Here to Stay

by Catherine Anderson

  Tucker listened while Zach explained his concerns about Rosebud’s loose bowels. “Most likely, she ate something that disagreed with her,” he told Zach. “It happens. For now, just keep an eye on her. If you see blood or a lot of mucus in the stools, it may be something more serious, but until then, I wouldn’t worry.”

  Zach released a breath. “She never has accidents, and she crapped inside the—”

  “Inside the pharmacy, I know,” Tucker finished for him. “I caught the newscast. She’s definitely got something going on, but at this point, I wouldn’t fly into a panic.”

  “I’m a novice with minis,” Zach confessed. “You know? Give me a large horse, and I’m on solid ground, but my experience with tiny horses is zilch.”

  “She’s still an equine. Would you be this upset if a cutter got the squirts?”

  Zach felt better after the call ended. Tucker knew his stuff. If he said there was nothing to worry about, there was probably nothing to worry about.

  Rosebud stood by the table and hung her head, the stance of any horse at rest. Zach went to the fridge for a longneck. Nothing like a cold beer to work out the kinks. He settled on a kitchen chair, done in walnut and flat black to match the table, and took a long pull from the bottle. Then he went to rifle through his Sub-Zero freezer for a man-size dinner entrée. He settled on Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and gravy. As he shoved the tray into his microwave, he thought of his brother Quincy, the health nut. He was probably having a green smoothie for dinner. The man could pontificate for hours about how Zach was systematically killing himself with all the crap he ate.

  Zach liked crap, thank you very much. He’d never have a love affair with kale and spinach whizzed into green froth with nonfat yogurt, raw eggs, sesame seeds, and every other nauseating thing Quincy could think of. Zach wanted meat, and he wanted carbohydrates, and he wanted fat. He was a man, not a rabbit. One of these days Quincy was going to turn green and grow bunny ears.

  Zach’s microwave had no sooner pinged than Rosebud started to do a tap dance, her signal that she needed to go outside. “Not now. Hello, my dinner is ready.”

  But the horse continued to put Fred Astaire to shame, looking up at him expectantly. Zach kissed his hot dinner good-bye and haltered her up to go back outside. Just as they reached the door, Rosebud lost control of her bowels and deposited a huge dump on the indoor mat Zach used to wipe his boots. The stench almost took his breath. And Rosebud still tapped her feet, telling him there was more to come.

  Zach hooked the mat with the heel of his Tony Lama and slid it away from the door so they could go outside without smearing horseshit everywhere. As they gained the porch, he wondered if he shouldn’t resort to putting a kiddie-pool litter box in the laundry room. Frigging stairs. He was coming to hate the damned things. It was extremely tempting to just pick Rosebud up and carry her, but if he did that, he would be defeating the whole purpose of not having a ramp.

  They made it to the yard just in time. She deposited steaming feces to the left of the steps. Despite the looseness of the stool, Zach praised her and offered a treat, which she declined. Rosebud always loved her rewards, and she never had this many bowel movements in one day. No worries. She didn’t seem sick otherwise, only a little tired, but so was he.

  It took Zach forty-five minutes to get her back into the house. For the first time, he considered putting a potty bag on her for the rest of the evening. But that was cheating. Zach didn’t want to insult her by using one. Horses were intelligent, and as a trainer, he knew they had a tendency to measure up to your expectations.

  By the time Zach got the harness off the horse, he was too tired to reheat his dinner or even bother eating it. After scraping the manure off the mat into an outdoor trash can and doing a dance in the dark with a stiff garden hose, he hung the mat over a porch rail to dry, poured the now-warm beer down the kitchen drain, and tossed the bottle into the recycle bin. Then he opted to crash on the sofa downstairs in case Rosebud needed to make another emergency trip outdoors. He peeled off his shirt, boots, and socks, rested his head on a sofa pillow, and covered himself with the afghan his stepmother, Dee Dee, had made for him. The mini came to stand near the couch. Zach gave her nose a scratch, closed his eyes, and was promptly out like a light.

