Adventures with Canine Cupids Box Set

Doggone Love-2

“Looks like some bruising there along the lung, but I don’t see any sign of penetration or lacerations. She seems to be breathing clearly, so we’ll hope that’s all the damage. I’d like to keep her here for observation until tomorrow, though. If she goes into distress, we can treat her at once. An attendant is on duty twenty-four seven as you probably know, one of the vet techs. I’ll likely be camping in the office myself.”

Damon hesitated, then nodded. “Makes sense to me. I hate to leave her, but that’s probably best for her. I’ll give you my cell phone number so you can call if any complications come up. I’ll check in the morning before I come in to get her to be sure she’s able to come home.”

Eric summoned one of the assistants and together they settled Dixie in a cage, with water and a soft bed for her to lie on. Damon approved of the care his girl received. She was getting the royal treatment, for sure.

When Damon headed back out to his truck, Eric followed. Damon pulled a small notebook from the visor. He scribbled his cell phone number on a page. Ripping it out, he handed it to the other man.

“Here you go. Be sure to call if there’re any problems. Dixie is—well, she’s almost like family to me. She was whelped in my kitchen, part of the last litter my old boyhood dog produced. The line has been in the family for quite a while.”

Eric folded the page before he slipped it into a pocket of his scrub shirt. “I’ll keep a close eye on her. I know ranching is a hard life, lonely sometimes. You can get real attached to some of the horses and dogs that share the work.”

“Are you ranch raised? You sound like you’re speaking from first-hand knowledge.”

Eric grinned ruefully. “No, I wish I had been, though. I was a town kid, but my favorite uncle is a small town vet. He works with a lot of ranchers and farmers. As a kid, I spent every spare hour with him. From the time I was seven or eight, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. My dad never understood—wanted me to be a lawyer like he was—but Uncle Jared helped me. He said I had a gift for it that shouldn’t be wasted.”

Damon hesitated. “Listen, I’m sorry I was rude there at first. No call for it. I apologize.”

“No problem. You were worried, and I understand. I was a little taken aback to find you there in the hall and overreacted myself. Friends?” Eric held out his hand again, this time with a smile.

Damon shook hands and couldn’t keep from smiling back. “Friends,” he agreed. Again the funny tingle zinged up his arm, setting off reactions that didn’t seem right at all. He hoped the other man didn’t notice the sudden pressure against the zipper of his Wranglers. He turned away quickly and got into the truck.

Must be time to go visit Emmy Jo Duncan down in Casa Cerritos again. Somehow though, the thought of Emmy’s lush femininity didn’t seem as appealing as it usually did.

* * * *

When he got in from checking the stock in the farthest pasture that evening, Damon called the clinic. He told himself he’d rest easier if he knew how Dixie was doing, but he was disappointed when Dr. Vann didn’t answer the phone. Instead, it was one of the techs, Jessie Crandall. He knew her family. Though young, she was well-trained and totally dedicated to giving good care to the animals. He suspected she had a crush on him, too, but she was much too young to interest him.

“Hi, Mr. Carhart. Bet you’re calling about Dixie, aren’t you? She seems to be doing real well. Dr. Vann was called out on an emergency, but he told me to keep a close eye on her. She’s eaten a little and is resting quietly now. Don’t worry about her. She’s going to be okay.”

He thanked the girl, in spite of the vague distress that continued to nag at him as he hung up. He knew the hours until the clinic opened the next morning would drag.

He slept badly, missing the small sounds Dixie made as she stirred on her rug beside his bed. Some of the old ranchers groused that he was spoiling a good working dog by letting her sleep in the house, but he ignored that. Who he chose to let sleep in his room was his own damned business!

When Damon had finished breakfast and the morning chores, he called again. Another assistant answered this time. She assured him that Dixie was able to come home. He lost no time in getting to town to pick her up.

Again, Dr. Vann was out of the office. How can he manage things for Doc Palmer if he’s off gallivanting around? Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it was stupid. Ranch vets did as much work in the field as they did in the clinic. Actually it would make sense to have two or more doctors in the practice so one could be there most of the time.

This time Dixie rode in the cab with him. She sat up to look around until they hit the highway. Then, with a sigh, she curled up and tucked her head down against his thigh to go to sleep. He had some antibiotics to give her to insure no infection developed and some pain pills if she seemed to be uncomfortable. She’d spend the next few days in the house, whether she wanted to or not. Rosa would be happy for her company. He suspected the elderly Hispanic woman had a secret weakness for the aging dog anyway. He’d caught her slipping tidbits to Dixie more than once.

