Adventures with Canine Cupids Box Set

Doggone Love-1

Doggone LoveDamon Carhart winced. He’d heard the hoof connect with a dull thud. That sound barely preceded the pained yelp from his best stock dog as she cart-wheeled through the air. She hit the ground—hard.

“Aw s**t, Dixie Belle, why did you try to turn that damned ornery paint like you do cattle? Horses don’t heel well, babe. You know better.”

At the moment, if he’d had a rifle, he’d soon have had a dead horse. It might have been stupid, but the paint gelding’s kick was worse than stupid. It was plain vicious. Damned horse had a mean streak.

He swung off the ATV, hurrying over to kneel at the injured dog’s side. She whimpered when he touched her, not a good sign. Still, a quick check didn’t reveal any broken bones. He smoothed a tender hand down over her head, talking in a low, calm voice. Meanwhile, his thoughts ran in urgent spirals.

How do I get her back and into the truck with a minimum of pain? Without aggravating whatever injuries she has?

A trip to the vet was definitely the first order of business, in spite of the other work he had planned for the day.

Damon believed in taking care of his animals—all of them. That included about a thousand head of purebred Brangus cattle, ten good horses, and the six Australian Shepherds who helped him manage the cattle with only occasional hired help.

Rosalinda and Julio Mendez didn’t count. Hell, the old Mexican-American couple had been on the ranch since when he was knee high to a Quarter Horse. They really didn’t do a lot any more, but he kept them on out of respect. They were almost family. Rosa had damn near raised him after his mother took off. In spite of her arthritis, Rosa still kept the house up for him and usually cooked his supper. Julio puttered around the headquarters doing odd jobs. He was too stove up to ride anymore, but handy with fence tools, and a fair mechanic.

Ranching in the twenty-first century was a far cry from the style Damon had grown up with. Twenty years had made a big difference. And going back further, from the tales of his father and grandfather, raising cattle had once been a great deal more labor intensive than even in his boyhood. Now with his ATV, horses and dogs, he managed all but the annual branding, ear-notching and weaning chores pretty much by himself.

Ranching was still a hard life, though, often lonely and always busy. He made a decent living, but he’d never be rich. In fact he was land and livestock poor. His net worth looked good, but the cash flow was sometimes touch-and-go. Money problems, on top of the memory of how his mother had left and the one bad relationship he’d suffered while still in school, had decided it for him. Marriage and ranching didn’t mix.

Not too many women could be the helpmate partner he needed anyway. Most of them would look down their pretty little noses at the old-fashioned house he lived in, the far-from-new pickup that was his sole highway vehicle, and the few hours he’d be able to spend with them. These days he’d heard they called it “quality time.” That seemed to equate to wining and dining, trips to upscale resorts and similar trappings of celebrity seduction. He didn’t have the time, the cash, or the disposition for all that.

Still pondering the immediate transportation problem for Dixie, he started to gather what he could find. He decided to rig an impromptu stretcher with a piece of plywood wired to the rear carry rack of the ATV. He placed Dixie up on the board and strapped her down with his belt and a couple of scraps of rope he found in the ATV’s saddlebags. It wasn’t ideal, but he got her home. She only whined a little.

Back at the headquarters, he eased board and all into the back of his pickup. The dog watched him anxiously, but just gave a faint whimper or two at the jostling. It was a good forty-minute drive to the vet clinic at the nearest edge of Gila Vista. That troubled him. He’d rather have Dixie in the cab, but the board wouldn’t fit. He didn’t want to risk bumping her around anymore than he could help. Luckily it wasn’t a particularly hot day, but it wasn’t cold either. He figured she’d be okay. It was the best he could do.

He drove fast, but carefully, trying to ease around the worst of the ruts and potholes on the gravel road out to the highway. As usual, the just-ended summer rains had played hell with the road. And, as usual, the county hadn’t gotten around to grading it yet. He swore as he hit one bump so hard his hat bumped the cab roof.

He made it to the Caliente Veterinary Hospital in thirty-five minutes, near record time. A regular customer, he pulled around to a back door. That one wasn’t used by the town customers who brought their pampered pets into the reception area up front. He was in no mood to deal with dogs that looked like dust mops on stubby legs or ill-tempered cats and their fussy female owners. As he strode down the hall, someone stepped out of an examination room into his path.

“Hold on a minute. Just where do you think you’re going? Customers are supposed to check in with reception up front. We can’t have every Tom, d**k, and Harry traipsing through here.”

Damon almost bowled over the shorter man. The other man caught his balance by grabbing a door jamb.

“I ain’t Tom, and I damn well don’t have a hairy d**k. Where’s Doc Palmer? I’ve got an injured dog out in my truck, a working dog. She needs care right away.”

The husky blond man folded his arms, feet apart, effectively blocking the hallway. “Dave Palmer had a family emergency. He had to go home to Texas for a few days. I’m taking over until he gets back.”

“Who the f**k are you anyway?” Damon had no desire to deal with someone who was not used to handling working animals—or their owners. This guy might be good with the ladies and their lap dogs, but so far he didn’t impress Damon.

When it came to Dixie, only the best would do. The red merle b***h was no longer a pup, but he counted on at least one more litter from her. A few more years of her companionship would be nice, too. She was as much a pet as a working dog could be. Truth be told, he loved her like the family he didn’t have.

