Heat of the Moment (7 page)

“Isn't that a little dangerous?”

“In Three Harbors?”

“If you were jogging—”

She lifted her eyebrows.

“Excuse me, wogging, in Three Harbors I wouldn't be worried.”

“You're worried?”

He glanced at her; Reggie tried to lick him in the nose. “You saw my house. There's something weird going on here.”

“I didn't know that when I left, and I doubt it has anything to do with me.” She held up a hand. “Or you either. It's one of those things. Sick, weird, freaky, horrible, all of the above. But in the end, probably stupid kids behaving badly.”

“You believe that?”

“Nope,” she said.

If what they'd been talking about hadn't been sick, weird, freaky, horrible, and all of the above, her response might have made him laugh. As it was, he muttered, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Good times. I need you to drop me at Emerson's place.”

The only Emerson Owen knew was Emerson Watley, a dairy farmer older than God, with plenty of hair in his nose and his ears but none at all on his head.

“Hot date?”

Why had he asked that?

“Date?” she repeated as if the word were a new one. “With Emerson? He's ancient.”

“He could have a grandson, named after him and everything. Or maybe you just like ancient.”

Owen really needed to shut up now.

“I have no idea what you're talking about. There's a cow having trouble calving, so drive this truck like you own it and get me there yesterday.”

“I don't own it.”

“Pretend.”

For a few seconds the only sounds were the tires on the road and Reggie's staccato breaths. He could feel the heat coming off her skin. If he touched her hair, would sparks ignite? Maybe she'd just punch him. Wouldn't be the first time.

“It's none of your business,” she blurted.

“The cow?”

“Me.” She sat stiff and straight, chin lifted, gaze forward. “Even if I had a date with Emerson, or any other man in this town or the next, you gave up the right to care about it a long time ago.”

“No,” he said.

“No?” Her shrill voice made Reggie inch so close to Owen he was practically driving.

“I might have given up the right to date you, but I never gave up the right to care.”

Watley's driveway appeared, and Owen took the turn so fast, Reggie was thrown into her side. He yelped.

“Hey.” She set her hand on the dog's shoulder at the moment Owen did the same.

Their fingers met. They both jerked back; the dog snorted.

“What were his injuries?” Becca asked.

As if he understood, Reggie offered the paw on his injured leg. She smiled and ran her fingers down the appendage. Owen couldn't believe the dog allowed it. Most MWDs had to be sedated for veterinary care. They weren't the kind of animals who submitted to anyone other than their handler. But Becca was different.

“Just here?” she asked, palm directly over the inflamed area. Reggie started to pant.

“He's fine.” Owen negotiated the long, gravel lane then parked next to the brilliantly lit cow barn.

She lifted her hand from Reggie and opened her door, then hesitated, clearly wanting to argue, to examine the dog further, but duty called. “Bring him by the clinic.”

“I'll do that.”

Her eyes narrowed. Had she heard the lie? She should be getting better at it by now—thanks to him.

“Becca?” Emerson stood in the circle of light just outside the open barn door. The man looked exactly the same as he had the day he'd chased Owen off his land with a rifle.

Was this place caught in a time warp? Owen had yet to run into anyone who had changed as much as he had.

Then again, he was the one who'd left. Which only made the time-warp theory more plausible.

“Thanks for the ride.” She got out of the truck.

“Don't you need your doctor bag or something?” Owen asked.

“I'm hoping all I have to do is turn the calf, and it'll come out easy-peasy.”

Owen had been around enough cows to know that if the delivery was going to be easy-peasy, it would have happened already with no need for veterinary assistance. “You're gonna be up all night, aren't you?”

“Probably.” Becca rubbed Reggie's head one last time then slammed the door and went into the barn. The old guy cast a dubious glance in Owen's direction before following.

Owen rested his hand on the gearshift, but he didn't throw the truck into reverse. Reggie nudged his arm.

“Gotta go?” Owen opened the door and got out. After a curious glance in his direction, Reggie jumped out too. The dog had just been outside for hours, if he'd had to go, he would have. But Owen wanted to watch Becca work—or maybe just watch Becca. Either way, Reggie was a good excuse.

