The Mistletoe Kisser: Blue Moon #8

by Score, Lucy

  “My hero,” Jonica said, shimmying out from under the table. Her antlers were around her neck.

  “Just another day in veterinary medicine,” Sammy quipped.

  “Dr. Ames?” Another tech poked her head in the door. “We’ve got something for you to see in exam room two.”

  So much for closing on time. Sammy mentally pushed back her dreams of a shower by half an hour.

  “What have we got?” she asked, dumping the remains of her lunch in the trash on the way to the door.

  “It’s kind of better if you don’t know in advance.”

  There was a crowd in front of the open door to room two. Delighted snickers carried over the yowl of overnight kitty guests and the incessant yapping of Mrs. Chu’s four-pound barking machine.

  “What have we got?” Sammy asked, making a beeline for the hand-washing sink in the hallway and praying it wasn’t a serious emergency.

  “Don’t tell her,” tittered the receptionist who bore a jolly resemblance to Mrs. Claus in tie-dye.

  Whatever was in the room, she’d probably already experienced at some point since veterinary school.

  4

  She was officially wrong. Inside exam room two, Sammy found one very handsome—married—man, a full-grown goat glaring at him, and three baby goats in holiday pajamas.

  “Oh,” she drawled out.

  The office staff exploded in laughter, and she promptly closed the door in their faces.

  Two of the babies ran around the exam table and took turns leaping onto and off the stainless-steel surface of the exam table. The third, in pink Hanukkah pajamas, was cuddled in the man’s lap.

  “Sammy! Thank God!” Jackson Pierce said, rising. The mama goat butted him in the ass with her head.

  “What the hell, Jax?” Sammy laughed, grabbing a box of gloves out of Baby Goat #1’s mouth.

  “It’s Thor,” he said, gingerly placing the goat on the table. “I think she might have broken her leg. She’s limping.” He sounded like he was near tears. At least until the bigger goat gave him another headbutt. “Knock it off, Clem.”

  Clementine, mama goat and Jax’s sworn nemesis, changed tactics and nibbled at the pocket of his jeans.

  Sammy swallowed the laughter that bubbled up and started her physical exam of the pajamaed baby goat. “Clem, if you behave yourself and get your kids out of the sink, you can have treats,” she told the other goat. She’d been Clementine’s vet since taking over the practice from her mother. Now that she thought about it, her mother reminded Sammy a lot of the yellow-eyed cantankerous goat.

  With the promise of treats hanging in the balance, Clementine coaxed her able-bodied babies out of the sink and into a corner.

  “I hate you,” Jax told the goat.

  Clementine grinned evilly at him.

  Man and goat had maintained a contentious relationship since she’d appeared on the family farm years ago. Clementine was friendly to everyone except Jax. However, they’d formed a tentative truce when the goat—that the entire family assumed was just getting fat—broke into Jax and Joey’s house and had three babies on his side of the bed. The babies ignored their mother’s hatred of the man and followed him everywhere.

  “Is it broken?” Jax worried. “Is it caprine arthritic encephalitis? Are her feet rotting?”

  “Get a hold of yourself and stop Googling shit, Jax,” Sammy said, gently lifting the goat onto her feet to stand on the table. “Can you walk for me, Lady Thor?”

  The little goat’s tail flicked happily as she limp-skipped toward Jax at the end of the table.

  “See? It’s broken, isn’t it?”

  The poor guy looked like he was going to be sick. Thor nuzzled him and playfully bit at the string on his hoodie.

  “It’s going to be fine, goat dad.” Sammy gently felt down the goat’s front leg to confirm the diagnosis. “It’s just a kid sprain. She should be all healed in three or four days. It happens a lot with baby goats. Their bones are still soft.”

  Clementine grabbed Jax’s sleeve and pulled hard enough to rip the fabric.

  “Relax, you abominable douche. Your kid is going to be fine. You’re sure, right?” He gave Sammy a side eye.

  The man was unfairly good-looking and a hugely successful screenwriter. His gorgeous wife, Joey, was a partner in the stables and breeding program at Pierce Acres. Sammy bet they had crazy sex under the Christmas tree when their kids went to bed.

