by Lisa Jackson
“In the barn.”
“Don’t bother showing me in,” he mocked. “I’ll find my way.” He left his helmet on the seat of his motorcycle and without a backward glance turned toward the barn. Erasmus, startled as he’d been lying under his favorite juniper bush, growled a little. “Ah, shut up,” Ryan muttered, pushing hard on the barn’s creaking door.
“Wonderful man,” Cassie told herself, wishing her father hadn’t hired him as she climbed into the cab. Ryan Ferguson had never done anything wrong—at least nothing that had been proven—and yet she didn’t like him. Nor did she trust him.
She sent a scathing glance toward the gleaming black motorcycle before shoving the old truck into gear. She clenched her fingers over the wheel, and her thoughts turned to Colton and how close she’d come to staying with him.
As she’d driven home, she’d argued with herself and been glad that her father had already turned in for the night. She, too, had been bone-tired, and even though she’d thought about Colton McLean, even fantasized about him a bit, she’d fallen asleep quickly. So she hadn’t had too much time to consider the subtle change in their relationship.
“Don’t kid yourself,” she said, shooting a glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror, “nothing about your relationship is subtle. Nothing about Colton is subtle. That’s the problem.”
Shifting down, she turned into the lane leading up to the small rise on which the McLean house stood so grandly. The two-storied farmhouse gleamed in the morning sunlight, though for years it had been allowed to run down until Denver had returned. Denver had brought with him the cash for a fresh coat of paint, new shingles and repairs.
Spying Colton’s Jeep, she caught her lower lip between her teeth and tried not to notice that her pulse had quickened. This is business, she told herself as she parked near the garage, grabbed her veterinary bag and hurried to the front door, where she pounded on the thick, painted panels. Within seconds she heard a scurrying of feet.
The door swung open, and Milly, wiping her hands on her ever-present apron, forced a tired smile. “Thank goodness you’re here. The men are up at the old foaling shed.”
Cassie’s heart sank. She knew instantly from the deep lines between Milly’s eyebrows that one or both of the horses had taken a turn for the worse.
“It’s Tempest. He was down this morning,” Milly said.
“Why didn’t Colton call me?” Cassie asked.
“He did. Just a little while ago. Your father said you were on your way.”
Cassie didn’t wait for any further explanation. She raced down the steps, rounded the house and ran through long grass to the smallest of the outbuildings.
She shoved against the door, and it creaked open. Inside, the scents of horses, leather and dust mingled together. Dust motes swirled in front of the windows as she breezed down the short corridor to the end stall.
Colton and Curtis, their shoulders drooped, were already inside the stall. “How is he?”
“Not good,” Curtis bit out.
The foreman was right. Tempest seemed weak. His head hung at an alarming angle.
Cassie didn’t waste any time. She slipped into the stall and examined him quickly. His temperature was soaring, and his pulse was much too rapid. “Come on, boy,” she whispered, wishing there were something she could do and feeling absolutely helpless. What good were degrees and all her training when she couldn’t save this horse? “Just hang in there.” She patted his shoulder, then checked his food and water. “Has he eaten anything?”
“Isn’t interested.” Curtis shoved his hair beneath his hat. “We forced the antibiotics down him, but that’s about it.”
“Water?”
“A little.”
“I don’t want him to dehydrate,” she snapped.
Curtis shoved his hat back on his head. “Neither do we.”
Feeling helpless, she patted Tempest’s soft muzzle, then walked back to Black Magic’s stall. “This one looks better,” she said, a little relieved. A cantankerous spark flared in Black Magic’s gaze.
Colton’s lips thinned. “But for how long?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Has anyone checked on the other horses?”
“Yep.” Curtis dug in his breast pocket, reaching for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Len and I looked ’em all over this morning. Everything looks okay.”
“That’s the good news,” Colton said thoughtfully as they walked outside and he shut the door securely behind him. “What little of it there is.”
