Two stalls farther down were occupied, the horses blowing softly and moving around with crunches of hay and the sprinkling sound of shavings.
“He’s been tested for HYPP,” said Michelle. “Of course you know that, since you did the retest last month. He’s negative for PSSM, too, and he wasn’t worked hard or anything. Could it be PHF? EHV-1? I heard there was an outbreak a few months ago.”
Jenny translated the abbreviations, which ranged from a debilitating genetic condition to tick- and mosquito-borne diseases that most horses were vaccinated against. Internetitis, indeed.
Nick just let it roll off him as he examined his patient, starting a thermometer going, and then checking the gelding’s eyes and gums, palpating the nodes under his jaw, and taking the horse’s pulse. When the owner ran down and moved to Nero’s head, he said, “The first thing you noticed was that he didn’t clean up his breakfast?”
“Yes, but he’s not always the best eater. I took his temperature, and when it was normal, I put them out like I do every day. He looked okay at lunchtime, but when I brought him in I saw that his legs were getting puffy.” One of her hands fluttered up to her throat. “Then I took his temperature, and it was one-oh-five!”
Jenny winced. Normal was around a hundred, and horses tolerated being too cold much better than they did being too hot.
“Well it’s down some now,” Nick said after checking his thermometer. “He’s at a shade over one-oh-two.”
“I gave him Banamine like you said.”
“It helped.”
She rubbed the gelding’s forehead in a compulsive circular motion. “I was so worried when I saw his legs, and then his fever. What if it’s lymphangitis? Or even strangles?” Glancing over her shoulder at Jenny, who had been staying out of the way farther up the aisle, she said, “You probably think I need to back slowly away from the Internet.”
Jenny held up her hands. “Hey, it’s easy to work yourself up over stuff like this. I once convinced myself I had Ebola when it was really just a bad batch of chili. Good news is, you’ve got a great vet on call.”
Michelle’s smile warmed. “That’s nice of you to say.”
“You shouldn’t ever feel like you have to apologize for caring. Within reason, anyway.”
Jenny glanced at Nick, hoping she wasn’t overstepping, and got a covert thumbs-up. A moment later, he went out to his truck and returned carrying a plastic tote containing a variety of syringes and tubes.
Melissa visibly braced herself. “What’s the diagnosis, Doc?”
“The best I can do is ADR-FUO.”
She heaved a sigh. “That’s what I was afraid of. What’s the plan?”
“Well, he’s a bit dehydrated, so I’m going to tube him with some fluids. That’ll get him feeling a whole lot better, on top of the meds you already gave him. We’ll keep after him with the Banamine for the fever and watch him for a couple of days. If he gets worse or the blood tests come back positive for something, we’ll adjust from there.”
It took twenty minutes for Nick to administer the fluids, take several tubes of blood, and set Michelle up with the meds she would need for the next few days.
The worried owner dogged Nick’s heels as he cleaned up his equipment and reloaded the truck, peppering him with questions that he fielded with lots of “We’ll see how the next few days go” and “Call me if he gets worse.” He took quick looks at the two other horses and checked their temperatures. Straightening, he announced, “They’re both WNL.” He grinned in Jenny’s direction. “Within normal limits.”
Michelle chuckled. “Okay, if you’re teasing me, I know he’s going to be okay.”
“Which isn’t to say that you shouldn’t have called. That high of a fever isn’t something to mess with.” He gave her a few more instructions, then gripped her shoulder. “Now go inside and get something to eat, okay?”
“I . . . Okay.” She smiled ruefully. “Peter’s probably missing me. He’s good about the horses, but still.” She sketched a suddenly shy-seeming wave in Jenny’s direction. “It was nice to meet you. I’m sorry I interrupted your evening.”
“What, you’re not buying me as an assistant?”
“Not when Nick is prepping and schlepping his own syringes.”