  “Right. Listen, I’ll put some tape on Thor’s leg here to help keep it stabilized.” Sammy told him. It wasn’t totally necessary, but it would make Goat Dad Jax feel better. “How are the kids? The human ones,” she added, turning to dig out the vet tape from the drawer.

  Jax puffed up with pride as he stroked a hand down Thor’s back. “Reva got into Centenary’s equestrian program.”

  “Following in Joey’s riding boots,” she mused, carefully wrapping the fluffy little leg in hot pink tape.

  “We’re both secretly hoping she’ll come back and help run the stables when she graduates, but Jojo doesn’t want to ‘pressure her’ into anything.” He made a single air quote with the hand that wasn’t holding the baby goat still. “Caleb’s kicking ass in school. Except for math.”

  “Joey said he’s been following Carter around like a puppy on the farm,” Sammy said, finishing off the wrap job and giving the goat a pat on the head.

  “Another generation of farmer,” he said proudly.

  Pierce Acres was a family farm that raised crops, rescued livestock, and now bred some of the finest horses in the state. The land had also sprouted three very handsome men. Each married now, continuing the circle their parents had started by growing families of their own.

  “All set here,” she said, placing Thor on the floor, then raiding the pet treat jar. “A couple of days, and she should be fine. If she’s still limping after Christmas, give me a call, and I’ll come check her out.”

  He threw his arms around her. “You’re the best, Sammy.”

  “I know,” she said, giving him a squeeze. The Pierce brothers were excellent huggers.

  “You smell like cat piss and wet dog,” he whispered.

  She sighed. “I know.”

  With treats and treatment dispensed, Sammy walked him out to the—thankfully—empty waiting room.

  “You didn’t bring this circus in your car, did you?” she asked. Jax drove a sexy vintage Chevy Nova that he treated almost as nicely as his wife and their adopted kids.

  He gave her that mischievous grin that had been melting hearts for a few decades now. “I stole Jojo’s SUV. If I can get it back in the next twenty minutes, she’ll never know.”

  Sammy found Jax’s delusion adorable. In her experience, a woman always knew when someone stole her vehicle and used it to transport farm animals.

  Clementine jogged over to the scale and jumped up on it. She put her front hooves on the wall and stretched to reach the anything-but-tasteful nude Beautification Committee calendar. The goat took a bite out of December while the two babies not cradled in Jax’s arm jumped onto the first vinyl chair and romped onto the next, the whole way around the room.

  The receptionist was laughing so hard that tears slid down her cheeks as she swiped Jax’s credit card.

  “Need help herding them out?” Sammy offered, checking her watch. It was five past closing, and that shower was calling her name.

  She’d help shove these goats in a car, lock the front door, and be elbow-deep in craft wire and pine boughs in no time.

  Jax was just scrawling his signature on the credit card slip when the front door burst open.

  “What the—” Sammy’s brain couldn’t quite keep up with she was seeing.

  A sheep wearing what looked like a makeshift halter of a leather belt and mismatched tie-down straps careened into the waiting room, dragging a body behind it.

  The humans in the room froze.

  The goats gleefully raced to investigate the intruder. As the baby goat in the Happy Kwanzaa on
esie nimbly hopped up onto the sheep’s back, the body behind the sheep raised its head and then began a slow scramble to its feet.

  His feet.

  His big feet.

  Big feet clad in fancy loafers caked with mud. Stylish, low-slung jeans were wet at the knees and smeared with more mud. The man’s sweater had—until recently—been a blinding white. Now it was damp and dirty. Sammy could see the point of one manly nipple through the wet fabric.

  Then there was his freaking face. Holy guacamole, that face.

  Eyes: Cloudy winter gray and troubled. Jaw: Chiseled with a dusting of new stubble. Mouth: Sternly frowning. Hair: Medium brown. Neatly and expensively cut. Currently accessorized with a few leaves and at least half a cup of dirt.

  There was something deliciously grumpy and broody about him.

  The sheep bleated and trotted up to her, raining baby goats onto the linoleum floor. It stopped at her feet and looked up expectantly.

  “Is there a sheep and a hot, dirty guy in front of me, or am I hallucinating?” Sammy whispered.

