Beauty & the Beasts

by Janice Kay Johnson; Anne Weale

  He was just opening the refrigerator when the phone rang. Snatching it up, he snapped, “Yeah?”

  “Dr. Bergstrom?” The voice belonged to one of two women who ran the extremely efficient message service the veterinary hospital used.

  He shoved the refrigerator door shut and leaned against it, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hi, Beth. What’s the bad news?”

  “Dr. Hughes is already out on a call and Jed Rice just phoned. His shepherd—you know, that big black one? She got hit by a car. She’s in a bad way, he says. He’s on his way to the clinic with her right now. Dr. Hughes is up almost to Darrington. She’d be nearly an hour even if she turned around now.”

  “Okay,” Eric said, resigned. As busy as he and Teresa were getting, maybe they needed to hire a young vet as an assistant. “Tell her to finish up there. If Jed phones in again, let him know I’ll meet him at the hospital in ten minutes.”

  A moment later he knocked on Garth’s door. No answer. He swore under his breath and went in.

  The suitcase still sat, untouched, where Eric had left it. Garth was sprawled on the bed, headphones on, eyes closed. For an instant Eric thought he was asleep, until he saw that Garth’s fingers drummed a beat on the bedcovers.

  “Garth.”

  The boy muttered some lyrics under his breath. His eyes remained closed.

  Eric shot a glance at his watch, then crossed the room and touched his son’s shoulder.

  Garth’s eyes opened. He yanked off the headphones and glared up at his father. “What?” he asked belligerently.

  “Can you get yourself something to eat? One of our clients is on his way into town with a dog that was hit by a car. I don’t know how bad it’ll be or how long I’ll take, but I’m guessing an hour minimum.”

  Garth jerked his shoulders. “Sure.” He settled the headphones back over his ears and added flippantly, “Have fun.”

  Anger churned in Eric’s stomach, but it was depression as heavy as a winter cloud cover that rode his shoulders as he drove to town.

  Jed had beaten him there. Eric unlocked the door, and the two men staggered under the weight of the huge shepherd as they carried her from the back of Jed’s canopied pickup into the hospital.

  She was bleeding and in shock, and one leg was obviously fractured. Eric started an IV, sedated her and took an X ray. The break was clean enough to set.

  “You’ll have to keep her off it,” he warned. “It won’t be easy. Start by planning to carry her up and down any stairs when she has to go outside. Somebody will have to watch her to make sure she doesn’t do too much. In a few days she’s going to want to put weight on the leg, and she shouldn’t.”

  The farmer, a brusque man in his early fifties, had his head bent as he stroked the big dog. “It’s okay, girl,” he murmured. Lifting his head, he said, “We’ll manage. Got the grandkids here for the month. They can take care of her. Bonanza here, she’s the wife’s baby. Well, hell.” He ducked his head. “Mine, too. Nicest dog we ever had. When they were tots, the grandkids climbed all over her. Won’t hurt ’em to pay back now. I can handle the trips outside.”

  “Then we’ll go ahead.” Eric reached for the razor to shave Bonanza’s foreleg.

  Two and a half hours had passed by the time he quietly let himself in the front door of his house. Hannah was waiting, and Eric almost tripped over Mannequin, splayed on her back in the middle of the floor.

  “Dammit, cat,” he muttered, “why can’t you find a nice couch like everyone else?” She blinked at him and didn’t move.

  No sign of Garth; he was probably still closeted in his bedroom. Trailed by Hannah, Eric went to the kitchen first, to see if Garth had gotten anything to eat. Either he hadn’t or else he’d cleaned up after himself. Eric was betting on the first alternative.

  He turned to leave the kitchen, then stopped. The house had an open floor plan; separating kitchen and family room was a long wet bar, which he seldom used except to eat breakfast when he was in a rush. He hadn’t entertained in a month or more, and he almost never had a drink by himself. But one of the cupboards was slightly ajar. The magnetic latch hadn’t quite caught or had bounced back open.