“Shoot. I’ll have to remember that next time.” Jenny dug in her pocket, and came up with one of Krista’s cards. She held it out. “Nick said you’re new to town and haven’t been into horses for too long. I’m at this number for another five weeks, and then it’s my sister’s number. She’s my twin. Anyway, give me a call if you’d like to get together sometime. Or if we don’t connect, give Krista a shout-out. She’s always up for talking horses, and she loves making new friends.”
They left amid Michelle’s effusive thanks, piling back into the truck and cranking the heat as Nick punched a few notes into his phone. When he tucked it away, he shot Jenny a sidelong look and an approving smile. “You’re quite a lady.”
The simple statement went straight through her, warming her more thoroughly than the hot air being pumped out of the vents. “I didn’t do much.”
“You did plenty.” He drove away from the barn, toot-tooting the horn as they went by the house. “Michelle could use some horsey contacts.”
“I liked her. And we’ve all got to start somewhere.” She paused, glancing over at him. “What does ADR-FUO stand for?”
“You haven’t heard that one? It’s a vet-school special that means the horse ain’t doin’ right, due to a fever of unknown origin. ADR-FUO.”
She giggle-snorted, clapping a hand over her mouth. “In other words, you don’t have a clue why he’s sick.”
“Yeah, but I gave it a name, which made her feel better even though it doesn’t really mean anything specific. And the meds will make Nero feel better, so it’s a win-win.”
“You’re not worried that it’s serious?”
“Any fever that high is serious in its own right, but it’s responding to the Banamine, which means we can keep his temp in a safe range. Most likely it’s a stray virus that might or might not hit the other two horses—the stocked-up legs have me leaning in that direction. I’ll run tests, of course, and maybe something will pop up. Or else he might develop another symptom or two. My money says this’ll be the end of it, though. And in a few days Michelle will probably find some other reason to stress about him or one of the others.”
“Hypochondria by proxy?”
“Maybe a little. I’m not going to fault her for wanting to do right by her horses, but I’m also trying to guide her a little on learning to do the basics for herself.”
“Not keen on spending every other Friday with Nero and his buddies?”
He lifted a shoulder. “No reason she should spend for an emergency farm call if it’s not really an emergency.”
She studied him, liking what she saw. “You’re a good guy, Doc.”
“You sound surprised.”
“That you’re a good guy? No. That I’m here with you? Maybe a little.”
“You don’t usually date locals?”
I don’t usually date mature, self-sufficient adults. The thought showed up out of nowhere, popping into her head like someone had whispered it into her ear. “Something like that.”
He paused at the top of Michelle’s driveway. “It’s not too late. You hungry?”
“Gosh, yes. Bring on the golden arches.”
“I think we can do better than that.”
“Would you mind if we didn’t?”
He laughed over at her. “Jonesing for grease?”
“Gran doesn’t believe in fast food. Which, of course, means I crave it the moment I set foot on the ridge.”
“I know just the place, then. It doesn’t look like much, but the food rocks.”
“Sounds like my kind of dive.”
Sure enough, when they walked into a small, brightly lit diner a half hour later, she closed her eyes and inhaled the scents of grease and powdered sugar, and reached out t
o squeeze his hand. “This is exactly what I had in mind.”
Better yet, it was an unknown quantity, a small place tucked into a strip mall outside of Three Ridges. She was pretty sure it had been a Blockbuster or something the last time she had paid attention. Now it was the sort of place that didn’t look like much from the outside, mostly plate glass and a menu stuck above the OPEN sign, with vinyl booths and mushroomlike stools at a Formica counter. But it was nearly two-thirds full at ten p.m., which was always a good sign.
“Dining in or takeout?” asked the hostess, a bottle blonde with wide-set eyes and a pointy chin, who Jenny thought might have been a year or two ahead of her in school.
“Takeout okay?” she asked Nick.
“Works for me.”
