Читать книгу A Stone Creek Christmas - Linda Miller Lael - Страница 6

Sometimes, especially in the dark of night, when pure exhaustion sank Olivia O’Ballivan, DVM, into deep and stuporous sleep, she heard them calling—the finned, the feathered, the four-legged.

Horses, wild or tame, dogs beloved and dogs lost, far from home, cats abandoned alongside country roads because they’d become a problem for someone, or left behind when an elderly owner died.

The neglected, the abused, the unwanted, the lonely.

Invariably, the message was the same: Help me.

Even when Olivia tried to ignore the pleas, telling herself she was only dreaming, she invariably sprang to full wakefulness as though she’d been catapulted from the bottom of a canyon. It didn’t matter how many eighteen-hour days she’d worked, between making stops at farms and ranches all over the county, putting in her time at the veterinary clinic in Stone Creek, overseeing the plans for the new, state-of-the-art shelter her famous big brother, Brad, a country musician, was building with the proceeds from a movie he’d starred in.

Tonight it was a reindeer.

Olivia sat blinking in her tousled bed, trying to catch her breath. Shoved both hands through her short dark hair. Her current foster dog, Ginger, woke up, too, stretching, yawning.

A reindeer?

“O’Ballivan,” she told herself, flinging off the covers to sit up on the edge of the mattress, “you’ve really gone around the bend this time.”

But the silent cry persisted, plaintive and confused.

Olivia only sometimes heard actual words when the animals spoke, though Ginger was articulate—generally, it was more of an unformed concept made up of strong emotion and often images, somehow coalescing into an intuitive imperative. But she could see the reindeer clearly in her mind’s eye, standing on a frozen roadway, bewildered.

She recognized the adjoining driveway as her own. A long way down, next to the tilted mailbox on the main road. The poor creature wasn’t hurt—just lost. Hungry and thirsty, too—and terribly afraid. Easy prey for hungry wolves and coyotes.

“There are no reindeer in Arizona,” Olivia told Ginger, who looked skeptical as she hauled her arthritic yellow Lab/golden retriever self up off her comfy bed in the corner of Olivia’s cluttered bedroom. “Absolutely, positively, no doubt about it, there are no reindeer in Arizona.”

“Whatever,” Ginger replied with another yawn, already heading for the door as Olivia pulled sweatpants on over her boxer pajama bottoms. She tugged a hoodie, left over from one of her brother’s preretirement concert tours, over her head and jammed her feet into the totally unglamorous work boots she wore to wade through pastures and barns.

Olivia lived in a small rental house in the country, though once the shelter was finished, she’d be moving into a spacious apartment upstairs, living in town. She drove an old gray Suburban that had belonged to her late grandfather, called Big John by everyone who knew him, and did not aspire to anything fancier. She had not exactly been feathering her nest since she’d graduated from veterinary school.

Her twin sisters, Ashley and Melissa, were constantly after her to ‘get her act together,’ find herself a man, have a family. Both of them were single, with no glimmer of honeymoon cottages and white picket fences on the horizon, so in Olivia’s opinion, they didn’t have a lot of room to talk. It was just that she was a few years older than they were, that was all.

Anyway, it wasn’t as if she didn’t want those things—she did—but between her practice and the “Dr. Dolittle routine,” as Brad referred to her admittedly weird animal-communication skills, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to do it all.

Since the rental house was old, the garage was detached. Olivia and Ginger made their way through a deep, powdery field of snow. The Suburban was no spiffy rig—most of the time it was splattered with muddy slush and worse—but it always ran, in any kind of weather. And it would go practically anywhere.

“Try getting to a stranded reindeer in that sporty little red number Melissa drives,” Olivia told Ginger as she shoved up the garage door. “Or that silly hybrid of Ashley’s.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking a spin in the sports car,” Ginger replied, plodding gamely up the special wooden steps Olivia dragged over to the passenger side of the Suburban. Ginger was getting older, after all, and her joints gave her problems, especially since her “accident.” Certain concessions had to be made.

