* * *
A huge oak tree provided shade and adequate concealment so speeders who blew past that first speed limit sign coming into town never saw Jamie until she flipped on her lights and pulled out in pursuit. Normally, she’d put out her wireless radar and give a break to the drivers who were in the process of decelerating, but she only planned to eat and count the cows in the pasture across the two-lane highway today.
Counting was what her military therapist taught her during rehab to cope with PTSD. Even after her physical wounds healed, part of her refused to leave the desert. Refused to accept that Sonar, her bomb-detection dog, and most of her patrol were dead. That part kept dragging her back to relive, and maybe try to change, what had happened. Nightmares at first, then daytime flashbacks too. The absence of Sonar, who’d been at her side for five years, was like a missing limb.
The Army refused to assign her a new dog until she was cleared for duty, but their doctors drugged her until she was little more than a zombie. Then a new doctor rotated in at Fort Bragg. He weaned her off the drugs so she could function again. Their counseling sessions were often long walks in quiet areas of the sprawling base with his golden retriever keeping pace between them. He taught her to count so she could cope without mind-numbing drugs. But in the end, he’d been honest. He couldn’t recommend that she ever return to her old job detecting and disarming bombs. Instead, he strongly suggested she accept a medical discharge and use her dog training knowledge to build a career in the civilian world.
He knew some guys in the private sector that trained security dogs for high profile firms, but Jamie had opted for law enforcement when she realized her discharge contained nothing about her mental frailty, only her physical injuries. She liked the rank and order of the military, and law enforcement was the closest she could come to that. She needed the unchanging rhythm of routine and order. Like counting. Two always came after one, three always after two. No surprises. No exploding bombs. Petunia understood routine, and always huddled close when something still triggered an occasional flashback. She could never let another human see her that vulnerable. If anyone knew, they could revoke her gun license. How could she be a cop without a gun?
Before she dug into her lunch, she peeled back the lid from a small container of Petunia’s special diet food and placed it on the seat. Petunia sniffed it but turned away and drank from her water in the cup holder instead.
“Come on, P. Aren’t you hungry?”
Petunia looked at her with liquid eyes. Jamie was worried about her. She’d eaten very little in the past few days.
Jamie pushed aside her good sense and offered Petunia a very small piece of her hotdog, but Petunia barely sniffed it. Maybe Jaime should make an appointment. She didn’t have to see Trip. Grace had mentioned there was a new vet who mostly kept the clinic hours while Trip made farm calls. An exam could indicate whether Jamie should seek out another specialist—maybe at the University of Georgia Veterinary School.
Chapter Six
“Dani, you here?” Trip felt bad that she’d pretty much just hung a clinic name tag on Dani and pushed her into the thick of things without much orientation. But this was a demanding time of the year for Trip. She’d artificially inseminated show mares across four counties after delivering their foals in the spring, and their owners wanted exams now to confirm whether they were pregnant or needed to be bred again. It wasn’t that she didn’t have confidence in Dani’s abilities. She’d come highly recommended. But it wasn’t good employee relations to leave her to swim on her own.
“In the back,” Dani said.
Trip opened the door to the laboratory room where they did everything from nail clipping to anesthetizing for simple surgeries. Most animals were better behaved when separated from their owners. They still did hands-on exams and gave shots in the exam room while they chatted with the owners about any health issues. She flared her nostrils at the cloying—not an animal—smell that hit her like a wall. “Should’ve known. I can follow Michelle’s scent through the whole building.” She stepped back, fanning the air with her hands. “Jeez, Michelle, I told you about wearing a ton of that crap to work. We’ll have lawsuits coming out our backsides for injuring the animals’ olfactory senses. Go wash that mess off, right now.”
Michelle huffed and rolled her eyes before strutting toward the restroom.
“Thank you for that,” Dani said. “My eyes were starting to water. I felt bad for the animals.”
“I like to run a relaxed but professional business. I told that girl when I hired her to leave that bait and her flirting at home. How’s that going?”
Dani shrugged, unwilling to jeopardize Michelle’s job because of her own discomfort.
“She obviously didn’t listen to the first part of my warning, so I’m guessing she’s been on the prowl and you just don’t want to say.” Trip patted Dani on the shoulder. “Never figured a northern girl for tact and diplomacy.”
“She’s pretty good with the clients, and I can handle myself around her. But that eau de awful perfume she bathes in has to go.” The dog whose wound Dani had been checking sneezed in agreement before she lifted him off the table and put him back in his kennel.
Trip nodded toward the back door. She was more concerned about how Dani was doing than Michelle. “Let’s take a walk and get some fresh air.” She held the door for Dani, then led them toward the barn where the horses were stabled. “So, how are things going?”
“Fine.”
Trip let the silence hang between them, hoping Dani would say more. But when Dani didn’t, Trip prodded. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
“If I have something to say.”
“And you don’t have anything to say other than fine? I hired you because of your extensive experience, and you came with impeccable references. I’m asking you for an evaluation. The large animal part of the practice is my main interest, but the small animal clinic is a moneymaker. Any changes you’d recommend for efficiency and better care in that area? Any equipment or supplies you feel we need that I don’t already have? Do we have enough staff? I value your professional opinion.”