“Cool.” She gave the menu a quick glance and went with the burger that had the longest list of stuff added on top. “I’ll have a rustler’s special with fries and a large Diet Coke, please, and . . .” She flipped the menu and drew a finger down the desserts. “A slice of chocolate-pecan pie. To go.”
When the waitress transferred her attention, Nick held up two fingers. “Make that two of the same.” As she moved off, scribbling, he said, “Nice to know you’re not one of those ‘I’ll have a salad with the dressing on the side, and water with a lemon’ girls.”
“I have my salad days. This ain’t one of ’em.”
“Word.”
They sat companionably close at the counter for the ten minutes it took their food to appear, making small talk about the giggling teens, hustling waitresses, and decor.
“It’s homey,” Jenny decided, “though my mom would probably come up with some highbrow name for it. Vintage-inspired Western Kitch, or Mid-Century Rodeo.”
“Retro Yard Sale Cowboy?” Nick suggested.
“Ooh, that’s a good one.”
The waitress plonked a couple of bags down in front of them, along with a ticket. “Pay up front. Have a nice night.”
They wrangled briefly over the bill, he paid, and they headed back out into the chilly night. “Where to?” he asked as they reached the truck.
She shot him a sidelong look. “Have you been to Makeout Point yet?”
He did a double take, and then gave a long, slow grin that came with lots of dimple action. He eased in until she was leaning against the passenger door, blocking her with his body in a move that sent a skitter of warmth through her as he said, “Jenny Skye. Are you asking me to go parking?”
9
Nick had expected to be attracted to Jenny—heck, he had been looking forward to their date all week. But he hadn’t expected to be charmed. He was, though. Not just by her enthusiasm for riding along with him or the way she and Michelle had connected, but also by the way she grinned up at him in challenge now.
“Maybe I am asking you to go parking,” she teased. “Are you shocked?”
“It’ll take a whole lot more than that to shock me, darlin’.” He leaned in, saw her expression change as she readied for the kiss he knew they were both anticipating . . . and then he reached past her and opened the truck door. “Shall we go?”
Her face blanked for a second, and then she laughed, balled up a fist, and socked him in the arm. “Beast!”
“And here I thought I was being a gentleman.” He offered his hand to help her up into the cab, and squeezed her fingers before letting go and shutting the door. When he climbed in on the other side, he added, “But if you want me to be a beast instead . . .”
“Oh, just shut up and drive.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Hunger got the best of them, and they ate their burgers and fries on the short drive out of town, chasing ketchup and special sauce with napkins and good humor. Jenny directed him along secondary roads that got progressively narrower as they went, with snow under their tires and packed in berms on either side. The only illumination came from the truck’s headlights and the sliver of moon overhead, intermittently visible through thick stands of pine.
“The turnoff is up there.” She pointed to a gap in the trees. It proved to be a plowed one-lane road that wound through the trees for about a mile before ending in a wide turnaround. There, wind had scoured the ground nearly bare, revealing a rocky outcropping that speared out past the tree line. Beyond it, the world fell away.
He rolled the truck to a stop. “Should I drive out there?”
“We used to when we were kids, but let’s not risk it. I’d hate to see the Vetmobile go poof.”
“The Vetmobile, eh? Do I get a cool theme song?”
“We’ll see.” She lifted the last two takeout containers. “Want to take our desserts mobile?”
“Absolutely. Let me grab a couple of flashlights.” He expected to freeze, even in his heavy coat and ski pants, but when they got out of the truck, he was pleasantly surprised. “Hey, it’s not so cold here.”
She took a deep breath of the pine-laden air. “It has something to do with the trees and the air currents, though there’s supposed to be a hidden hot spring involved, too. Every few years, a group of kids—or adults who should really know better—gets in trouble trying to find the hidden springs, and Search and Rescue has to come in and pull them out of wherever they’ve gotten stuck, lost, or otherwise incapacitated.”
“Think we could find it? I’m up for some spelunking, if you know where to start.”
“I’d suggest waiting until summer for that one.”
