No such luck. “But on certain occasions,” she said with a saucy toss of her head, “I really outdo myself. I buy an expensive dress, matching shoes, get my hair done, a manicure, all the time thinking I’m actually going to go to a real nice party with a real nice guy.”
“Ah, see, there’s your problem. I’ve been telling you for years to stay away from those nice guys.” Alex pulled her a bit closer...so if she took an actual swing at him, she wouldn’t have room to pack much wallop behind it. “You just can’t depend on them.”
“I keep forgetting it’s you bad boys I should be counting on.”
“Bad? Why, Miss Thatcher, you have cut me to the quick. All this time I thought you understood I was one of the good guys.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she said in that sweet-as-butter tone. “It wasn’t like you intended to stand me up. It was just circumstances beyond your control that prevented you from showing up...or calling... or even sending a note after the fact.”
“Inexcusable, I know, but on that particular occasion, the, uh, circumstances were pretty compelling. And the minute I got back into town, I did put on a tux, rent a limo and show up at your door with flowers, souvenirs, my profuse apologies and a sincere explanation. All of which, I might remind you, you did eventually accept.”
“Yes.” Her voice softened with the memory, then sharpened. “But it still doesn’t make up for the fact that I had to go stag to my own twentyfifth birthday party.”
Alex wanted to run a finger under his collar to loosen it a bit, but he grinned down at her instead. “And just to make up for that, I’ve missed every single one of your birthday parties since. See, I am a thoughtful guy.”
She looked at him for a moment as they danced. “You’re trouble to the core, McIntyre,” she said. “Which makes me an idiot for being happy to see you.”
Okay, so the incident was never going to be forgotten. At least she’d forgiven him ... and he owed her for that. “Don’t kid me, kiddo. Admit it. You’re just happy to see me trussed up in this cummerbund and bow tie.”
“Well,” she said. “There is something to be said for a man in a tuxedo.”
“Yes, there is, but you probably shouldn’t say it in mixed company.”
Her soft laugh was as refreshing as a cold beer on a hot day. “How long are you staying this time, Alex?”
“Not long.”
“That part I already knew.”
He wished he could give her another answer or that he could ask her to go with him. But their timing was always off. That’s just the way their Kismet worked. “I’m leaving tomorrow. Going back to Texas.”
She nodded. “I’ve heard it gets real hot there in the summer.”
“So they tell me. I’ll send you a postcard when the temperature hits a hundred.” He paused. “Same address?”
“As if I could afford to move out of Uncle Dex’s house. I’ll be paying for this veterinary degree until I die.”
“Hey, that’s right. I’m supposed to address you as Dr. Thatcher, now, aren’t I?” Another mistake. He realized it the minute the words left his mouth.
His dismay must have shown on his face because she simply shook her head. “Oh, don’t look so stricken,” she said. “I’d probably have had a heart attack if you had shown up at my graduation.”
“I wanted to be there, Annie. I meant to surprise you, but I had the chance to fill in for one of the trainers and—”
“And you seized the opportunity with both hands and your whole heart. I know how this works, Alex, and believe me, I’m not angry. I stopped expecting you to show up for the major events in my life a long time ago.”
He thought that was a little unfair. “You have to admit I’ve been there for some pretty important moments.”
The music stopped as she lifted solemn eyes to his. “Yes, Alex, sometimes, you have been the only one I could count on.”
Impulsively, gently, his fingers brushed the soft curve of her neck. History, he thought. They had it in spades...and more good than bad, no matter what she believed at the moment. Suddenly it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her everything, to pour out the plans he was making, the success waiting at the end of his carefully constructed rainbow. “Annie, I’m coming back...in the fall ... and then we—”
“Don’t.” She cut him off...and he heard the echo of past goodbyes in her voice. “You’ve never made me any promises, Alex. Don’t ruin your spotless record now.”
For a moment the future hung there between them, like a drifter who’d run out of places to go. She looked at him, questioning. He looked at her with the answer... and then he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Hey, little brother,” Matt said with a grin, as he edged Alex out “You’re too ugly to dance with Annie. Move aside.”