“Fat chance,” Olivia said, pushing back the steps once Ginger was settled in the shotgun seat, then closing the car door. Moments later she was sliding in on the driver’s side, shoving the key into the ignition, cranking up the geriatric engine. “You know how Melissa is about dog hair. You might tear a hole in her fancy leather upholstery with one of those Fu-Manchu toenails of yours.”

“She likes dogs,” Ginger insisted with a magnanimous lift of her head. “It’s just that she thinks she’s allergic.” Ginger always believed the best of everyone in particular and humanity in general, even though she’d been ditched alongside a highway, with two of her legs fractured, after her first owner’s vengeful boyfriend had tossed her out of a moving car. Olivia had come along a few minutes later, homing in on the mystical distress call bouncing between her head and her heart, and rushed Ginger to the clinic, where she’d had multiple surgeries and a long, difficult recovery.

Olivia flipped on the windshield wipers, but she still squinted to see through the huge, swirling flakes. “My sister,” she said, “is a hypochondriac.”

“It’s just that Melissa hasn’t met the right dog yet,” Ginger maintained. “Or the right man.”

“Don’t start about men,” Olivia retorted, peering out, looking for the reindeer.

“He’s out there, you know,” Ginger remarked, panting as she gazed out at the snowy night.

“The reindeer or the man?”

“Both,” Ginger said with a dog smile.

“What am I going to do with a reindeer?”

“You’ll think of something,” Ginger replied. “It’s almost Christmas. Maybe there’s an APB from the North Pole. I’d check Santa’s Web site if I had opposable thumbs.”

“Funny,” Olivia said, not the least bit amused. “If you had opposable thumbs, you’d order things off infomercials just because you like the UPS man so much. We’d be inundated with get-rich-quick real estate courses, herbal weight loss programs and stuff to whiten our teeth.” The ever-present ache between her shoulder blades knotted itself up tighter as she scanned the darkness on either side of the narrow driveway. Christmas. One more thing she didn’t have the time for, let alone the requisite enthusiasm, but Brad and his new wife, Meg, would put up a big tree right after Thanksgiving, hunt her down and shanghai her if she didn’t show up for the family festival at Stone Creek Ranch, especially since Mac had come along six months before, and this was Baby’s First Christmas. And because Carly, Meg’s teenage sister, was spending the semester in Italy, as part of a special program for gifted students, and both Brad and Meg missed her to distraction. Ashley would throw her annual open house at the bed-and-breakfast, and Melissa would probably decide she was allergic to mistletoe and holly and develop convincing symptoms.

Olivia would go, of course. To Brad and Meg’s because she loved them, and adored Mac. To Ashley’s open house because she loved her kid sister, too, and could mostly forgive her for being Martha Stewart incarnate. Damn, she’d even pick up nasal spray and chicken soup for Melissa, though she drew the line at actually cooking.

“There’s Blitzen,” Ginger said, adding a cheerful yip.

Sure enough, the reindeer loomed in the snow-speckled cones of gold from the headlights.

Olivia put on the brakes, shifted the engine into neutral. “You stay here,” she said, pushing open the door.

“Like I’m going outside in this weather,” Ginger said with a sniff.

Slowly Olivia approached the reindeer. The creature was small, definitely a miniature breed, with eyes big and dark and luminous in the light from the truck, and it stood motionless.

“Lost,” it told her, not having Ginger’s extensive vocabulary. If she ever found a loving home for that dog, she’d miss the long conversations, even though they had very different political views.

The deer had antlers, which meant it was male.

“Hey, buddy,” she said. “Where did you come from?”

“Lost,” the reindeer repeated. Either he was dazed or not particularly bright. Like humans, animals were unique beings, some of them Einsteins, most of them ordinary joes.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, to be certain. Her intuition was rarely wrong where such things were concerned, but there was always the off chance.

Nothing.

She approached, slowly and carefully. Ran skillful hands over pertinent parts of the animal. No blood, no obvious breaks, though sprains and hairline fractures were a possibility. No identifying tags or notched ears.

The reindeer stood still for the examination, which might have meant he was tame, though Olivia couldn’t be certain of that. Nearly every animal she encountered, wild or otherwise, allowed her within touching distance. Once, with help from Brad and Jesse McKettrick, she’d treated a wounded stallion who’d never been shod, fitted with a halter, or ridden.

