“I don’t know. He was up by our driveway. I was trying to get him, almost had him, but”—her voice cracked—“he got away from me and wound up under an eighteen-wheeler. I don’t know how bad he was hit.”
His eyes sharpened on her. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head no, then changed it to a nod. “I’m okay. But the dog—”
“I’ll take him back and see what we’ve got.” He held out broad, competent-looking hands to take the blanket-wrapped bundle. “Do you want to come with us?”
Swallowing a hard lump of emotion, she shook her head. “No. I’ll . . . ah . . . I’ll wait out here. Unless you need help?”
“Not for the initial look-see.” He took the dog gently in his arms, showing none of the strain she had felt at lugging the fifty-some pounds of deadweight. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
He disappeared into one of the exam rooms, leaving her alone in the waiting area, surrounded by empty chairs, well-thumbed animal magazines, and posters that alternated between cutesy propaganda for adoption and menacing blowups of the life cycles of fleas.
Gravitating to the fleas, which looked like something out of Aliens, she stuck her hands in her pockets and read up on third-stage larvae. When she was done with the short paragraph, she couldn’t have repeated any of it—her mind was stuck on the varoom of the truck and the way things had gone to hell in a split second.
If she had just held on to the dog, they’d be back at Mustang Ridge, sitting next to the woodstove right now. Or maybe tucking into Gran’s chicken and biscuits.
“Hang in there, buddy,” she said softly.
Part of her wished she had followed them into the back room, but it wasn’t like her being there would have helped. Besides, she needed a minute to regroup. She’d driven up here expecting old Doc Lopes, and instead got a guy who looked like he’d be right at home in her world.
Flea eggs take two to fourteen days to hatch. Hatching occurs only when the environmental conditions are exactly right for their survival.
“No problem there.” Jenny sighed. “Winter in Wyoming isn’t right for anything except making daiquiris.” Not that she would want a frozen drink right now. She was only just beginning to thaw out in the clinic’s warmth.
When conditions are hot and humid, the flea egg hatches and the larva emerges.
“They’d like Belize,” she commented.
“Never been there.”
“Oh!” She spun, flushing inside her layers when she found the vet standing behind her, looking amused.
“I talk to the cat all the time. Never tried the posters before.” Taking pity on her, he continued. “I’ve had a look at the dog, and wanted to talk to you before we go any further.”
The flush cooled. “Is it bad?”
“He’s actually in pretty decent shape. It doesn’t look like the truck wheel rolled over him, which is good, but I won’t know how good until I take some X-rays and run a few blood tests. Beyond that, he’s got a healing wire cut on a front paw and he’s skinny as heck. I’d say it’s been a while since he saw any love, though he’s friendly enough that he must’ve had a family at some point.”
Jenny’s chest tightened. “Poor old guy.”
“He’s actually not that old. I’d say three or four years, which is going to be in his favor for recovery.”
“Good.” Relief came out of her in a whooshing breath. “That’s good. Do what you can for him. I’ll cover the bill and give him a home.” Granted, she was making a promise that Krista and the rest of her family at the ranch would be keeping when she left, but any of them would’ve said the same thing.
The vet hesitated. “It could get expensive if the damage is worse than it looks.”
“I’m good for it. X-rays, tests, surgery, whatever he needs.”
“Is there someone you should check with first?”
“Are you trying to talk me out of it?” Or fishing for info on whether I’m taken? He wasn’t wearing a ring, but she didn’t think that was where it was coming from. Either way, the conversation was starting to feel out of sync, like she was missing something.
“I’m just making sure you know what you’re getting into.”
That was when she realized what was so strange. He wasn’t treating her like she was an extension of Mustang Ridge, wasn’t assuming that she knew as much as a lot of vet techs by virtue of being ranch born and bred.
Wow. Weird. And kind of nice, actually. “I can handle the dog and the bill. Run a tab, Doc, and let’s get this party started.”
A crooked smile crossed his face, making her think of Indy again. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned away and headed for the reception desk. “I’m going to need you to fill out some paperwork. You can leave it on the desk, along with a number where I can reach you with an update.”
“Can I wait here until the X-rays are done?” She didn’t know where the impulse came from, but it felt right.
“It’ll take some time.”
A glance out the window warned that the snow was still falling, but the Jeep had four-wheel drive and there was no rush getting back. “Like you said, it’s been a while since anybody cared about him. I’d like to wait.”
He handed over a clipboard with a pen stuck at the top. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be out with updates as warranted.” With a half wave that wasn’t quite a salute, he disappeared into the exam room.
Not letting herself glance back over at the fleas—Gawd, had he really caught her talking to a poster?—Jenny dropped into a chair and fumbled for the pen. It wasn’t until her gloves got in the way that she realized she was boiling, and not just from embarrassment.
How had she not noticed that she was overheating inside her marshmallow of a coat and six-mile-long scarf? Because for the past three days, you’ve spent way more time shivering than sweating, she thought, and shucked off her vest, hat, and hoodie, piling them off to the side. Which left her sitting there in jeans and a clingy turquoise thermal that had come out of the high school section of her closet.
Suddenly feeling like something out of some fashion-intervention show—next, we perform a fashion intervention on a twenty-seven-year-old videographer who still dresses like she’s a teenager—she dragged her fingers through her hair, like that was going to fix anything. She had asked for Audrey Hepburn, and with a little work she could come close to that mark. Add in some hat head, though, and she was more Sonic the Hedgehog than Hepburn.
And she was primping. Which was ridiculous.
Okay, so Nick Masterson was seriously yummy and he seemed like a nice guy, but she was back home at Mustang Ridge to work, not play. And he was a local.
“So not going there,” she said, and got busy filling out the forms.
Summer at Mustang Ridge Page 30