“Oh…you mean work things.”
Trip stopped halfway to the barn. “Look, Dani, I like you, but I don’t get involved in my employees’ lives, unless they ask for advice. And it’s obvious you’re not asking. So yes, as a vet, any suggestions?”
“It’s a good clinic. You’ve got plenty of exam rooms in the main building and sufficient stalls in the barn. You could even expand if you wanted. Your equipment is top-of-the-line, and you’re located conveniently to facilities in Savannah if you need a specialist. It’s all good.”
Trip smiled, nodded toward the barn, and started walking again. “Thanks. Do you have time to help me with a castration before you head out?”
“Sure.”
* * *
When the anesthesia buckled the knees of the six-month-old colt, Trip pushed him over as Dani shoved a ten-inch-thick pad against his feet from the other side to lay him on it. Their smoothly coordinated maneuver felt like they’d been working together for years. The rest of the surgery was quick and equally synchronized. The youngster slept soundly on his side, with Dani monitoring his vitals while Trip performed the routine operation in the barn’s surgery stall. She’d lost track years ago of how many castrations she’d done over the years, but she never skimped or lost focus. Whether they were headed to the show ring, or just a family pet, she gave each patient her best.
Trip fed the medicine into his vein to wake him, and stepped back to wait for the moment they’d help him to his feet. She was aware of Dani watching her as much as the colt. It’d been the first time Dani had assisted her, and she was impressed with how seamlessly they worked together. Dani was obviously as experienced with large animals as she was with smaller ones. Yep. Dani was a keeper. She just needed to give her a reason to stay.
“So, are you going to come?”
Dani blinked as if Trip had pulle
d her from some deep thoughts. “Sorry?”
“My cookout. Tomorrow. It’s an annual thing. Lesbians from two states will be there, along with some of the gay-friendly community.”
“I’ll probably go to Savannah. You know, for the clubs and women.”
“Grace will be at the cookout.” The comment floated like a pleasant aroma waiting to settle. “Jolene at the diner said you two had a nice chat the other day.”
“We sat beside each other at the counter. It was the only seat in the place.”
Trip raised her hands. “I’m just saying, she’ll be there and she’s good people. You couldn’t do better if you’re looking to make friends around here, and I hope you will. I’m only suggesting friendship because she’s a close friend of mine, and I’m a little protective.”
“Don’t worry. I have no interest in Grace.”
“Your loss, but that’s probably a good decision. I’m sure you see this job as a step in your career, so you wouldn’t be right for her. But come to the cookout. You’ll know at least a few people—me, Grace, and Michelle. There’ll be lots of women, and several of the clinic’s best horse clients I’d like you to meet. Grace and I can introduce you around.”
Dani shook her head. “Thanks for the offer though.”
“My cookouts are a huge annual event. The Savannah crowd will all be here. At least think about it?”
Dani nodded and started toward the clinic. “I better get back to work.”
Chapter Seven
Jamie’s eyes went directly to Trip’s veterinary truck as she cruised Pine Cone’s downtown and the lunchtime traffic. Typical. When they’d been teammates on their college basketball team, she had to stay on her toes because Trip flowed around the court more than she followed plays. It frustrated the coach to hell and back. She flicked on her blue lights to double-park and stopped the patrol car, but just sat and stared at the truck. But, as point guard, she seemed to naturally plug into Trip’s flow, and that’d made them the team stars. They’d been a showy duet of behind the back and no-look passes, net-swishing three-pointers, and fancy moves at the post that brought cheering fans to their feet. Her chest ached with the memory. Playing ball with Trip gave her a confidence that had carried her through life so far…through tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, through rehab after she was wounded, and through her decision to choose Petunia over the shelter program she’d hoped would be a new start for her. But those glory days had fallen apart at the beginning of their junior year. Trip had betrayed her in the worst way. Then the World Trade Center towers came down. Jamie left school to join the army. She later learned from another teammate that Trip had left the team at the end of that junior year to take an early acceptance to the University of Georgia Veterinary School, also abandoning their mutual dream of playing professional basketball.
Petunia whined, her front paws on Jamie’s seat back, and licked Jamie’s ear. “It’s okay, P. We’ve got a new start here in Pine Cone—you and me. I just have to face up to living in the same town with her.”
The memory of Trip’s betrayal pushed away the good memories of their former friendship, and Jamie scowled as she got out of the car. How many tickets was she going to have to write to get this woman to park legally? She scribbled the ticket quickly, but instead of initialing it at the bottom, she wrote out DEPUTY J. GRANT.
It was time. Grace had relayed Trip’s invitation to the cookout tomorrow and she’d decided to go. Wondering if she was going to round a corner and bump into Trip at any moment was exhausting. Going to the cookout would allow her to be in control of the circumstances, give her the element of surprise. Unless Grace had already told Trip she’d moved to Pine Cone. But she’d said Trip insisted she “bring that new deputy.” So, maybe she hadn’t figured it out. The ticket signature would be a huge hint…or maybe a warning.