Jasper’s “Saturday Night Live” voice geared down to a Harry Connick, Jr., croon, and a soft, romantic ballad drew lovers together across the room.
“Not tonight,” Alex told Matt, refusing to relinquish his claim. “I may be ugly, but I’m not as ugly as you. And either way, Annie would still rather dance with me.” Then he swept her away, willing to let the moment and the melody lead them where it would.
No pretense. No plans. No promises. Nothing except the hours between midnight, morning and one last bittersweet goodbye.
Chapter One
“Don’t do it, mutt.” Alex put his foot on the brake the minute he caught sight of the shepherd-collie mix at the side of the road up ahead. The dog looked dirty, disheveled and desperate...and not necessarily in that order. It just stood there, staring across the highway, not moving, but somehow obviously contemplating the crossing. Even from this distance, it was clear to Alex that the dog didn’t particularly care whether he made it to the other side. “Don’t do it,” Alex repeated, applying more pressure to the brake.
As the old pickup slowed, the motor sputtered and grabbed, choked down, then miraculously caught again and chugged on. Alex knew he was lucky the truck had made it this far without breaking down. The heavy horse trailer would have been a drag on the engine even if the truck wasn’t due a major overhaul and Lord only knew how many replacement parts. But it was more important that the horse travel in comfort, and after he’d spent so much money on the trailer, the ’80 model GMC was the best Alex could afford to pull it. Matt and Jeff would laugh themselves into next month when they laid eyes on the old pickup, but Alex figured they needed to know he could cut corners as well as anybody when he had to.
Besides, they’d quit laughing when they saw the horse.
Fifty miles more and he’d be in Bison City. Home, for the first time in six months. Home to stay ... and that was a first, too. Once he got there, the truck could die for all he cared. He just needed it to hold out for those last few miles, that’s all. Just ahead, the dog shook itself and took a couple of stiff-jointed steps onto the road, directly in front of the truck. Alex laid on the horn, and the dog jerked back, suddenly aware of the danger and trembling visibly. Or maybe Alex just had an overactive imagination when it came to animals. Either way, the noise seemed to pay off, because the dog retreated from the roadway and was standing several feet back when Alex drove past and lost sight of him. “It’s a good day to go home,” he said, offering a word of advice to the dog...or anyone who happened to be listening.
It was a glorious October day, all sun and sky and crisp autumn air, and it didn’t get much better than driving home on a long road with one elbow out the open window and one hand loosely guiding the steering wheel. He’d just pursed his lips to whistle “Home on the Range” when his pickup crested a small incline and met another vehicle, which flew past like a cat with its tail on fire. He heard the blast of a car horn, a screech of brakes, then the accelerating whine of the engine as the car resumed speed and roared on. Suddenly Alex imagined a whole other unpleasant scenario—the shepherd-collie lying crushed and suffering as the hit-and-run speeder flew on to parts unknown.
“Dang it,” Alex said aloud, pullin
g onto the shoulder where he stopped the truck and killed the engine. It’d be a miracle if the motor cranked up again...and all because he was a soft touch and had to go back to check on a dumb dog. Fifty miles, he thought. Give or take a couple. And he would walk every last one of them rather than call one of his brothers and ask to be fetched the rest of the way home.
Both Jeff and Matt were going to be real put out with him as it was, and he saw no need to let them get a head start on the dressing down he expected they were gonna give him. He’d talk them around, though. Sooner or later. Once he got them to take a good look at Koby, they’d understand bloodlines weren’t the only thing that counted in a good cutting horse. Once his brothers got used to the idea, they’d realize Alex did know his way around a training arena and that he was no greenhorn when it came to picking a winner.
Right now, though, he had to see about a dumb dog. Getting out of the pickup, he slammed the door and had to hit it twice with the flat of his hand to close it completely. He walked past the faded blue truck bed and the sleek new Silver-Stream horse trailer, stopping once to stick his hand through the open window and give Koby a reassuring pat. The quarter horse snuffled restlessly, and Alex headed on up the incline, hoping hard that the dog would be long gone by the time he reached the top. Even though there wasn’t a house within miles. Even though there wasn’t much of anything except grazing land and plains rolling off toward the Bighorn Mountains. Dumb dog. Why couldn’t he have stayed home where he belonged?
