A look of annoyance flashed across her face. “It’ll work, believe me. I’m not talking about giving her a bubble bath—I’m giving you the tools to heal her.”
“Fine, sorry,” he said, chastened. “Tell me what I need to do.”
“Well, you can let her stand in water every day for at least an hour to get the swelling down. Then you can lead her through her paces and see if it makes a difference. You’ll learn something, for sure.”
“You really think giving her a bath is going to heal her?”
“Course, I can’t say for sure without taking a look at her. I’d need to give her that extra attention on the injured area, and then let her pick her pace, give her a measure of control. That’s the first step toward healing—putting power back in the hands of the patient.”
“Even if the patient is a four-legged, twelve-hundred-pound beast?”
“Even so.” She smiled.
He looked down at his drink, a shot of tequila with a splash of lime juice and a big chunk of ice. Sipping at it for the first time in a while, he realized he’d been so engaged in the conversation he’d forgotten he was holding it. Taking a self-conscious look around to make sure nobody was checking out their each and every move, he plotted an exit strategy: he’d excuse himself, saying he’d promised his mom a dance, and he needed to follow through.
But even as he heard the words come out of his mouth, he found himself not wanting to pull away from Abby. Despite knowing it was the wrong thing to do, he wanted to see her again. He couldn’t help himself.
“Abs, what are you up to tomorrow?”
Chapter Nine
As the first rays of sun splayed over her pillow, Abby kept thinking about the way Wolf had looked at her. Not so much his admiring sidelong glances at her dress, at her hair, at her moves on the dance floor—it was his quiet persistence, his respectful request for her help with Bullet she remembered best. He seemed to have one goal in mind: to keep his horse healthy. And that was something Abby could get behind. Sure, her mom would disapprove. So would Bridget, and so would the rest of the town. But she wasn’t trying to reignite her high school romance. She was just trying to do her job.
Horse-whispering, a skill many in her tribe inherited under the name of plain-old good horse sense, always seemed to Abby the best way to honor both her heritage and her adoptive father’s own healing skills. In Salish tradition, tribal members took care of each other’s horses (and children for that matter) when times grew tough for one of them. The Bigfork community, as Abby saw it, gave her a chance to serve in the role of horse healer, a skill they were sadly lacking. But the tradition also appealed to her on a personal level. It was the way she wanted to spend her whole life. She felt good doing it, simple as that. So in helping Wolf out, she was following her own personal mission, too. The fact that Bullet’s owner happened to be her old flame? Well, there wasn’t a thing she could do about that.
As she and Wolf drove into the vet’s office—it was really more of a mini-ranch—Abby was impressed by the size of the paddocks, the elaborate lean-tos that sheltered Vickers’s equine patients. Beyond the cluster of buildings, there was a blue rectangle that appeared to be a therapy pool.
Her heart leapt. Vickers’s Clinic was a Shangri-La for horses, the kind of facility she’d sketched out in her notebook when she was daydreaming through a class on bovine management in vet school. Those were fantasy doodles, but this was a real-life facility. She hopped from the truck toward Vickers’s office.
“Do you need some help?” she called back to Wolf. He was slowly unlocking the mare’s side of the trailer. Bullet shook her head from side to side until Wolf reached between the rails, patting her into submission.
“Nah, she unloads well.” He began to lead her down the ramp as Abby watched closely.
“Watch that hock, though,” she whispered to herself. Surely Wolf wouldn’t forget why they were here. At the bottom of the ramp, Bullet sprang lightly and landed three-legged, lifting her left rear leg like a surrender flag.
“Wow, she’s not putting any weight on it at all today.”
“Damn, you sure predicted it,” said Wolf. He sounded surprised. “You thought all along it was the hock.” He opened the trailer doors, swiveled Bullet around to face Abby, and led the mare down the ramp.
“Let’s see what Vickers thinks.” She knew something was wrong, but she needed the vet to back up her theory about Bullet’s hock.