“We could use melt patterns and steam to find the hot spots.”
She looked momentarily intrigued, but then shook her head. “Nah. Krista would kill me if either of us wound up out of commission.”
Enjoying her mix of irreverence and family loyalty, he took the containers and offered her the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”
They walked together along the point, not needing the lights because the moonlight amped as they broke out of the trees.
For a make-out spot, it had a hell of a view.
Nick gave a low whistle as he balanced himself and looked out over a sheer forty-foot drop. The cliff face was featureless save for a few ledges that offered far more sharp rocks than soft landing spots, and dark, jagged stones speared through the snow at the base. But beyond that ruggedness, the snowscape smoothed out, flowing away from them almost as far as he could see in the moonlight, until it butted up against the distant foothills.
“The land down there isn’t part of Mustang Ridge, is it?” He thought they were still too far south, though he didn’t have the area fully mapped out in his head yet.
“No, it’s state land. We used to see mustangs down there all the time—little family groups, sometimes bigger herds on the move. I’d come out here by myself, bring my camera, and just sit here until dusk, waiting for the perfect shot.” She scanned out to the horizon. “I don’t see any tracks. They must be ranging someplace else for the winter.”
He looked around. “I should’ve brought a blanket or something for us to sit on.”
“Ah, let me show you the trick. Come on, this way. Watch your step.” She flicked on her flashlight.
To his surprise, she led him back to the tree line near the parking area, and then down to what looked like a fault line in the stone, but turned out to be a narrow path that ran below the promontory to a small sheltered area he hadn’t seen from above. There, old, worn logs were set in a semicircle around a fire pit that was lined with stones and blackened with soot.
The logs were carved with a myriad of names and dates, some in hearts, others with threats or boasts, and a few RIPs, spelling out the history of a generation or two of teens. The nearby stones were bare of graffiti, though, and there wasn’t any trash, suggesting that either the local rangers patrolled the area, or the kids had a code of conduct when it came to using the point.
Jenny sat at one end of the center log, leaving room for him to sit beside her as long as he didn’t mind squeezing in with their bodies pressed together from knee to shoulder.
He didn’t mind that. At all.
Which answered that question. “Thanks.” He took a bite and looked around, appreciating the shelter, the view, and the company. “This is definitely better than the diner. As long as we don’t go over the edge, that is.”
She bumped him with her shoulder. “I like living a little dangerously.”
He could relate, but it also brought a twinge of been there, done that, learned my lesson. He wasn’t the same guy he had been before, though, and they were just having fun. “Is that what got you into photography?” he asked. “The call to adventure?”
“Either that or vice versa. Chicken, egg, who knows? According to my parents, when Krista and I got chicken pox—we were maybe ten or so—I recovered first and was driving everybody nuts because I wasn’t sick enough to stay in bed, wasn’t well enough to be out doing much, and was bored with everything in between. So Gran gave me her instant Polaroid and two boxes of film, figuring that would kill an hour or so.”
“And an artist was discovered?” He liked the image.
“Something like that. Two days later, I had my first showing.” She grinned. “I matted the photos on construction paper, hung them along the hallway leading to the kitchen, got Gran to make cookies, and—if you believe my father’s version of the story, anyway—tried to charge admission.”
He chuckled. “Way to be an entrepreneur.”
“I didn’t get away with selling tickets, but my parents got me a few more packs of instant film, which I burned through in a weekend. A few days later, Dad handed me his thirty-five-millimeter camera—a decent Canon with a zoom and everything—and told me that he would buy the film, but I had to pay for the developing out of my allowance.”
“Which, I’m guessing, taught you not to waste your shots.”
“Yep. It also motivated me to do extra chores, which I suspect was part of his plan. Anyway over the next few years, I took some classes, won some prizes, and did most of the yearbook candids and a bunch of the senior pictures. It was a natural progression to head for film school, even if it meant moving out of state.”
Winter at Mustang Ridge Page 8