“You’re gonna be okay now,” she told the little deer. It did look as though it ought to be hitched to Santa’s sleigh. There was a silvery cast to its coat, its antlers were delicately etched and it was petite—barely bigger than Ginger.

She cocked a thumb toward the truck. “Can you follow me to my place, or shall I put you in the back?” she asked.

The reindeer ducked its head. Shy, then. And weary.

“But you’ve already traveled a long way, haven’t you?” Olivia went on.

She opened the back of the Suburban, pulled out the sturdy ramp she always carried for Ginger and other four-legged passengers no longer nimble enough to make the jump.

The deer hesitated, probably catching Ginger’s scent.

“Not to worry,” Olivia said. “Ginger’s a lamb. Hop aboard there, Blitzen.”

“His name is Rodney,” Ginger announced. She’d turned, forefeet on the console, to watch them over the backseat.

“On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer or—Rodney,” Olivia said, gesturing, but giving the animal plenty of room.

Rodney raised his head at the sound of his name, seemed to perk up a little. Then he pranced right up the ramp, into the back of the Suburban, and lay down on a bed of old feed sacks with a heavy reindeer snort.

Olivia closed the back doors of the rig as quietly as she could, so Rodney wouldn’t be startled.

“How did you know his name?” Olivia asked once she was back in the driver’s seat. “All I’m getting from him is ‘Lost.’”

“He told me,” Ginger said. “He’s not ready to go into a lot of detail about his past. There’s a touch of amnesia, too. Brought on by the emotional trauma of losing his way.”

“Have you been watching soap operas again, while I’m away working? Dr. Phil? Oprah?”

“Only when you forget and leave the TV on when you go out. I don’t have opposable thumbs, remember?”

Olivia shoved the recalcitrant transmission into reverse, backed into a natural turnaround and headed back up the driveway toward the house. She supposed she should have taken Rodney to the clinic for X-rays, or over to the homeplace, where there was a barn, but it was the middle of the night, after all.

If she went to the clinic, all the boarders would wake up, barking and meowing fit to wake the whole town. If she went to Stone Creek Ranch, she’d probably wake the baby, and both Brad and Meg were sleep deprived as it was.

So Rodney would have to spend what remained of the night on the enclosed porch. She’d make him a bed with some of the old blankets she kept on hand, give him water, see if he wouldn’t nosh on a few of Ginger’s kibbles. In the morning she’d attend to him properly. Take him to town for those X-rays and a few blood tests, haul him to Brad’s if he was well enough to travel, fix him up with a stall of his own. Get him some deer chow from the feed and grain.

Rodney drank a whole bowl of water once Olivia had coaxed him up the steps and through the outer door onto the enclosed porch. He kept a watchful eye on Ginger, though she didn’t growl or make any sudden moves, the way some dogs would have done.

Instead, Ginger gazed up at Olivia, her soulful eyes glowing with practical compassion. “I’d better sleep out here with Rodney,” she said. “He’s still pretty scared. The washing machine has him a little spooked.”

This was a great concession on Ginger’s part, for she loved her wide, fluffy bed. Ashley had made it for her, out of the softest fleece she could find, and even monogrammed the thing. Olivia smiled at the image of her blond, curvaceous sister seated at her beloved sewing machine, whirring away.

“You’re a good dog,” she said, her eyes burning a little as she bent to pat Ginger’s head.

Ginger sighed. Another day, another noble sacrifice, the sound seemed to say.

Olivia went into her bedroom and got Ginger’s bed. Put it on the floor for her. Carried the water bowl back to the kitchen for a refill.

When she returned to the porch the second time, Rodney was lying on the cherished dog bed, and Ginger was on the pile of old blankets.

“Ginger, your bed—?”

Ginger yawned yet again, rested her muzzle on her forelegs and rolled her eyes upward. “Everybody needs a soft place to land,” she said sleepily. “Even reindeer.”

The pony was not a happy camper.