“I’m Doctor Vann, Eric Vann. I’ll be glad to take a look at your dog. What’s the problem?”

Damon glowered at the young vet’s surfer-boy appearance. “Are you familiar with stock dogs? She made the mistake of trying to heel a cranky gelding. He kicked her. She knows better, but we all do dumb things sometimes. Accident happened about an hour-and-a-half ago out on the range. I got her here as quick as I could. Right now I’m most worried about shock.”

Spinning on one heel, Damon headed back out. He was half-surprised that Dr. Vann followed. Dixie lay quietly, but her eyes looked clear. She was still alert. So far, so good. As Damon watched, the other man approached, held his hand down for her to sniff and then touched her neck very softly.

“Let’s get her inside.” Without Damon saying a word, Dr. Vann moved to unlatch the tailgate. Together they lifted the sheet of plywood. They carried it inside, dog and all. At that, Damon revised his opinion up one notch.

At least the young doctor wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He didn’t shrink from the manure crusted on one edge of the board. His manner with Dixie seemed calm and sure. Working in tandem, they slid the dog easily from the board onto an examining table.

Damon steadied her while Eric gave her an injection of tranquilizer to keep her quiet. Then he proceeded with the examination. After he listened to her heart and respiration, he gently ran his hands over her body, finding a tender spot on her left side. He looked up at Damon, a frown creasing his brow between eyes the color of a cloudless Arizona sky.

“I can’t tell for sure, but I think she may have some cracked or broken ribs. I want to do an x-ray to be certain. That might also reveal if there are any internal injuries.”

Damon shook his head to regain his concentration on the matter at hand. He could not imagine why, but as he watched the vet’s gentle but capable hands move carefully over the dog, he had a sudden vision of those hands on his own body. A strange sizzle of awareness flashed through him. Hell, if he didn’t know it was impossible, he’d have called it arousal, but that was loco. He wasn’t attracted to other men!

“All right,” he answered, forcing his voice past a sudden frog in his throat. “Whatever you think is needed, I want done. She’s my best dog, the mother of the two next best ones. I was planning on getting at least one more litter from her. She’s only about seven.”

Eric nodded. “Aussies are great dogs, and I can tell this one is special. Lots of smarts in those eyes before the drugs took over. I guarantee I’ll do my best, and we’ll pull her through. By the way, I guess you’re a regular customer of Doc Palmer’s, but how about a name? I’d like to call you something besides ‘Hey, you.’“

“I’m Damon Carhart—my ranch is out the Caliente Creek Road, just at the foot of the mountains. Doc Palmer has dosed my colicky horses, done pregnancy checks on my cattle, pulled calves, and doctored snake bites. He’s generally helped me keep my critters in good shape, patching up the ones that weren’t. As much as he’s done, he’s almost a partner. I probably owe him that much anyway.”

Eric stuck his hand out. “Okay, I’ve heard about you. I just opened my practice in Gila Vista, mostly small animals, although I get an occasional horse. Things are a bit slow so Dave, who’s an old buddy of my uncle’s, asked me to fill in for him when he had to go to Texas unexpectedly.”

Damon took the offered hand. Again that strange sensation washed over him. The doctor’s hand was firm, warm, a solid clasp, but with no excessive squeeze or crunch. For a few seconds, he looked down into the other man’s face. Now that he really looked, he saw more character there than he had recognized at first.

Eric’s skin was a healthy outdoor shade, just beginning to show a trace of weathering. A pair of sky-blue eyes, steady and sure, gazed up at him. The face overall was square but well-balanced. He had sandy eyebrows and a little crook in an otherwise straight but strong nose, as if it might once have been broken.

He wasn’t particularly handsome, Damon decided, but pleasant looking. Probably the kind of guy you’d like to have for a friend. There was strength and calm assurance in his stance, as well as his approach to handling the dog. Damon felt a twinge of shame over his first impression—sometimes he was a mite too hasty in his judgments.

Dixie’s in good hands after all. Thank the Powers that Be for that. “Like I said, whatever she needs, let’s do it. Somehow I’ll cover the bill. Right now this dog is the most important thing…making her well and sound again.”

Eric nodded. “Understand. I’ll do my level best, Damon. You can count on it. I’m in this business because—well, animals can’t talk. They can be shunted aside, ignored all too often, so they need advocates, people who’ll take the time to listen to what they can’t say. Does that sound crazy?”

Damon shook his head, half-grinning. “Not to me. I reckon I listen to my horses, my dogs, even my cattle. Hell, they’re better company than a lot of people I know.”

Eric nodded, a fleeting grin crossing his face. Kicking the lock to free the wheels, he rolled the exam table down the hall to the x-ray room. He didn’t protest when Damon followed.

Damon knew the normal practice was that the owners were sent back to the reception area while their animals were treated, but this was not a normal dog and he was no normal owner. Doc Palmer let him come in most of the time. Maybe he’d mentioned that to Eric.

A few minutes later, they had digital prints of the x-rays. In them, the two cracked ribs were clearly visible. Eric studied the photos carefully for a few minutes. Finally he pointed to a darker, shadowy area beneath the cracks.