  Eric squatted in front of it and swung the door the rest of the way open. Hannah slipped inside to check out the wine rack, empty but for a couple of bottles, and a miscellaneous collection of hard liquor: a good Scotch, half a bottle of vodka, gin for those who partook. He was certain there’d been a bottle of bourbon, as well. But no longer.

  He made sure his footsteps were quiet as he went down the hall. He knocked; a moment of silence was followed by a hurried, “Just a minute!”

  Eric opened the door. Garth was bent over, hand under the bed. The window was flung open, but even so the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke lingered.

  Garth’s head shot up. “Hey!” he exclaimed indignantly.

  “So you smoke, too.” Eric’s voice was hard. Parent, coming down heavy on his kid. Who’d have thought?

  “Sometimes.” The teenage shrug was sullen. “Big deal.”

  “Does your mother know?”

  “Yeah.” But Garth’s eyes wouldn’t meet his. Translation: Noreen had caught him a few times and forbidden cigarettes.

  “Neither of us smoke, and for a good reason. In the long run it kills you. When you’re eighteen and have moved away from home, you can make your own decision. Right now you’re twelve, and my responsibility. You will not smoke when you’re here. Is that clear?”

  Garth let loose with an obscenity.

  Eric ignored it. “This is your home. You can help yourself to food any time you want. But the booze—” he leaned over and snatched the bottle of bourbon from under the bed before his son could do any more than jerk in involuntary protest “—is offlimits. I think you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “I just wanted to taste it.”

  “Let me repeat—you’re twelve years old. Alcohol is illegal for you to ‘taste’ until you’re twenty-one. And by God, you won’t drink in my house.”

  “Oh, it’s your house now. And I’m your responsibility now. That’s all I am, isn’t it?” the boy cried, flinging himself facedown on the bed. When Eric laid a hand on his shoulder, Garth rolled away from it. “Just leave me alone!”

  Eric hesitated, feeling inadequate. How was he supposed to handle this? Maybe he should have been more buddy-buddy, talking about how he knew Garth wanted to be a man, but how booze and tobacco weren’t the way to be one.

  Too late. And the anger simmering in his belly wouldn’t have let him, anyway. Garth wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t been testing his own manhood; he’d been testing his father’s control over him.

  “Fine,” Eric said. “I’m going to warm up spaghetti and make a salad. If you want some, you know where to find it. And me.”

  In the kitchen he slammed a pan down on the stove too hard, considering its glass surface, and knocked the milk container on its side as he yanked the bowl of leftover spaghetti out of the fridge. Dumping it into the pan, he turned the burner to high, then cursed as he grabbed the dish towel to mop up the pool of milk.

  What in hell was he going to do with Garth? In the past year, the boy he’d known had vanished, replaced by a sullen defiant teenager who didn’t want to be here. Setting limits was great, but how did a parent enforce them? He couldn’t watch Garth day and night; he’d have to leave him alone some of the time. Good God, did he even want the boy with him at the hospital or on farm calls? What would Garth do—sneak out behind the barn for a cigarette while Eric was doing preg checks?

  “Noreen,” he said softly, “why didn’t you send an instruction manual?”

  Easy answer: because she didn’t have a clue what to do with their son, either. Maybe Garth wasn’t too far off in guessing that his mother was dumping him for the summer.

  Teresa’s daughter, Nicole, had been a pain in the butt when her mother had first moved to White Horse and bought into his practice, he remembered. Maybe Teresa would have some adv
ice.

  Anything was worth trying, before he irredeemably blew his relationship with his son. Eric reached for the phone and dialed.

  PATRONS AND WAITRESSES bustled around Madeline and Eric’s table at the Main Street café. His chili steamed, untouched, in front of him; a toothpick still impaled her turkey-and-swiss-cheese sandwich. Madeline listened to his tale with her elbows on the table and her chin cupped in one hand.