Damon kept busy for the next several days, which was pretty much the story of his life. He could put in thirty-two hours a day instead of sixteen and still never catch up. Friday evening found him in his makeshift office struggling with the most hated part of his work—the bookkeeping, paper pushing part. He actually jumped when the phone rang. Who in the hell would be calling him on a Friday night at nearly eight?

“Carhart Ranch.”

“Damon? This is Eric Vann. I just wanted to see how your dog was doing. Is she feeling more like her old self now?”

Damon took a slow, deep breath. “Yeah, Dixie’s recovering just fine. I gave her one of the pain pills the first night when she got a little restless, but none since. She’s been trying to sneak out and follow me every morning. Rosalinda, my housekeeper, has to watch her like a hawk when I leave.”

“Can’t keep a good dog down, I guess.”

He heard the humor on the other man’s voice. “Yeah, Aussies are not couch potatoes. They feel pretty strongly about their duties, and Dixie is my self-appointed protector. She just knows I can’t manage on my own. Say, are you still holding down the clinic for Doc Palmer?”

“He got back today and sent me home. I guess that’s one reason I called…because I figured I might not hear any more about your dog otherwise.”

“Well, if you haven’t got anything pressing, why don’t you come out tomorrow and get in a little riding? I’m going to be moving cattle between pastures. With the dogs—most of ‘em are Dixie’s pups—there isn’t a lot of heavy wrangling, but it’ll be great weather for riding. I can probably persuade Rosalinda to fix dinner for us, too.”

“That sounds great! I haven’t been on a horse in longer than I like to admit, but you’re right, this early fall weather is too fine to waste indoors. Thanks, I know I’ll enjoy it.”

As he hung up the phone, Damon shook his head. What did I go and do that for? I’m perfectly able to move those cattle without anybody tagging along. Eric—Dr. Vann—said he wasn’t ranch raised, so he’ll probably have no idea what to do.

* * * *

The next morning, Damon was saddling up his favorite gelding, a blaze-faced dun, when a whirlwind roared into the ranch yard. As the dust settled, he saw the motorcycle, a sleek black Harley. The rider dismounted and took off his helmet, revealing a head of sandy blond hair.

Eric rides a Harley? It took him a moment to absorb this surprising bit of information. He hadn’t pegged the young vet for a biker type, but then he’d been wrong in his judgment about the man once already. Maybe he’d better try for an open mind. I think I’m getting to be a sour old codger ahead of my time, stuck in my narrow rut out here. Time to snap out of it.

The vet slithered out of his leathers and draped them over the bike. When he turned to start Damon’s way, Damon noticed how his faded jeans clung to muscular legs, how totally masculine he looked in them and a matching western cut shirt. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but, to be reasonable, Damon had to admit a cowboy hat and a cycle helmet would hardly work together. Maybe he could scare up an old one because Eric was too fair-skinned to go bareheaded in the sun all day.

Without quite realizing what he was doing, Damon had stopped and just watched as Eric strolled toward the barn. He moved with an easy gait, just short of a swagger. Cocky sucker, isn’t he? Given the way his Levi’s molded his body, cocky now took on a whole new meaning. Damon grinned. We’ll see if he’s still feeling that good when Ole Red gets through with him.

Almost every rancher had a horse like Ole Red, a savvy, old cowpony who separated the real cowboys from the wannabees with uncanny skill. The old horse would never seriously hurt anybody, but he’d left many a drugstore cowboy to limp back to the ranch in pinching boots after scraping him off with a low hanging limb, doing a little buck-jump at an awkward time or balking suddenly after starting off at a lope. If Eric managed to stay on board the full day, Damon would give him an honorary cowboy degree for sure.

Eric did not comment at first when Damon indicated the rangy chestnut waiting at the hitching rack, but Damon saw him look the gelding over. “I can saddle him if you’ll point me at the gear. And you don’t have to give me the kid-and-old-lady horse. I’ve ridden.”

“Old Red is no kid horse. He’s one of the savviest cow ponies you’ll ever see. Just give him a slack rein and let him work.” He’s just smart enough to tell if you know what you’re doing.

Damon kept an eye on the other man, but it was soon clear he’d tacked up a horse before. He settled the blanket, then the saddle in place, cinched it up, dropped the halter and put on the bridle, then went back to give the latigo another tug. One of Ole Red’s favorite tricks was to puff himself up when cinched. That way the saddle stayed loose. When the rider went to climb on, the saddle usually rolled to dump him on his ass.

When Eric swung up and settled in the saddle, Damon could see the stirrups were a little long. No surprise since he judged the other man to be about five-nine, which resulted in legs a bit shorter than those of someone Damon’s six-two. He crossed the dusty ground to stand by Eric’s left knee.