“Voraus.”
Owen pointed to the tall grass at the side of the barn and the dog trotted off, nose to the ground. He'd probably already caught the scent of a field mouse and would be occupied tracking it for the foreseeable future.

Owen crossed the short distance from his truck to the barn. He'd been on his feet so much in the past few hours, his leg both ached from overuse and moved with less of a hitch for the same reason. Nevertheless he was glad the darkness shrouded him. Once he reached the barn door, it was an easy matter to steady himself with a hand on a stall, a stanchion, a pitchfork, a wheelbarrow.

The only people in the barn were Emerson, Becca, and Owen. One cow stood in a well-lit stall, her head confined in a portable gate. The rest lowed from the corral. At this time of year they should be walking free in the pasture, but for some reason they crowded around. Several hung their heads over the half back door. The way they chewed their cud and mooed every so often, dark, limpid gazes on the mother, they seemed to be giving advice.

Owen must have made a sound or a movement because Emerson glanced in his direction. “Whaddya want?”

Becca, elbow deep in the cow, glanced Owen's way. “I thought you left.”

“I wanted to watch.”

“It's not a reality show.” She turned her arm so her shoulder spun forward. The cow stomped, narrowly missing her toes.

“Watch it,” Owen said.

Becca gifted him with an evil glare. “I know what I'm doing.”

The cow mooed—long, low, and mournful. He couldn't blame her.

“Do you need help?” Owen asked.

Obviously Becca had delivered calves before, though he wasn't sure how she'd managed to yank a hundred-pound animal out of a thousand-pound animal when she didn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds herself. She'd need to use the calf chains at her feet, once she grabbed hold of something to wrap them around.

“I can help,” Emerson muttered.

Owen cast him a dubious glance. Once upon a time the old man had possessed Popeye forearms. Most dairy farmers did, especially the ones who'd grown up hauling buckets of milk from the cow to the holding tank. When dairy farming went high tech—i.e., the lines ran from cow to holding tank, no more hauling—it got easier. However, there was plenty of work to keep a farming man fit. Pitching hay, shoveling manure, driving a tractor, lifting … everything.

Emerson still had some impressive forearms, but the rest of him appeared more Olive Oil than Popeye. He was skinny as an exclamation point, and his back had started to hook like a question mark.

“I don't mind,” Owen said.

“The last time you were here you didn't mind helping yourself to my beer.”

“About that—” Owen began.

“Betcha didn't expect to get shot.”

“Does anyone?” Owen murmured.

“You shot him?” Becca straightened, though she still had her hand in the cow. She seemed to be mining for gold in there and not finding any.

The cow mooed, stamped, and shifted her huge rump. “You probably don't wanna do that, Duchess.” Becca patted her butt. “Lord knows what I'll pull out if you don't stand still.”

Duchess blew air through her nose like a bull.

Owen didn't much care for that sound. Duchess might not have horns, or a ring through her nose, but she was as big as any bull and she could do some damage, even with her head in that gate, if she wanted to. In his present condition Owen wouldn't be able to reach Becca in time to help. In his present condition he probably wouldn't be any help even if he got there in time.

“She seems upset,” he said.

“How'd you like to squeeze a watermelon out your back end?”

“No, thank you?” Owen ventured.

“Damn right,” Emerson agreed.

Becca narrowed her eyes on the old man. “While I'm fishing around in here for the hoof I just lost because Duchess couldn't be still, why don't you tell me why you shot someone over a few beers.”

“Stealing is stealing.”

“And shooting might be killing.”

“It was a pellet gun. Just stung a bit. Right?”

Owen rubbed his rear. “Right.”

“You ever gonna pay me for that six-pack?”

“Sure.” Owen took out his wallet, removed a ten, and held it out.