Curtis lit up and blew a stream of smoke toward the blue Montana sky. “I’ll see about cleaning all the tack—makin’ sure that Black Magic’s and Tempest’s things are gone over. And we’ll clean out the stalls and wash all the equipment again.” He ambled toward the tack room, leaving Colton and Cassie alone.
Colton rammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. His expression pensive, he scoured the valley floor with his gaze, as if he could find some clue to an unsolved puzzle. “When I got through to Denver last night, I told him everything that had been going on in the past few weeks—including the fact that Black Magic was missing for a while.”
Cassie’s stomach knotted. She could tell just by looking at him that something important was to follow, and she guessed what it was. “He thinks the horse was stolen and that Dad did it,” she said without any emotion.
“He’s convinced the horse was stolen. What he’s not sure about is if the horse contracted the disease by accident or if it was done on purpose.”
“On purpose?” she repeated, her mouth dropping open. “What do you mean?” But the ugly realization was beginning to dawn on her. “Oh, Colton, no! He couldn’t think someone would intentionally hurt one of your horses!” she said, horrified at the implications. “That’s—that’s tantamount to germ warfare!”
Colton nodded, shoving the brim of his hat away from his eyes. “I’m just telling you what his gut reaction was.”
“Then his gut reaction was wrong!”
“He didn’t seem to think so.”
“And you? What about you?” She grabbed at the smooth leather sleeve of his jacket. “Tell me you think he’s wrong,” she demanded, her eyes boring into his, her fingers clenched anxiously. He couldn’t think Ivan was involved in anything so sinister.
“I hope he’s wrong.”
“Hope?” she repeated, nearly shrieking. “Don’t you know? Oh, Colton—”
“Look, Cass, I’m just telling you, that’s all,” he said sharply.
She dropped his arm as if it were a red-hot coal. “This time Denver’s gone off the deep end,” she said angrily. “But then he has a history of that, doesn’t he?”
“So does your father.”
The wound cut deep—like the slice of a razor. Whirling, she poked a single finger at his chest. “My father has his reasons for not trusting you and for hating your uncle. But I thought we were going to bury the hatchet and try to forget all that. I even thought we were going to try to ‘start over,’ isn’t that what you said? Well, someone better clue Denver in!”
“I will. When he gets back.”
“And when will that be?”
“As soon as he can.”
“Great! I can’t wait to give him a piece of my mind,” she declared, turning on her heel and starting for her pickup. Of all the insane, horrid notions! If Denver McLean were here right now, Cassie would personally throttle him!
Righteous indignation staining her cheeks the color of the dawn, she threw open the door of the truck and climbed inside. But before she could slam it closed, Colton had wedged himself between the door and seat. “Now who’s jumping off the deep end?” he demanded.
“Excuse me, but I think my reputation and my father’s were just assassinated.” She jammed the key into the ignition. The old engine caught. “I’d just like to know, Colton,” she said, looking down at him from her perch in the truck’s cab, “what happened between last night and this morning! Remember last nigh
t—out here in this very yard? Weren’t you the guy trying to get me to stay with you? Sleep with you? Make love to you?”
His fingers flexed, the knuckles white.
“Well, I’m not interested,” she said. “Not until you and I have some mutual trust!” With a toss of her head, she slammed the truck into gear.
* * *
By the time she reached the clinic, Cassie had cooled off. Her anger had given way to incredulity, disappointment and indignation.
“Any messages?” she asked, letting herself in through the back door and catching Sandy feeding the few patients housed in the cages of the back room.
“No—and your first appointment isn’t until nine.” She poured feed pellets into a small dish and placed them inside the hutch of an ailing white rabbit. “Coffee’s on if you want some.”
“Thanks. I could use a cup. I just hope it’s not decaf.”
“Ouch. Bad morning?” Sandy asked.