As Alex crested the hill, he took a deep breath, then let it out in relief when he saw the dog—still among the living—lying on his stomach beside the road, his head bent as he licked furiously at his front paw. Maybe the car had missed him altogether. Maybe he’d just picked up a sticker burr. Or had decided it was time to wash up. But as Alex approached, he saw skid marks and the drops of blood that led to where the collie now lay. “Ah, hell,” he said under his breath and moved closer to the animal.
“Hi-ya, fella.” Sinking onto his heels, Alex observed the dog from a reasonable distance. He didn’t want to get bitten and have to spend the rest of the afternoon at the small Bison City Hospital waiting for old Doc Wilson to wander in and give him a tetanus shot. “How bad is it?” he asked, running a calculating eye over the animal, deciding he was more collie than shepherd, more alive than dead—although that was purely a judgment call. The dog kept licking at the paw, but his eyes followed Alex with fear and pain and just a touch of melancholy hope.
“Mind if I take a look at that? I’ll do my best not to hurt you.” Alex scooted forward, careful to move slowly and to keep soothing the dog with the sound of his voice. “You can’t stay here, y‘know. Road like this is a dangerous spot for a guy like you. Not enough traffic to keep you on your toes. What are you doing out here, anyway? It’s gettin’ on toward supper time, y‘know. Time to be headin’ home.”
When the dog offered no challenge, Alex put out a hand and stroked the matted fur at his neck. He didn’t touch the leg. He didn’t have to. At closer range, it was easy to see the animal wasn’t going to shake off this injury and trot on home. The bleeding seemed to be coming from a superficial cut, but there could be internal injuries as well, and he was fairly certain the left front leg was broken. Add to that the fact the dog was as skinny as a toothless coyote, lost in the middle of nowhere, and looked for all the world like he was too depressed to care.
Alex stroked the collie’s head and felt him sigh beneath the gentle comfort. Then his fingers scraped across a worn leather collar buried beneath the fur, and there was the brief, unmistakable jingle of vaccination tags. This guy belonged to somebody. “All right, fella,” he said, carefully turning the collar until he could see the wording on the tags. The vaccination was current and listed a Sheridan veterinary clinic. “You’ve traveled a piece, haven’t you?” Either that, or someone had dumped him. Sad to say, there were still people that stupid. With a shake of his head, Alex got ready to scoop the dog into his arms and carry him back to the truck. “I know this isn’t going to be real pleasant for you,” he said, “but bear with me and don’t bite. You may find this hard to believe, mutt, but your luck just changed for the better.”
ANNIE HAD HER HANDS FULL of frantic cat.
“I never thought about him going in the laundry room there.” Hilda Lawson worked her hands like a wringer washing machine. “Why, those spider traps hadn’t been set out twenty minutes before I heard him yowl. You think you can get those off him?”
“Not without giving him a crew cut. Genevieve!” Annie yelled again for her assistant as she tried to keep the Lawsons’ massive tomcat from leaping off the examining table and climbing the wallpapered wall.
“Now, Samson,” Hilda scolded gently, all the while keeping a cautious distance from the scrambling mass of yellow fur and sharp claws. “You be still for Dr. Annie. She just wants to get those nasty sticky strips off you.”
Actually, what Annie wanted was to get Genevieve in here to help so she could put this muleheaded tom in a cage until he calmed down. As it stood, her hands and arms were already stinging from cat scratches, and it was all she could do to keep him on the table.
Samson was a prize fighter of a feline. Easily the heavyweight champ of all Bison City’s cats—with myriad battle scars to prove it. One ear was missing a chunk of flesh, and the other dipped toward his eye like a low-riding hat. His tail had a kink, he walked with a limp, and he had a chronic case of bad attitude. He hated the veterinary clinic and everyone in it. Annie wasn’t sure he really liked Hilda, but he was her baby and occasionally he allowed her to treat him like the petite pedigreed Persian she seemed to believe he was.