  Mandy stared through an intimidating blackness at the sign beside Zach Harrigan’s front gate, illuminated by the headlights of her previously owned Honda Element. NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS wILL BE PROSECUTED. Knotting her hands over the steering wheel, she considered her options. She rolled down the driver’s window and tried pushing the intercom button, but no one answered. Darn it. If she gave up now and settled for calling Mr. Harrigan, he’d probably hang up on her. For Luke’s sake, she had to get inside that gate to talk to him, and she needed a prosecution-proof reason for doing so.

  Mandy backed her vehicle out onto the road, nosed it over to the shoulder, and cut the engine. After groping under the front seat for a flashlight, she exited the car, hurried to the rear doors, rummaged through her metal box of emergency tools, and then circled back to lift the front hood. Within seconds, she had one of the battery cables disconnected. She put the tools away, wiped her hands on a rag, and closed the rear doors. Mission accomplished . Though Mandy hadn’t been around her mom for years, Sharyn Pajeck had still managed to impart tidbits of wisdom to her daughter that had stayed with Mandy into adulthood. No red-blooded male alive from age fifteen to ninety can turn his back on a woman with car trouble. Mandy wasn’t clueless about automobile mechanics. Taking a car to a shop for simple maintenance cost the earth, so she did a lot of stuff herself. But for tonight, it suited her purposes to play dumb.

  She used the anemic beam of her little flashlight to see as she picked her way over the rutted ground to the gate. Mentally haranguing herself for wearing pumps instead of flats, she’d just stepped up onto the third rung and was about to throw her leg over the top rail when another vehicle approached. Caught in the act. The glare of the headlights nearly blinded her. Mandy watched in startled amazement as a huge diesel pickup stopped only a few feet away and a stocky, vertically challenged man who definitely wasn’t Zach Harrigan climbed out. He strode purposely toward her.

  “This land is posted,” he informed her in a gravelly voice. “You climb over that gate and you’re likely to have an up-close-and-personal experience with Smith and Wesson.”

  Mandy’s father had owned a pistol, but otherwise, she’d never been around weapons very much. She had lived in cattle and horse country all her life, though, and knew Smith & Wesson was the largest manufacturer of handguns in the United States. Thinking quickly, she said, “I’m not looking for trouble, only some help. My car died on me.” That was the truth—if she failed to mention the deliberately loosened battery cable. Swinging one hand to encompass the dark landscape, she added, “This is the closest house. I was hoping I might use the phone to call Triple A.”

  “You don’t got a cell phone?” He sounded skeptical, and she didn’t blame him. Most people had them nowadays.

  “No,” Mandy replied, and it wasn’t a lie. “I can’t afford one.”

  With the headlights outlining him in brightness, the older man resembled a sidekick character in an old black-and-white Western. The battered brim of his hat hung limply from the misshapen crown. His shoulder-length gray hair bushed out from under it like tufts of bedraggled moss. The cropped legs of his jeans skimmed the tops of worn, dusty riding boots.

  “Well, hell. I got me a cell phone, but it’s low on juice, and the charger is up in my apartment.” He rubbed his jaw, squinting at Mandy through the gloom. “Boss won’t like it if I let you in, but he’ll like it even less if I leave you stranded out here. Gonna get colder than a well digger’s ass tonight.”

  Mandy climbed down off the gate and jumped with a start when the old fellow wrested the flashlight from her hand. He directed the beam at the ground and snorted with disgust. “I’m good with engines, but I won’t be able to see under your
hood with this sorry excuse.” He gestured toward his truck. “Hop in. I’ll take you up to the house. The boss has flashlights. Maybe I can have a look at your engine and figure out what’s wrong while you warm up over a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Mandy wanted to do a victory dance. If this picturesque old ruffian was taking her to the boss’s home, she stood a good chance of being introduced to Zach Harrigan. And over a cup of coffee, she might have time to convince him to let her have first dibs on Rosebud when her training period ended. “It is cold out here, and I didn’t wear a heavy jacket because I planned to be mostly in the car.” Mandy failed to add that she’d dressed up to impress the man’s boss. “I’d freeze if I had to wait for a passerby to stop. There’s not much traffic out here.”

  As she circled the front fender of the gigantic truck, she heard her rescuer mutter, “Car? More like a tin can on wheels if you ask me.”