Tanner Quinn leaned against the stall door. He’d just bought Starcross Ranch, and Butterpie, his daughter’s pet, had arrived that day, trucked in by a horse-delivery outfit hired by his sister, Tessa, along with his own palomino gelding, Shiloh.

Shiloh was settling in just fine. Butterpie was having a harder time of it.

Tanner sighed, shifted his hat to the back of his head. He probably should have left Shiloh and Butterpie at his sister’s place in Kentucky, where they’d had all that fabled bluegrass to run in and munch on, since the ranch wasn’t going to be his permanent home, or theirs. He’d picked it up as an investment, at a fire-sale price, and would live there while he oversaw the new construction project in Stone Creek—a year at the outside.

It was the latest in a long line of houses that never had time to become homes. He came to each new place, bought a house or a condo, built something big and sleek and expensive, then moved on, leaving the property he’d temporarily occupied in the hands of some eager real estate agent.

The new project, an animal shelter, was not his usual thing—he normally designed and erected office buildings, multimillion-dollar housing compounds for movie stars and moguls, and the occasional government-sponsored school, bridge or hospital, somewhere on foreign soil—usually hostile. Before his wife, Katherine, died five years ago, she’d traveled with him, bringing Sophie along.

But then—

Tanner shook off the memory. Thinking about the way Katherine had been killed required serious bourbon, and he’d been off the sauce for a long time. He’d never developed a drinking problem, but the warning signs had been there, and he’d decided to save Sophie—and himself—the extra grief. He’d put the cork back in the bottle and left it there for good.

It should have been him, not Kat. That was as far as he could go, sober.

He shifted his attention back to the little cream-colored pony standing forlornly in its fancy new stall. He was no vet, but he didn’t have to be to diagnose the problem. The horse missed Sophie, now ensconced in a special high-security boarding school in Connecticut.

He missed her, too. More than the horse did, for sure. But she was safe in that high-walled and distant place—safe from the factions who’d issued periodic death threats over things he’d built. The school was like a fortress—he’d designed it himself, and his best friend, Jack McCall, a Special Forces veteran and big-time security consultant, had installed the systems. They were top-of-the-line, best available. The children and grandchildren of presidents, congressmen, Oscar winners and software inventors attended that school—it had to be kidnap-proof, and it was.

Sophie had begged him not to leave her there.

Even as Tanner reflected on that, his cell phone rang. Sophie had chosen the ring tone before their most recent parting—the theme song from How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

He, of course, was the Grinch.

“Tanner Quinn,” he said, even though he knew this wasn’t a business call. The habit was ingrained.

“I hate this place!” Sophie blurted without preamble. “It’s like a prison!”

“Soph,” Tanner began, on another sigh. “Your roommate sings lead for your favorite rock band of all time. How bad can it be?”

“I want to come home!”

If only we had one, Tanner thought. The barely palatable reality was that he and Sophie had lived like Gypsies—if not actual fugitives—since Kat’s death.

“Honey, you know I won’t be here long. You’d make friends, get settled in and then it would be time to move on again.”

“I want you,” Sophie all but wailed. Tanner’s heart caught on a beat. “I want Butterpie. I want to be a regular kid!”

Sophie would never be a “regular kid.” She was only twelve and already taking college-level courses—another advantage of attending an elite school. The classes were small, the computers were powerful enough to guide satellites and the visiting lecturers were world-renowned scientists, historians, linguistics experts and mathematical superstars.

“Honey—”

“Why can’t I live in Stoner Creek, with you and Butterpie?”

A smile tugged at one corner of Tanner’s mouth. “Stone Creek,” he said. “If there are any stoners around here, I haven’t made their acquaintance yet.”

Not that he’d really made anybody’s acquaintance. He hadn’t been in town more than a few days. He knew the real estate agent who’d sold him Starcross, and Brad O’Ballivan, because he’d built a palace for him once, outside Nashville, which was how he’d gotten talked into the animal-shelter contract.

Brad O’Ballivan. He’d thought the hotshot country-and-western music star would never settle down. Now he was over-the-top in love with his bride, Meg, and wanted all his friends married off, too. He probably figured if he could fall that hard for a woman out here in Noplace, U.S.A., Tanner might, too.