The double doors to the vet clinic opened as the doctor came down the stairs toward them. “Wolf, Ms. Macready,” Vickers nodded without shaking their hands as he reached for Bullet’s lead line.
“Abby’ll do,” she told him.
“Well, it looks like she got down here in good shape. Let’s walk her over to Barn One. That’ll give us a chance to talk. We can see if there’s hock involvement or something more ominous.”
The three of them walked through a corridor of aspens toward the barns. “More ominous?” a worried Wolf whispered to her. Just wait, she mouthed.
“Wolf mentioned you did a year or two of vet school at Spokane?” Vickers asked. “Not to your liking, I gather?”
Abby took a deep breath. “It wasn’t the school. I liked it all right. But I thought the curriculum was a little narrow. Not holistic enough for my taste.”
“Well, you’re right on the cusp, Abby. We old traditional vets are going to have to take a good hard look at some of the new research on alternative therapies.”
“Like water-walking?” Abby said. She was nearly as astonished at her own boldness as she was at Vickers’ open-minded attitude.
“Exactly. Like water-walking for horses with joint pain, or actual instability—or this hock problem of Bullet’s, if that’s what it turns out to be.”
“You think she’s had it a long time?” Abby glanced at Wolf’s face. He was deeply focused on the conversation.
“I think she was born with it.”
“God, I hope not,” said Abby.
“Well if she was, at least it means I didn’t do it to her,” Wolf said.
Abby scoffed. “Sure, Wolf. You get a Horseman of the Year award.”
“I never said I was a vet,” Wolf said. “Or even a horse whisperer.”
Vickers laughed. “Hey, folks. Your chatter’s not going to speed up this horse’s recovery. I suggest taking things one step at a time. We’ll know in the next hour or two what we can do for her.”
In the spacious gray corridor of Barn One, Vickers cross-tied the compliant Bullet. Abby reached into her back pocket and pulled out a handful of baby carrots that the mare ate without hesitation. “Good girl,” she whispered into her muzzle.
For the next thirty minutes, Dr. Vickers ran his hands over every inch of Bullet’s body while Wolf and Abby watched from the sidelines. Bullet continued to shift onto three legs, as the doctor pointed to her swelling, the more muscular development of her left rump. She shivered with pain when he held her left hock in both hands.
Abby noticed the concerned look on Wolf’s face. Maybe he was just being defensive because he was so worried. Or maybe he was just thinking about all the money he’d lose if he didn’t have his best roping mare at the ready.
“She’ll be okay, you know,” she said. “You’ve gotta have faith.”
“It’s just hard to watch.”
“I know. Nobody likes to see a horse in pain.”
Wolf smiled sadly. She wondered what was top-most on his mind, the danger to his horse, or the danger to his career?
An hour later, Bullet was resting comfortably in one of the barn’s spacious stalls. In an office at one end of the building, Wolf sipped a Coke nervously while Abby leaned over the back of a chair, waiting for the vet to return with his verdict.
“Good news, folks,” Vickers said as he closed the door behind him. “There’s no ligament damage above the hock. Bullet’s just one of those horses that occasionally succumbs to overwork. She needs rest and,” he nodded briskly to Abby, “as much cold-wa
ter therapy as you have time to give her. The inflammation should subside soon enough—two to four weeks?”
“Do you mean I should drive her here every day? To Polson?” Wolf asked. “Because I’ll do it, if that’s what it takes.”
“Hey, water therapy works just as well on the east side of the Rockies,” Vickers said.
“I do have a pretty sizable river running through my property,” Wolf said.
“Perfect,” Vickers said. “And you could do worse than to put Abby here on a retainer. She’s as tuned in to Bullet’s needs as anyone could be.”
Wolf stood up slowly and walked over to Abby. Her heart beat double-time as he stood before her, his head bent toward her, his eyes locked on hers. “What do you say? Can we take the Bullet Show on the road down to Choteau?”
She blushed even as Dr. Vickers’s presence made her self-conscious. He had a bemused look on his face, and she hoped he didn’t know her dad or any of her parents’ acquaintances. No chance for gossip. “Why don’t we talk about it in the car?” she said.