“You could say that.” Cassie checked on the Edwards’s poodle and the three puppies that had been brought into the world via Cesarean section. “How’re you?” she whispered, petting the dog’s soft gray head as the tiny puppies squirmed and squeaked, shifting into position against their mother’s shaved belly. Cassie eyed the neat row of stitches and the ochre color of disinfectant staining the bitch’s underside.
“Puppies are doing fine—Mom feels a little ragged,” Sandy said.
“I don’t blame her,” Cassie murmured to the dog, and was rewarded with a sloppy tongue against her palm. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?” she said, grinning as she stood and gratefully accepted a steaming cup of coffee from Sandy.
“Craig wanted me to remind you about the Edwards’s party Friday.”
Cassie made a face. She’d completely forgotten about the annual event. As this was her first full year working with Craig, and Nate Edwards brought a lot of business into the clinic, Craig was adamant she attend. “I don’t suppose you know of a way to get out of it?”
“Why would you want to?”
“I hate those things!” Cassie replied.
“Oh, but it’s great! No one can throw a party like Paula Edwards!”
“No one would want to.” After examining the animals housed in the cages, she asked, “Has anyone called in about sick horses? Horses with an elevated temperature or pulse?”
“Only Colton McLean yesterday and Vince Monroe a few days ago. Craig went out to see the mare.”
Vince Monroe! One of her father’s best friends. Her palms began to sweat. “Do we have that file?”
“Unless Craig has it with him.” Sandy walked through a connecting door to a small file room, ran one finger across the color-coded tabs and pulled out a thick folder for the Monroe ranch. “Here it is,” she said, handing the bound sheaf of papers to Cassie.
The most recent entries were in the top pages. Cassie saw where Craig examined a foal with a bowed leg and a mare with a slight fever. But there was no hint of strangles. She felt immediate relief.
“Craig hasn’t mentioned anything more serious—like strangles, has he?”
Sandy frowned as the back door opened, letting in a breath of cool morning air. “Nope—at least not to me.”
“Did I hear someone talking about me?” Craig asked as he stepped into the back room.
“That’s right, and we’ve been saying hideous and vile things about you,” Cassie teased, her black mood lifting at the sight of Craig’s frizzy hair and flushed cheeks.
“I thought so.” He hung his jacket on a hook near the door, then slid his arms through the sleeves of a starched green lab coat. “What’s up?”
“There’s an outbreak of strangles at the McLean Ranch.”
“Strangles?” Craig let out a low whistle. “Which horse?”
“Black Magic and Tempest. Both stallions.” While Craig walked into the tiny kitchen area and poured himself a cup of coffee, Cassie told him everything that had happened.
“And Colton thinks Black Magic picked it up while he was missing?” he asked thoughtfully, stirring sweetener into his cup.
“That’s the way he figures it.”
Craig’s lower lip protruded thoughtfully. “Makes sense, I suppose. And the timing’s right. There are some wild horses that live up in the mountains. McLean’s stallion could’ve gotten mixed up with them.”
Cassie shook her head. “I don’t think so. The way Colton and Curtis Kramer tell it, Black Magic looked as good when he returned as when he left. He was groomed and cared for. I saw him soon after, and I’d say he hadn’t spent any time in the wild.”
Craig frowned. “So Colton still thinks he was stolen.”
“Yes.” And more, much more. Cassie placed her empty cup into the small sink. “If he’s right, and some rancher ‘borrowed’ the stallion, we’ve got at least one more case of strangles. Probably more.”
“More like an epidemic.” Craig scowled into his coffee as he swirled a spoon in his cup. “I haven’t heard of any other cases, but I’ll call around to the other clinics in the county.”
The front bell tinkled, signaling the arrival of the first appointment.
“Oh-oh, duty calls. That’s probably Mrs. Silvan for her rabbit. She’ll want to talk to you,” Sandy said to Craig.
Craig took one gulp from his cup, then set it aside. “I’ll bring Herman into room two.”
“Great.” Sandy hurried to her desk in the reception area, which was located on the other side of the file room and separated the waiting area from the examining rooms.
