she’d bet he was a serious stud-muffin.

She giggled as she hung up her smock. Where were all these thoughts and feelings coming from? It was as if all her pent-up desires were rattling their cages and clamoring to get out. She’d have to watch herself or she’d scare the poor man to death.

Holy smoke.