Backlash Tender Trap Aftermath - Lisa Jackson Page 0,158
stop, switched off the engine, yanked off his helmet and swung off the bike. His hair stuck out in uneven blond tufts, and he smoothed it with the flat of his hand.
“You nearly ran me off the road the other day,” she said as he lifted interested brown eyes to hers.
“Didn’t mean to.”
“You should look where you’re going.”
“I do.” One side of his thin mouth lifted cynically. “You shouldn’t hog the entire lane. There was room enough. Besides, Ivan gave me enough of a lecture.” He glanced around the yard. “Is he here?”
“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.