“Dad, please,” Sophie said, sniffling now. Somehow his daughter’s brave attempt to suck it up got to Tanner even more than the crying had. “Get me out of here. If I can’t come to Stone Creek, maybe I could stay with Aunt Tessa again, like I did last summer…”

Tanner took off his hat, moved along the breezeway to the barn doorway, shut off the lights. “You know your aunt is going through a rough time right now,” he said quietly. A rough time? Tessa and her no-account husband, Paul Barker, were getting a divorce. Among other things, Barker had gotten another woman pregnant—a real blow to Tess, who’d wanted a child ever since she’d hit puberty—and now she was fighting to hold on to her home. She’d bought that horse farm with her own money, having been a successful TV actress in her teens, and poured everything she had into it—including the contents of her investment portfolio. Against Tanner’s advice, she hadn’t insisted on a prenup.

We’re in love, she’d told him, starry-eyed with happiness.

Paul Barker hadn’t had the proverbial pot to piss in, of course. And within a month of the wedding he’d been a signer on every account Tess had. As the marriage deteriorated, so did Tess’s wealth.

Cold rage jangled along Tanner’s nerves, followed the fault line in his soul. At Kat’s suggestion, he’d set up a special trust fund for Tess, way back, and it was a damn good thing he had. To this day, she didn’t know the money existed—he and Kat hadn’t wanted Barker to tap in to it—and when she did find out, her fierce Quinn pride would probably force her to refuse it.

At least if she lost the horse farm to Barker and his dream team of lawyers—more like nightmare team—she’d have the means to start over. The question was, would she have the heart to make a new beginning?

“Dad?” Sophie asked. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Tanner said, looking around at the nightshrouded landscape surrounding him. There must have been a foot of snow on the ground already, with more coming down. Hell, November wasn’t even over yet.

“Couldn’t I at least come home for Christmas?”

“Soph, we don’t have a home, remember?”

She was sniffling again. “Sure we do,” she said very softly. “Home is where you and Butterpie are.”

Tanner’s eyes stung all of a sudden. He told himself it was the bitterly cold weather. When he’d finally agreed to take the job, he’d thought, Arizona. Cacti. Sweeping desert vistas. Eighty-degree winters.

But Stone Creek was in northern Arizona, near Flagstaff, a place of timber and red rock—and the occasional blizzard.

It wasn’t like him to overlook that kind of geographical detail, but he had. He’d signed on the dotted line because the money was good and because Brad was a good friend.

“How about if I come back there? We’ll spend Christmas in New York—skate at Rockefeller Center, see the Rockettes—”

Sophie loved New York. She planned to attend college there, and then medical school, and eventually set up a practice as a neurosurgeon. No small-time goals for his kid, but then, the doctor gene had come from Kat, not him. Kat. As beautiful as a model and as smart as they come, she’d been a surgeon, specializing in pediatric cardiology. She’d given all that up, swearing it was only temporary, to have Sophie. To travel the world with her footloose husband…

“But then I wouldn’t get to see Butterpie,” Sophie protested. A raw giggle escaped her. “I don’t think they’d let her stay at the Waldorf with us, even if we paid a pet deposit.”

Tanner pictured the pony nibbling on the ubiquitous mongo flower arrangement in the hotel’s sedate lobby, with its Cole Porter piano, dropping a few road apples on the venerable old carpets. And he grinned. “Probably not.”

“Don’t you want me with you, Dad?” Sophie spoke in a small voice. “Is that it? My friend Cleta says her mom won’t let her come home for Christmas because she’s got a new boyfriend and she doesn’t want a kid throwing a wet blanket on the action.”

Cleta. Who named a poor, defenseless kid Cleta?

And what kind of person put “action” before their own child, especially at Christmas?

Tanner closed his eyes, walking toward the dark house he didn’t know his way around in yet, since he’d spent the first couple of nights at Brad’s, waiting for the power to be turned on and the phones hooked up. Guilt stabbed through his middle. “I love you more than anything or anybody else in the world,” he said gruffly, and he meant it. Practically everything he did was geared to provide for Sophie, to protect her from the nameless, faceless forces who hated him. “Trust me, there’s no action going on around here.”