  “I locked the alcohol in a cupboard in the garage. Garth conspicuously did not throw out his cigarettes. And that was just the first day. In fact, he didn’t come out of his room except to use the bathroom, and then he slammed the damn door so hard a picture fell off the wall.” Eric leaned back in the booth. His laugh held no amusement. “We’re hardly speaking now. He holes up in his bedroom, and I utter dictatorial pronouncements. Parenting at its finest.”

  Touching had never come easily for Madeline, unless she was reaching for something four-footed and furry. But now instinct had her stretching out her hand and taking Eric’s across the table. “It sounds like he’s asking for it. What else can you do?”

  The tightness with which he returned her clasp belied his wry tone. “Abdicate?”

  “Plenty of parents do.” Including her father, who had been absent throughout her childhood. He’d sent checks for her birthday and Christmas. She’d seen him twice after he and her mother divorced when Madeline was four. He’d died a few years back, unmourned by her.

  “What does he want from me?” Baffled pain filled Eric’s eyes. “Or doesn’t he want anything?”

  “Of course he does!” She squeezed even harder. “He wants love and security and…and…acceptance.”

  Eric sighed heavily. “God help me, I do love him, and I can’t believe he doesn’t know that. And, hell, what do I accept? His music? Smoking? The pants bagging around his ankles?”

  Feeling a spark of humor for the first time, Madeline tilted her head to one side. “Now wait a minute. You’re starting to sound like our parents’ generation. Did your mother and father like your music and what you wore?”

  A reluctant grin lightened his expression. “I seem to remember a few battles.”

  “Only a few?”

  “Okay. More than that.” Eric shook his head, still smiling. “I played in a rock band briefly. We practiced in the garage. We were terrible. I bitterly resented being told so. My dad’s bellows to ‘turn the goddamn amplifiers down’ humiliated me.”

  “But did he quit bellowing?” she asked gently.

  “Nah—” Eric broke off. His eyes narrowed. “What are you—a psychologist in your off-hours?”

  Reassured, she let go of his hand and reached for her sandwich. “Nope. Just figured a trip down memory lane might not be a bad idea.”

  “Well, I get your point.” He picked up his spoon. “Which still leaves me wondering what the hell I’m going to do with him all summer.”

  “Do you camp or…” She leveled a look at him. “You don’t hunt, do you?”

  “Yeah, that’s me. I shoot ’em down, then patch ’em up. What do you think?”

  “Just asking,” she said with dignity. “Take your son horseback riding. Sailing. Swimming. Whatever.”

  He grunted. “I work, remember?”

  “Can’t you take a few days off here and there?”

  His mouth tightened. “Maybe.”

  “Would he and Mark—”

  “Last summer, they were friends,” Eric interrupted. “This time Garth has decided they have nothing in common.”

  Was he really asking for her help? Tentatively Madeline said, “I could take him to the shelter. If he likes animals, that is.”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, he used to love spending days with me at the hospital, helping me out on farm calls. Circe, one of my cats, is sleeping with him nights, I noticed. He must be inviting her in.”

  “Well, then?”

  “It’s worth a try, if you mean it.”

  She smiled more confidently than she felt. “I mean it. We can always use help. The cats never get enough attention, even if he wants to stay away from the dirty work.”

  Eric grimaced, the creases in his cheeks emphasized. “Maybe you’d better ask him. I’m afraid anything I suggest he’ll refuse on general principle.”

  “Sure,” she said, nervousness fluttering in her stomach. What did she know about teenagers? Especially defiant male teenagers? But how could she back out now? Still trying for the blithe “I know what I’m doing” tone, she suggested, “Why don’t I come over for a riding lesson this evening and you introduce us?”

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, his gaze holding hers. “I owe you one.”

  THIS SUMMER’S GIRLFRIEND was a fox, even if she was almost as old as Mom. She didn’t have very big breasts—Dad’s girlfriends usually did. But otherwise this one had legs like Julia Roberts’s and really pretty thick hair and a neck that was sort of…swanlike. Long and slim and smooth and…Flushing, Garth jerked his gaze away, made uneasy by his descent into poetic images.

  In this velvety voice she said, “Your dad talks about you often. It’s nice to meet you.”