  Mandy didn’t care what the old guy thought about her vehicle. She was far more concerned about how she meant to get inside his truck. There were no running boards, and the floorboard was as high as her hip. After a bit of groping, she found a hand grip, grabbed hold, and, by wedging one foot on the edge of the door opening, was able to swing up onto the passenger seat.

  Her chauffeur didn’t bother to fasten his seat belt, which made the warning bell chime after the doors were closed. He thumbed a remote attached to his visor to make the gate swing open. “Boss’s name is Zach Harrigan,” he told her. “He may be gnarly when he first sees you. Some horses was poisoned a while back at his sister’s place, so the whole family has gone nuts with security. Don’t cotton to folks comin’ around without an invite. Once he understands you’ve got car trouble, he’ll mellow out.”

  After a rough ride over a rutted road, the old man pulled up in front of a huge house. In the fast wash of headlights, Mandy took in the cedar siding, the steep front steps, and the impressive roof angles, which told her one room in that place was probably as large as her entire home. She refused to let that intimidate her. As a kid, she’d experienced opulent living, and she knew for a fact that riches didn’t make the man.

  When the ignition was turned off, the diesel truck coughed, sputtered, and lurched as its engine died. “My name’s Cookie,” the old fellow told her. “I’m the foreman on this spread.” He pushed open the driver’s door. “And you are?”

  “Oh!” Mandy was so nervous about her real reason for being there that her manners had abandoned her. “Miranda Pajeck.”

  “What’re you doin’ out here in the back of beyond after dark?” he asked.

  Mandy hated to fib, but circumstances gave her no wiggle room. “I was visiting a friend and sort of lost my way back to town. Murphy’s Law and all that. Naturally that clunker I call a car chose tonight to conk out.”

  Cookie seemed to turn that explanation over in his mind. Then he nodded. “Well, don’t let the boss rattle ya. His growl is worse than his bite.”

  Chapter Three

  Zach awakened to a strange sound, a cross between thumping and knocking. He jerked, started to roll over, and barely avoided toppling off the sofa cushions. Living room, he recalled groggily. After rubbing his eyes, he struggled to see through the moon-washed shadows. He could discern dim outlines of the furniture. But what was making that noise? Someone knocking at the door, he realized. He swung to his feet, rapped his shin on the coffee table, cursed, and then stumbled over his boots, which he’d toed off and left by the sofa.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Rubbing his shin, Zach didn’t bother to don the Tony Lamas or grab his shirt. Nobody could get onto the property unless they were relatives or employees who knew the gate code. Otherwise, the electric eyes inside the fence lines would trigger an alarm that sounded like a cross between an ocean foghorn and a police siren.

  Knuckling his sleep-blurred eyes, Zach staggered into the kitchen. His stomach snarled with hunger as he opened the front door and flipped on the porch light. His foreman, Cookie, stood at the other side of the screen, scratching beside his nose.

  “What’s up?” Zach asked.

  Cookie jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “This here lady has car trouble. I thought you might warm her up with a mug of coffee whilst I borrow a decent flashlight and have a look under her hood.”

  Zach squinted to see the female who stood behind his foreman. A mop of hair the color of a fresh-curried sorrel was the first thing he saw. Then, as he blinked to clear his vision, he noticed a blur of big, innocent-looking hazel eyes surrounded by delicate, pale features, including a pert nose that sported a spray of freckles. Red alert. Unless a female was twelve years of age or under, Zach didn’t buy into the innocent look.

  “Cookie, it’s after eight. And what the hell are you thinking to bring a stranger into the ranch compound after dark? You know the rules.”

  Cookie gave Zach a deadpan look. “That’s right. I know all the rules, and one my mama taught me when I was knee high to a jackrabbit is never to leave a lady out on the shoulder of a road after dark to freeze when the heater of her car don’t work. That’s where I found her, and her car’s deader than hell.”

  Zach stifled a curse. He slapped a palm against the screen, opening the door just enough that it slapped closed when he released pressure. “Okay, okay. Come in, then. I’ll put coffee on.” As Zach swung away, he realized, belatedly, that he was half-naked. “Excuse me for a minute while I get decent.”