Craig motioned to the half-empty kennels and said to Cassie, “Look, if you want to take off early this afternoon and check on the McLean horses, feel free. Unless we get swamped with emergencies, I can handle things here. The same goes for tomorrow. I don’t have any surgeries scheduled, so I’ll hold down the fort.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think you’re due for a day off,” he said, then grimaced. “But dealing with strangles won’t be any picnic.”
“Don’t I know,” Cassie agreed as the front bell chimed again, and Craig lifted the fat white rabbit from its cage.
* * *
Inside the broodmare barn Colton studied the swollen-bodied bay with a jaundiced eye. Red Wing was anxious, her eyes rolling backward, her ears flattening as Curtis tried to examine her for signs indicating she was about to foal.
“Yep. She’s ready,” Curtis said, patting the mare fondly.
Colton wanted to swear. The last thing he needed was new, fragile horses being exposed to God-only-knew-what. “You’re sure about this?”
“Sure as I can be. My money says she’ll foal tonight—tomorrow night at the latest.”
“Great.” Colton grumbled.
“Too bad Tessa won’t be here to see it,” Curtis said wistfully as he slipped out of the mare’s stall. “She’s waited a long time for this.”
Colton didn’t answer. In a mood as dark as Black Magic’s hide, he strode outside, barely noticing that the wind had turned, kicking up from the west.
Though it was barely four o’clock, Milly had already snapped on the kitchen lights. The windows glowed from within. Colton climbed up the back steps, kicked off his boots and hung his jacket and hat on pegs in the porch, then shouldered his way into the house.
It was filled with the scents of nutmeg, strong coffee and pot roast. Milly was sweeping what appeared to be a spotless kitchen floor. She glanced up when he appeared. “You got a call this afternoon. Some guy from a magazine. Grover, he said his name was.”
Colton didn’t really care. “What’d he want?”
“To talk to you.” Milly leaned on her broom, looking miffed. “Wouldn’t tell me any more than that. I left his number in the den.”
Colton couldn’t help but smile. He’d gotten used to Milly and her bossing, Curtis and his cantankerous ways, and Cassie—Lord, how she’d gotten under his skin. He knew what Steve Grover wanted, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t interested.
>
In the den, he glanced at the number, dialed and worked his way past a receptionist and a secretary before being connected with Steve.
“McLean!” Steve nearly shouted. “I’d about given up on you. Thought you might have dropped off the face of the earth.”
“Not yet,” Colton said, a slow smile spreading over his face as he pictured Steve Grover, a man of about five foot eight, whip-thin and charged with energy. He would give odds that even now Grover was pacing in his office, stretching the phone cord taut.
“Ready for a new assignment?”
“I could be,” Colton evaded, propping one hip against the desk and staring out the window to the ranch beyond. Playful colts cavorted in one field while red-and-white Hereford cattle lumbered in the next. “Where?”
“South Korea.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Colton laughed. “I guess you should’ve called sooner.”
“You’re right.” Grover let out a long breath. “All kidding aside, the plane leaves Sunday night from Seattle.”
“Seattle,” Colton repeated, watching Cassie’s white truck pull into the side yard.
“Right. Direct to Seoul. We’re sending a team. Knox, Winston, Overgaard and you, if you’ll go.”
Colton watched as Cassie slid out of the cab, tugged on her jean jacket, then hurried up the front walk. His heart lurched, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Sorry, I can’t make it,” he said without even thinking.
“What?”
“Can’t do it,” he said again. “I’ve got some problems here to tend to.”
“But this might be the biggest story of the year. The students are rioting, the militia’s been called in and there’s talk of a North Korean offensive.”
“Send someone else.”
“But—”
“Talk to you later.” Colton dropped the receiver, severing the connection. His blood pumping, he strode straight to the front door, opening it just as Cassie pushed the doorbell.
Folding his arms over his chest and leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, he drawled, “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Cassie tossed her hair away from her face. “I’m on my way home; I thought I’d see if Tempest was any better.”