“I’m going to run away, then,” she said resolutely.

“Good luck,” Tanner replied after sucking in a deep breath. “That school is hermetically sealed, kiddo. You know that as well as I do.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

Losing you. The kid had no way of knowing how big, and how dangerous, the world was. She’d been just seven years old when Kat was killed, and barely remembered the long flight home from northern Africa, private bodyguards occupying the seats around them, the sealed coffin, the media blitz.

“U.S. Contractor Targeted by Insurgent Group,” one headline had read. “Wife of American Businessman Killed in Possible Revenge Shooting.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Tanner lied.

“It’s because of what happened to Mom,” Sophie insisted. “That’s what Aunt Tessa says.”

“Aunt Tessa ought to mind her own business.”

“If you don’t come and get me, I’m breaking out of here. And there’s no telling where I’ll go.”

Tanner had reached the old-fashioned wraparound porch. The place had a certain charm, though it needed a lot of fixing up. He could picture Sophie there all too easily, running back and forth to the barn, riding a yellow bus to school, wearing jeans instead of uniforms. Tacking up posters on her bedroom walls and holding sleepovers with ordinary friends instead of junior celebrities and other mini-jet-setters.

“Don’t try it, Soph,” he said, fumbling with the knob, shouldering open the heavy front door. “You’re fine at Briarwood, and it’s a long way between Connecticut and Arizona.”

“Fine?” Sophie shot back. “This place isn’t in a parallel dimension, you know. Things happen. Marissa Worth got ptomaine from the potato salad in the cafeteria, just last week, and had to be airlifted to Walter Reed. Allison Mooreland’s appendix ruptured, and—”

“Soph,” Tanner said, flipping on the lights in the entryway.

Which way was the kitchen?

His room was upstairs someplace, but where?

He hung up his hat, shrugged off his leather coat, tossed it in the direction of an ornate brass peg designed for the purpose.

Sophie didn’t say a word. All the way across country, Tanner could feel her holding her breath.

“How’s this? School lets out in May. You can come out here then. Spend the summer. Ride Butterpie all you want.”

“I might be too big to ride her by summer,” Sophie pointed out. Tanner wondered, as he often did, if his daughter wouldn’t make a better lawyer than a doctor. “Thanksgiving is in three days,” she went on in a rush. “Let me come home for that, and if you still don’t think I’m a good kid to have around, I’ll come back to Briarwood for the rest of the year and pretend I love it.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good kid, Soph.” In the living room by then, Tanner paused to consult a yellowed wall calendar left behind by the ranch’s previous owner. Unfortunately, it was several years out of date.

Sophie didn’t answer.

“Thanksgiving is in three days?” Tanner muttered, dismayed. Living the way he did, he tended to lose track of holidays, but it figured that if Christmas was already a factor, turkey day had to be bearing down hard.

“I could still get a ticket if I flew standby,” Sophie said hopefully.

Tanner closed his eyes. Let his forehead rest against the wall where a million little tack holes testified to all the calendars that had gone before this one. “That’s a long way to travel for a turkey special in some greasy spoon,” he said quietly. He knew the kid was probably picturing a Norman Rockwell scenario—old woman proudly presenting a golden-brown gobbler to a beaming family crowded around a table.

“Someone will invite you to Thanksgiving dinner,” Sophie said, with a tone of bright, brittle bravery in her voice, “and I could just tag along.”

He checked his watch, started for the kitchen. If it wasn’t where he thought it was, he’d have to search until he found it, because he needed coffee. Hold the Jack Daniel’s.

“You’ve been watching the Hallmark Channel again,” he said wearily, his heart trying to scramble up his windpipe into the back of his throat. There were so many things he couldn’t give Sophie—a stable home, a family, an ordinary childhood. But he could keep her safe, and that meant staying at Briarwood.

A long, painful pause ensued.

“You’re not going to give in, are you?” Sophie asked finally, practically in a whisper.

“Are you just figuring that out, shortstop?” Tanner retorted, trying for a light tone.

She huffed out a weight-of-the-world sigh. “Okay, then,” she replied, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”