  “Girl, we’re both hallucinating,” Jonica sighed, appearing next to her, her brown eyes glued to the man glaring at the sheep. “Dirty hot is so my type.”

  “You are aware that I can hear you, aren’t you?” Dirty Hot Stranger said snidely with a gravelly voice.

  “Whoops. Sorry,” she said, recovering.

  “Are you the vet?” he demanded, eyeing her skeptically.

  “I am. How can I help you?”

  “Here.” He shoved the end of the leash at her and turned for the door.

  5

  How could she help him? Ha.

  The veterinarian in ridiculous, stained Christmas scrubs with her blonde hair exploding out of a crooked ponytail didn’t look like she could help herself, much less him.

  Besides, he was beyond help. And that was before he may or may not have accidentally hit the sheep with his teeny-tiny stupid car.

  “Hold it,” she said as he headed for the door.

  Despite her disheveled appearance, the vet’s voice was steely enough that it stopped him in his tracks.

  “You can’t just abandon your sheep,” she warned him.

  “It’s not my sheep,” Ryan argued. “This woolly mammoth belongs to some irresponsible hippie. He ran out in front of my car. I don’t know if I hit him or if he’s hurt. Or if he’s a he,” he supplied, refusing to resume control of the makeshift leash he’d made with his own belt and supplies he found in his stupid car’s tiny hatch. “He answers to Stan.”

  After “Hey, sheep” and “Stupid, jackass livestock” hadn’t elicited a response from the animal, Ryan had to get creative.

  It had been easier than he’d thought to stuff the sheep into the passenger seat. Stan had hopped right in. Catching him had been another story. Ryan’s shoes were ruined. His jeans were wet from the snow he’d fallen in five or six times. And his hands were so numb he had serious concerns about losing digits.

  Now he appeared to be in a stare down with the bigger, non-pajamaed goat. Ears flicking, it stalked toward him. Ryan took two steps back. Great. He was going to die by goat. It was a fitting end to a disastrous week.

  “Back off, demon,” he said.

  “She’s mostly friendly,” the man cradling a baby version of the yellow-eyed monster assured him. “She only hates me.”

  As if to prove his point, the goat changed directions and head-butted the guy in the thigh.

  “You mother-effer,” the guy hissed through his teeth.

  Ryan wondered if he was cleaning up his language for the sake of the baby goats. This town was insane.

  “Knock it off, Clementine,” the vet said sternly. The goat actually looked contrite.

  Kneeling face-to-face with the sheep, the doctor stroked competent hands over Stan’s thick wool. The sheep’s tail fluttered like he—or she—was enjoying the attention. Ryan hoped it was a sign of sheep happiness and not an impending sheep shit.

  “He ran out in front of me. I slammed on the brakes. I couldn’t tell if I hit him or a pothole. It took me half an hour to catch him and load him up,” he explained, still not quite believing this is what his life had come to.

  “Where did you find him?” Goat Guy asked.

  “On a farm,” he said, shoving his hand through his hair and finding more mud there.

  “Whose farm?” the vet asked without looking up from her examination of the sheep’s legs.

  “My great-uncle’s. Carson Shufflebottom. I think everyone here knows him as—”

  “Old Man Carson,” Goat Guy filled in.

  “Yeah.”

  At the mention of his uncle’s name, the vet gave him a weird look.

  “Carson doesn’t have any sheep,” the vet said, blowing a hunk of honey blonde hair out of her eyes. “Just chickens.”

  Freaking small towns. Where everyone knew who had what livestock.

  She stood, still avoiding his gaze and coaxed the sheep to walk with her around the waiting room. The beast pranced like a show pony next to her. He caught a glimpse of a bright, shiny smile as the vet beamed down at Stan.

  She had one hell of a smile. The kind that if it was aimed in his direction had the potential to knock him back a step. People who smiled a lot made him suspicious. No one should be that happy all the time.

  “You’re not Ryan, are you?” she asked, snapping him out of his suspicion.

  He debated lying. God only knew what unstable Uncle Carson had told his hometown about him. Then decided it didn’t matter what a reasonably attractive veterinarian in a town he’d never visit again thought of him.