  He mumbled something, and even he didn’t know what. She was too pretty. He didn’t know what to say to someone like that.

  “Do you ride?” she asked.

  What was her name? Madeline. He remembered that part He stole a glance at her sparkling greenybrown eyes. “Yeah. I mean, I do summers when I’m here. Not at home.”

  “Well, you’re, ahead of me.” She wrinkled her nose. “I just started a couple of weeks ago. I’ve ridden Honey, um, five times. Today is six.”

  “She never shies.”

  “Your dad is trying to talk me into going on a trail ride someday. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

  This time he looked at his father, who was watching him, not Madeline. Be nice, his dad’s eyes warned. Like he needed telling. She was talking to him as if he was a human being. Even if it was what Dad wanted, he was going to be polite back.

  “Honey would never hurt you,” Garth said. “Dad and I can borrow horses so you can have her. His partner’s family owns a whole bunch.”

  “So I hear.” She turned to Honey, already saddled and bridled. “Well, here goes nothing.”

  Dad boosted her into the saddle as if she hardly weighed anything. She was actually kind of skinny, but in a good way. Garth couldn’t think of a single girl at his school with a bod like hers.

  He stayed beside his father, leaning against the fence and watching her take a few turns around the pasture. He hadn’t been on horseback yet; his father didn’t want him to ride when he was home alone— as if Honey would throw him or something, but that was a parent for you. And he hadn’t wanted to come out when Dad suggested it. He wasn’t about to surrender and do father-son stuff, not when he knew Dad didn’t really want him here any more than Mom wanted him at home.

  The thought of his mother pierced deep, and he pulled away from it. As if to distract him, Madeline cantered up on Honey just then, her cheeks pink and her eyes more sparkly than ever.

  “Your turn,” she told Garth, and slid off before he could say no.

  So he did ridé, a couple of times around the pasture. Once, he really let Honey out, until the wind brought tears to his eyes and the saddle creaked and the mare grunted with the effort. She slid to a spectacular stop in front of Dad and Madeline, who made a face and said, “I would have gone sailing over her head if I’d tried that.”

  “Honey was trained as a cow horse,” Dad said. “You can rope on her or pen. At least you could if you knew what you were doing.”

  “It looks like Garth does.” She smiled admiringly at him. Hopping off the fence, she came to Honey’s side. She stroked the mare’s neck, still looking up at him. “Did your dad tell you about the cat shelter where I volunteer?”

  “He said something about it.”

  “Any chance you’d like to help out? The cats there love attention, and we just don’t have time
to give it.” The skin on the bridge of her nose crinkled a little as her smile deepened. It made her look cute and young. She lowered her voice. “I figured you might get bored this summer.”

  Garth’s hand jerked on the reins, and Honey danced. Madeline had to back up. “Did Dad tell you to ask me?” he demanded fiercely.

  Her eyes met his, her expression open. “It was my idea. I did discuss it with him, though. He said it was okay if I asked you.”

  Dad was too close to pretend he didn’t hear, but although a muscle jumped in his cheek, he didn’t say anything.

  “Would I be going just when he was there?”

  Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “No, your father has to work tomorrow even though it’s Saturday. I figured I’d pick you up around twelve-thirty. I’ll help clean and medicate for a couple of hours, and you can wander around and check the place out. What d’you say?”

  Garth thought about it. But not for long. What did he have to lose? Another day of thrills and chills hanging around the house all by himself?

  “Sure,” he said, shrugging awkwardly. “Why not?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MADELINE STOOD in the opening of the sliding glass door, watching Eric’s son. He sat cross-legged in the grass, where he’d been for some time. Hand outstretched, almost touching a crouched black cat—his arm must ache, he’d had it out so long—he murmured in a singsong voice words she couldn’t make out. His patience and the magic in whatever he was saying were being rewarded. Smudge, who hadn’t let anyone touch him since he’d come to the shelter, was inching toward the boy. His rust-colored eyes looked mesmerized, but his sleek black body was coiled tight. Any unexpected noise or movement would send him fleeing.