  Zach muttered obscenities under his breath as he dragged on his boots and shirt. A stranded motorist? If not for bad luck, he’d have none at all, and didn’t it figure this would happen when he was so exhausted he could have snored standing up? He barked his shin on the damned coffee table again as he returned to the kitchen.

  Little Miss Innocent sat at his table, shivering in a quilted brown jacket—one of those useless things with three-quarter-length sleeves and rounded tails that fell well above the waist. What did his sister Sam call them? Boleros. Zach had another name for them that he felt was more applicable: stupid. When being fashionable meant you’d freeze to death on a winter night, you should select more practical outerwear.

  While Zach showed his back to his unwanted female guest to make a pot of coffee, Cookie rummaged through the two deep junk drawers to find a flashlight with a strong beam. Then the foreman excused himself to go have a look at the car. Zach punched the grind button on the machine and then turned to face the interloper, who sat so tensely on her chair she might have been waiting for a firing squad. He thought he caught a guilty look flicker across her face, but he was too tired to think about it right then. He ran a hand over his eyes and stifled a yawn.

  “The coffee will take a few,” he said. “My name’s Zach Harrigan. Normally, I’m a little more gracious to guests, but you caught me sound asleep. Long day, sick horse. I decided to call it an early night just in case she goes south on me before morning.”

  “A sick horse? Not Rosebud, I hope.”

  This was Zach’s second red alert since meeting this lady, and it topped the innocent look by a mile. He came wide-awake fast. “As a matter of fact, it is Rosebud. And how do you know her name?”

  She batted lush, reddish brown lashes, and splotches of pink flagged her cheeks. “I, um ...” She tugged the rounded edges of the bolero closed and dipped her head. The mane of sorrel hair fell forward in shimmering curtains to hide her face. “I was—”

  Before she could finish her explanation, Zach heard the thumping sound again. He’d heard it earlier when he’d been jerked awake, but then it had been interspersed with sharp raps, and his sleep-deprived brain hadn’t recognized that the two noises had been coming from different sources. He sprang away from the counter, his heartbeat picking up speed. “Rosebud?” As he raced toward the archway leading to the living room, he followed that utterance with a breathless curse unfit for mixed company.

  “What is it?” his guest cried.

  Zach heard the tap of her low-heeled pumps trailing him across t
he kitchen. As he entered the dark living room, the woman’s muted footfalls were drowned out by the sporadic whaps of miniature hooves on the thick carpeting. “Rosebud?” Zach called.

  Following the sound, he found the tiny palomino behind his recliner. She wasn’t merely tapping her hooves. She was stomping them, and then to Zach’s alarm, she stretched her body as if to pee and began pawing at her belly with a hind hoof.

  Shit. He promptly forgot all about the woman. Zach had been around horses too long not to know what Rosebud’s behavior might mean.

  Dropping to his knees, he felt her belly. Hard as a rock. Pressing an ear to her barrel, he listened for gut activity. To his surprise, he heard some rumbling. He took her pulse. Way too fast. He turned on the floor lamp to peel back her lips and check her gums, praying he’d see healthy pink. Instead, he saw grayish white.

  Shit! He shifted on his knees to look at the lady. City shoes and ridiculous jacket aside, he needed her to step up to the plate, and he didn’t waste time on politeness.

  “I’ve got to call the vet,” he bit out. He jabbed a forefinger at the carpet. “You, right here! Keep an arm under her belly. If she starts to go down, hold her up. Got it? And for God’s sake, no matter what, don’t let her start to roll.”

  Zach half expected her to retreat, but instead she dropped to her knees beside Rosebud, curled an arm under the little horse’s belly, and said, “I’ve got her. Go!”

  Lunging upward, Zach raced to the kitchen, slapped on the lights, and shot out a hand for the cell phone he usually left on the table. His fingers closed on air. Spitting out a word that would have made his sister blink, he grabbed the landline portable instead and speed-dialed Sam’s house. Tucker answered, his voice scratchy with sleep. As a vet, he kept hours as crazy as Zach’s and often went to bed with the chickens.