  “I am,” he admitted.

  “Listen, Sammy. I gotta get the kids and Jojo’s car back,” Goat Guy announced, hooking his thumb toward the door.

  “Better hurry, Jax, or Joey will make sure you never finish that screenplay,” the vet—Sammy apparently—said. “Call me if Thor’s limp doesn’t get better.”

  Jax—what kind of a name was that anyway—leaned in and gave the vet a kiss on the cheek. Ryan moved the too-charming man onto his Things to Dislike About Blue Moon list right between “the weather” and “free range farm animals”.

  “You’re my hero, Doc,” Jax said with a wink and grin that in Ryan’s opinion weren’t at all charming. “Good luck with your sheep,” Jax said to Ryan.

  “He’s not my sheep,” Ryan said. But his argument was lost in the chaos of the other man rounding up his four-legged army of weird and heading out the door.

  A pretty, reindeer-antlered tech held the door for him and stood there grinning after him.

  “Are you going to help him, Jonica?” Sammy asked the tech.

  “I’m gonna watch and laugh for a minute before I offer any assistance,” she called over her shoulder before ducking out the door.

  Sammy laughed and shoved a wayward curl out of her face. It flopped defiantly back into place.

  “Good news,” she said, crossing the gray linoleum tile and holding out the leash. “Your sheep is fine. No cuts or swelling. No limping. I don’t think you hit him.”

  Ryan blew out a breath. At least he hadn’t run over a sheep. That was the one and only tick mark in the Reasons Life Doesn’t Suck column.

  “Good. But he’s still not my sheep,” he repeated.

  Now the damn thing was staring at him. So was the vet. She jiggled the end of the belt leash at him.

  “Can’t you keep him? Find his family?” Ryan asked, staring dumbly at the leash. If he reached for it, if he touched it, the sheep was his responsibility. He was familiar with the rules of No Takesies Backsies.

  Besides, he had a small-town bank to destroy and a plane ticket to book.

  “We don’t have the facilities to house livestock here and we can’t just let him roam free,” she insisted.

  “Look. I just got into town an hour ago for a family emergency—”

  “Is Carson okay? I talked to him this morning, and he didn’t mention an emergency,” she asked, looking wo
rried.

  Her eyes reminded him of a field of lavender. Fresh and bright. Maybe he was coming down with something? He didn’t have romantic notions about attractive strangers and lavender fields. He slapped a hand to his forehead, but everything felt hot compared to his frozen palm.

  “He’s fine,” Ryan said, shoving his frozen hands back into his pockets. She couldn’t make him take the sheep. “He had to fly to Boca to help his second cousin after her surgery.”

  “He’s eighty-five-ish years old,” she said with the faintest smile on unpainted lips.

  “Apparently the cousin is ninety-nine.”

  “That’s some longevity you’ve got in your family.” She took a step toward him, still holding the makeshift leash.

  He took a step back like she was asking him to hold her pet snake. The backs of his legs caught the edge of the waiting room bench, and he half-fell, half-sat.

  She reached out and took his hand, and for a split second, Ryan felt something besides the cold, besides the frustration and despair that had lodged in his very soul for a week. It was a warm shock to the system. For a second, he craved more with an intensity that made him rather nervous.

  But that shot of heat dissipated when she firmly placed the end of the belt in his hand and closed his fingers around it.

  “No,” he insisted, tossing the leash back at her.

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “I have no sheep experience, and I’m in the middle of several personal crises. So you can take this sheep and do your damn job.”

  “Are you staying on Carson’s farm?” Sammy asked, ignoring his very logical argument.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Put him in the barn tonight and then let him into the south pasture in the morning. The fence is in good shape, and there’s tall fescue in there for grazing.”

  “You’re a veterinarian. You can’t turn your back on a sheep in need. I almost ran him over. I have no idea what fescue is. Stan is in mortal danger in my care.”

  She laughed. “I have faith in you, Ryan.”

  “Great. A stranger in wet Santa scrubs who smells like animal urine has faith in me. That means the world,” he ranted. He was tired. Hungry. Grumpier than usual. And had concerns that he was careening into a full-blown nervous breakdown.