* * *
Bud had Trip’s lunch bagged and waiting. She didn’t even get a chance to swipe a doughnut, so Jolene wrapped up two and added them to her bag without asking, then rang up the entire contents.
Trip did have to exchange a few pleasantries with clients who were lunching, asking after one woman’s Siamese, a man’s Labrador, and another man’s Chihuahua. Still, she was in and out of the diner in under ten minutes.
So how was she staring at another ticket fluttering from her truck’s wiper?
This deputy had to be stalking her. She knew she should admonish herself for being ready to pin this deputy’s ears back when she thought it was a man trying to bully her. But Grace’s revelation that the new deputy was a woman had changed everything. Maybe Trip had been thinking about this all wrong. Maybe this new deputy was just trying to get her attention.
She set her lunch in the truck and freed the white slip of paper. Hmm. Deputy J. Grant. The back of Trip’s neck prickled. Something familiar danced around the edges of her mind, just out of reach. She shook her head when a face came into focus. Grant was a common name. The J. Grant from her past was probably occupying an office in the Pentagon after multiple tours in Afghanistan. The world was too big for them to finally cross paths again in this small South Georgia town. If only she could go back in time and correct that one monumental mistake, the biggest regret of her life.
She stared at the ticket again. She’d never again felt connected to a woman like she had with the J. Grant she’d known in college. They were so young, and Trip was so infatuated. But Jamie had her eyes on someone else, and in a weak moment, Trip had given in to a stupid idea she’d hoped would make Jamie see her as more than a buddy.
Her appetite stolen by the overwhelming memory, Trip dug the pile of parking tickets out of the glove compartment and smoothed them out on the seat before starting the truck. It would wreck her schedule, but she was going straight to the courthouse to pay all of the fines and vowed to only park in a legal space here after. More than eighteen years later, she still couldn’t get that past J. Grant out of her head, but she could get this Deputy J. Grant off her back.
Chapter Eight
The Beaumont Summer Cookout was an all-day event that drew lesbians from Savannah, Georgia Southern University, Fort Stewart, and up from Florida. Some of Trip’s veterinarian lesbian pals flew in from even farther distances, and she’d negotiated with the local Holiday Inn Express to give her guests a special convention rate and provide a shuttle to her property for any who would be imbibing. Even a small campground was set up for nature lovers in a newly harvested hay field.
Women had begun arriving as early as ten that morning to sun around the pool with fruity cocktails and Bloody Marys and graze the catered brunch table while a mix of nostalgic and new tunes played at a moderate volume to allow comfortable conversation. By two o’clock, the crowd swelled to more than a hundred, and groups made use of the volleyball net, the cornhole games, and a small Frisbee golf course, while others called for someone to crank up beach tunes for shag dancing.
Trip was careful, though. As the cars rolled in, everybody’s identification was checked by an experienced bar bouncer, who recited brief rules—absolutely no recreational drugs, drivers had to pass a breathalyzer test to leave the property, no dyke drama that dampened the festive mood, and no touching or giving alcohol to anyone wearing an orange tank or T-shirt with “Beaumont Summer Extravaganza” printed on the chest. While she didn’t go so far as to search their coolers, all those who were over eighteen but under the legal drinking minimum were given colorful bracelets that told bartenders to deny service and identified them to a small crew of women she trusted and paid to keep the younger crowd sober and safe. The handful of high schoolers were directed to the house where they had to swap their own shirts for the orange ones. Most didn’t mind because Trip let them keep the shirts and she’d seen them pop up around town occasionally, a sort of bragging rights that they’d been to the coolest party around. She refused to deny these youngsters the chance to be around a diverse group of successful role models, but she always sent them home when night approached, before the adults got
too drunk and frisky, and skinny-dippers filled the pool.
She was chatting with one of the young orange shirts who wanted to be a mechanic, when Jerome waved to her from the open front door. “You should talk to my buddy, Clay,” she said to the teen. “She’ll be here later.”
The baby butch’s mouth dropped open. “Clay Cahill? She’s here?”
“She will be. Watch for her. She’s always happy to talk about cars and engines.”
“Cool. Thanks.” The girl was already pushing through the back door.
Trip chuckled and headed for Jerome. “Mick will be putting meat on the grill in the next thirty minutes.”
He waved her off. “I just came to get Granny. I’m still having to listen to Mama’s rants about what Granny packs in her pipe sometimes since she hung out with some of your crowd after dark last year.”
“Tell your churchgoing mama to lighten up. A little weed is probably good for Essie’s rheumatism.”
He laughed and nodded. “Yeah, and she’s put on some much-needed weight. Granny isn’t happy about me dragging her away to Mama’s house today, but I’m following orders.”
Trip clapped him on his shoulder. “Come back later and grab some ribs and potato salad for your family.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.”
Jerome started toward Essie’s rooms, but stopped to see what Trip was staring at through the front windows.
“Looks like your new associate can’t peel her eyes off Michelle’s ass,” Jerome said too low for anyone but Trip to hear. “You didn’t warn her about hitting on that?”
Take a Chance Page 7