Emerson lifted a furry eyebrow, waiting for Owen to bring it closer. When Owen didn't, the old man, who still got along fairly well for his age, though his legs were as bowed as any lifetime cowboy's, crossed the short distance and plucked the ten from Owen's hand, tucked it into his overhauls, then peered up, up, up Owen's length. “Heard you got some fancy medal.”

“Nothing fancy, sir.” He'd gotten a Purple Heart. The medal they gave you for not running fast enough or ducking quick enough. He'd prefer to be back on the front line, sans medal.

“Don't be modest.” Emerson slapped Owen on the shoulder so hard his teeth rattled. “I always thought there wasn't anything the matter with you that a kick in the butt, or some basic training, couldn't cure.” He held out his hand.

Owen was so surprised he stared at the large, thick, scarred appendage until Becca cleared her throat, then Owen's hand shot out to take the other man's.

“Guess I was right.” Emerson shook, released.

Owen wasn't sure what to say to that, so he went with what he'd learned in the Marines was the best answer to everything. “Good to go, sir.”

The old man shuffled his dirty boots, glanced at his watch, then peered longingly toward the house. Morning milking loomed only a few hours away. At his age he could use some sleep before that. At any age, dairy farming wasn't easy. Owen preferred the Marines.

“You don't have to stay,” Becca said. “If I need a hand, I can always call you.”

“You sure?” Emerson asked, but he'd already taken a step toward the door.

“I have my cell.” Becca pointed to the phone, which lay atop an overturned bucket out of harm's way. Lord only knew what kind of damage it could sustain during a calving.

Emerson ran a hand through hair that wasn't. “I'll take you up on that. It's been a long day's night, y' know?”

“I know,” Owen agreed. He should be dizzy with exhaustion; he had been only about fifteen minutes ago.

But the proximity of Becca had revived him.

 

Chapter 6

The calf did not come out easy-peasy. I hadn't expected it to. I'd just wanted to get rid of Owen.

That had gone well.

While I'd been fishing around inside Duchess, he'd snuck closer and now leaned over the open stall door.

“Where's Reggie?”

I didn't need a strange dog trotting in here and scaring my expectant mother. She was twitchy enough already.

“He's chasing field mice.”

“‘And bopping them on the head, '” I sang under my breath.

“What?”

“The song?” He continued to stare at me blankly. “‘Little Bunny Foo-Foo.'” My mother had sung it to me so often I'd named my first bunny Foo-Foo.

“The white rabbit with the black nose,” Owen said.

He remembered the pet but not the song. I shouldn't be surprised. Owen hadn't had a mother like mine. I didn't even want to think of what his might have sung to him while drunk or high or both.

“Just make sure Reggie doesn't race in here and spook this cow. She's got enough on her mind.”

“I'll close the door.”

“Will he bark if he's out there and you're in here?”

Owen cast me a disgusted glance. “He's a military working dog. He'd sit out there waiting for me until the cows come home.”

“Ha,” I deadpanned.

He grinned, and for a minute I was dazzled by that smile the same way I always had been. Then Duchess bore down and squeezed my arm hard enough to make my eyes water. Something that felt like a hoof brushed the tip of my fingers, and I lunged.

Duchess grunted.
Bitch!

“Sorry.”

“You talking to the cow?”

“That a problem?” I asked.

“Only if they answer.”

I wasn't even going to go there.

“The door,” I reminded him.

Duchess lifted her nose and let out a very loud
moooo.

You'd think she was the first cow to calf.

Just because it's her first doesn't mean it's
the
first.

If you'd relax, sugar, this would all end sooner.

Duchess swung her head right, then left. But because of the head gate, she couldn't see the others. Didn't stop her from “talking” to them.

If you don't shut up I'm going to end you.

The cows shifted, huffed. I swear one even rolled her eyes. They were all named for the nobility—Duchess, Lady, Countess, Marchioness, Majesty, Queenie, Princess, Victoria, Bess, Kate, and so on. Despite those names, they reminded me of a gaggle of housewives in a fifties hair salon.

I stifled a giggle at the idea of that image immortalized on velvet, then leaned my head against the warm rump of Her Grace for an instant.