Vickers cleared his throat. “So, folks, all I ask is that you keep a journal of Bullet’s progress. If it works, and I have no doubt that it will, it’ll be a testimony to aqua-therapy I can use to persuade some of my more stubborn clients. And Abby, by the way, nice intuition with the hock. Great work.” He winked at her as he reached across the desk to shake both their hands. She couldn’t believe a local vet could be this progressive. What had just happened? Had hell frozen over?
She turned toward Wolf as the truck and trailer rolled up the lake toward Bigfork. He seemed relaxed, even happy, as he turned the radio down and hummed tunelessly to himself, glancing now and then at Abby.
In one short and surprising day, the tables had turned. No longer was she waiting for a sign from Wolf that he remembered what they’d once meant to each other. He was actually looking to her for help. He had changed, for sure. The question was, how much? The road spooled like a dark ribbon before them. Anything seemed possible.
When they reached the turnoff to the Macready ranch, Wolf broke the peaceful silence. “I know I can’t expect you to give up all your clients when you’re just getting started here, but could you really come down for a few nights to help with Bullet? It would mean a lot to me.” He stopped the truck and leaned toward her. “Actually, I don’t know if I can do it without you.”
Take it easy, Abby, she counseled herself after imagining sleeping under the same roof as Wolf. Just speak, one word at a time.
“My schedule is crazy this week. I can’t spend the night. But if we head out first thing in the morning, I can give you a solid four-hour block of training. That’ll be enough to get you started. After that, we can check in by phone. That’s about as much time as I can make.”
He was silent as he let his hands rest on the steering wheel. Abby could feel her heart pound, almost audibly, as she waited for his response.
He smiled at her. “I’ll take what I can get.”
…
“Abby?” She smelled her mom’s Mexican chicken stew before she reached the kitchen—the Anaheim chilis, the cumin, the simmering chicken broth. Her mother stood at the stove, rested her hands on her broad hips, and gave Abby the once-over.
“That was no ‘quick run’ down to Polson, Abby. You have a flat tire or something?”
“Nope. Actually, it was a real education, working with Dr. Vickers. He’s definitely one of the top vets around. His clinic’s as nice as the cardio unit at Kalispell General.”
“Is that so?” Her mom retied her apron and continued to look at her. “So it was a hundred percent business?”
“A hundred percent. Vickers greeted me as a colleague. I think I might even get some referrals from him.”
“And Wolf? Was it a hundred percent business with him?” Her mom turned back to the stove.
Abby forced herself to smile. “He trusts me with his favorite horse. That’s what this is about.”
“If you say so.” Her mom arched a cynical eyebrow.
Abby dropped the fake smile. “Mom, I told you this is strictly business once already.”
“Yes.” Her mom wiped her hands on her apron and faced Abby. “You did.”
“Then, why do you have to keep pushing?”
Her mother sighed. “Because I don’t trust him, that’s why.”
“Well, you’ll have to trust me, then, because Dr. Vickers suggested that I drive over to Choteau to work with Bullet at Wolf’s ranch.”
Her mom’s eyes popped. “Dr. Vickers’s suggestion?”
“Yep. Although he suggested we work with Bullet for a few days, and I told Wolf I only had one.”
“Okay, then.” Her mom washed her hands under the sink, then turned to face Abby. “I do trust you. Enough out of me on the subject.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself, Abby thought. She was tired of her parents treating her like she was still in high school, but she understood why they did. They were older than other parents, from a different generation, almost. And given the way Abby’s birth mother had passed, they seemed to treat Abby with extra care, lest anything ever happen to her. So what if they were a little overprotective? They’d taken her into their home and cared for her as their own—she owed them everything.
She braced her arms against her mother’s shoulders. “I’m a big girl, Mom, and I have the muscles to prove it.” She flexed her biceps, and her mom began to laugh. Then she pivoted toward the stairs, ready for a much-needed shower. If she turned around one more time, she knew she might see that skeptical look return to her mother’s face. The possibility made her reach the top in seconds.