At least, Hilda claimed he loved her. Annie hadn’t seen any sign the cat would know affection from affliction—and she’d seen Samson on a fairly regular basis ever since June when she’d taken over most of the doctoring from her Uncle Dex. She’d treated the old cat for everything from constipation to snake bite and privately thought he had to be long into his ninth and last life. Today he’d tangled with several long strips of adhesive meant to trap spiders and other crawling insects. He was glued paw to ear and fur to fur, and this time Annie thought he might just have met his match.
“Genevieve!” She yelled again and tried to hold the cat, dab the glue strips with rubbing alcohol, and snip at the cat’s fur all at the same time. He broke free suddenly and leaped for the counter, where his three-legged scrambling scattered containers of cotton swabs and doggie treats. He sprang for the stainless steel sink and landed short, his claws frantically grabbing for a hold as he slid down the front of the cabinet.
“I got him!” Hilda yelled, although she made only a lame attempt to grab him. Her voice had an invigorating effect on Samson, though. He made a clumsy dive under the examining table and came out the other side, with an Ace wrap adhered to one of the glue strips still adhered to him. The bandage unrolled and trailed out behind him, like a long, ecru shadow, scaring him anew and sending him dashing around the table, then around the other side. At this rate he was going to either hang himself or wind up as a cat mummy. Which wouldn’t make a good reference for the doc who’d treated him.
Annie sighed and got down on her knees, holding on to the examining table to offset the imbalance of her protruding tummy. Dr. Elizabeth had warned her that work was going to get increasingly difficult as the pregnancy progressed, but moments like this one at least took Annie’s mind off her worries. And really, what was worse?—being an unmarried mom-to-be or being a cat who was about to lose a whole lot of hair? Maybe even a little hide, if he wasn’t caught soon.
Calculating the avenues for escape, Annie stalked Samson on her hands and knees and almost had him cornered by the door when Genevieve decided—with her usual dramatic timing—that she was needed in Examining Room One. She opened the door, and in a split second Samson spied the light of freedom, sensed salvation and made a mad dash between the newcomer’s hefty ankles. Annie had mere nanoseconds to make a decision and,
with the faint comfort that Samson could handle most any patient awaiting him in the waiting room, she cut the trailing bandage to a less-cumbersome length and let him go.
“What in Sweet Pete is going on in here?” Genevieve demanded, hands braced on hips that had borne eight children and still carried a few pounds from each as a souvenir. Her stern gaze swept from the hand-wringing Hilda to the floor where Annie, still on all fours, looked up at her with sincere frustration. “What? You couldn’t wait a minute for me to get in here and help you?”
It was an ongoing battle between them. Genevieve had assisted Dexter Thatcher for forty-two years and figured she’d earned her degree in the school of experience. She didn’t trust anyone—namely Annie—who’d graduated college in the last decade to handle the paying customers, which Samson wasn’t, but Hilda definitely was. Since taking over at the clinic, Annie had done everything she could think of to establish her role as the doctor in charge. To date Genevieve remained unimpressed. She knew Annie couldn’t afford to fire her, and she knew she wasn’t about to quit. So here they were once again. Stalemate.
“Could you go get Samson before he does some serious damage?” Annie grabbed hold of the table and pulled herself upright. From the waiting room came the sound of the collar-and-leash display toppling, a cat’s meowwwlll, a terrier’s startled yap, the chime of the front door opening and closing, the deep vibrations of a male voice asking to see Dr. Thatcher. And it was only Monday.
“I’ll fetch him.” Genevieve turned in the doorway, not hurrying—never that—just eyeing the hallway before her and the archway into the waiting room beyond. “What in tarnation did you let that yellow son of Sam get into this time, Hilda?”
“Pest strips,” Hilda answered, worrying along behind Genevieve. “We’ve had a rash of spiders this fall, and Pete thought it’d be a good idea to put out traps, but I never thought about Samson gettin’ stuck on ’em.”
Baby by Midnight? Page 2