She peeled off her clothes and stared at herself in the mirror until she could almost see her heart ricochet in her chest. How much of what she’d told her mom did she actually believe? Could she keep the relationship professional? Or, in such close quarters with Wolf, would she pass out from pure desire? Would she do something stupid? Or would “something stupid” be the most fantastic decision she could possibly make?
Chapter Ten
Wolf drove his 4x4 and trailer, Abby’s truck in his wake—she’d insisted on driving her own vehicle, waving off his offer to drive her back later—and headed over Route 89 toward Browning. Clouds had begun to amass in the foothills of the Rockies, making the bright June morning look more like a late winter day. He glanced in his rearview mirror every two minutes to keep her in view, even though he knew he didn’t have to worry about her. Like most of the no-nonsense Montana women he knew, Abby probably bought new tires every year. She seemed to keep her truck in as tiptop shape as she did that bangin’ body of hers.
Still, he breathed a sigh of relief pulling into Hook’s Hideaway, a café and truck stop just outside Browning. A light rain had started, and the road was getting slick. Last thing he needed was a fishtailing trailer with Bullet inside, Abby right on their heels. And not just that—he was starving, and Abby must have been, too. They could wait out this passing shower inside.
Abby slid into the spot next to him, cut the motor, and rolled down the passenger-side window for Stella. The dog whined in protest when she figured out she was being left behind.
“Go ’head and bring her in,” Wolf said. He stood, hands in his pockets and his worn flannel coat slung over his shoulders. “Hook’s wouldn’t care if you had a pet llama.”
“Dogs and women welcome,” Abby said. “A classy establishment.”
“For you, only the best.”
He opened the passenger’s side of Abby’s truck and reached inside for a leash. Stella came right to him and squatted at his feet. “She likes me.”
“Until you screw up, sure. She’s giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
He laughed, opening the screen door for dog and owner. Cigarette fumes billowed out as the three of them plunged into the dark recesses of the shabby little joint. Sawdust tamped down the stench of stale beer. The menu was limited: chicken tenders he knew were anything but; well-done buffalo bu
rgers; French fries like charred fingers.
“Whew,” Abby said, waving away a curtain of cigarette smoke. “You sure know how to impress a girl.”
“You know when Kalispell passed that no-smoking-in-restaurants ordinance?”
Abby nodded.
“The bartenders here used the newspaper articles for target practice.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her eyebrows arched. “There’s a shooting range out back?”
“They did it right here in the bar.”
Abby laughed tentatively.
“Better think twice, Abs. Once we cross the Divide, you’re going to find yourself in the wild, wild West.”
She tucked one hand into her back jeans pocket as they stood together, contemplating the pock-marked walls surrounding the old mahogany mirror. “I’ve been to Choteau before. Stop pretending it’s the O.K. Corral.”
He laughed, then took the opportunity to look her over, to admire those shapely hips straining against her jeans. He felt a warmth in his chest that made him want to throw his jacket over her shoulders and button them both inside. Then he remembered the icy look her mother had given him when he’d showed up that morning. After offering him eggs—knowing that open-armed hospitality was practically a state law, he hadn’t gotten too optimistic—Marcie had given him a quick once-over that said in no uncertain terms, you hurt my daughter, I’ll hand you your ass on a plate. He’d said no thanks to the eggs, tipping his hat like a gentleman.
Abby slid into a booth and picked up a menu, then handed one to him. The table’s Formica surface glimmered with a thin coat of grease. He peered at her over the top of his menu. “You remember the time you, me, Bridget, and John Tanner went to that no-name barbecue joint opposite Swan Lake?”
“The Home of the Grizzly Burger. I remember ordering a double. It was so overcooked it took two beers to get it down.”
“Yep.” Abby laughed. “And they probably would have served beer to a ten-year-old in there, but I was too scared to order one, so that charcoal taste just stuck to the top of my mouth.”
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