your Elmer Fudd hat,” Katie said resignedly, holding out the plaid wool hat with the earflaps and fuzzy red ball on top. A gag Christmas gift to him from his nephews. Stupid-looking but warm when the north wind was blowing, as it was now.
“Thanks.”
“Sam?” Katie said as he headed out the back door. He stopped, his hand on the knob. “Watch yourself.”
He smiled. “You bet.”
WAS HE EVER going to get there?
Jodie De Vanti stood at the horse’s head, smoothing a hand over his nose, trying not to look at the pool of blood forming in the snow after running down the gelding’s shoulder and leg. If Sam Hyatt didn’t arrive soon, the horse was going to bleed to death. She just knew it.
“Are you all right?” Margarite called from the gate. The housekeeper hated snow and she hated blood, even more than Jodie did. For being ranch raised, the woman was surprisingly squeamish, and since someone had to be with the animal, Jodie had sucked it up and volunteered.
“I’m fine,” she called back. Even though her voice shook—more from reaction than from cold—she couldn’t keep the note of bitter irony out of it. Of course she wasn’t all right. She was dealing with a bleeding horse and waiting for an incompetent vet.
But any vet was better than no vet, so she’d take what she could get.
The puddle of blood was getting larger, spreading darkly through the crystalline snow.
“Hold on, big boy,” Jodie murmured, averting her eyes. The horse’s knees started to buckle. He was going down, into the snow. “No …” She desperately hauled on the halter. All that did was to raise the animal’s nose and keep it up as he collapsed. Shit.
“Don’t you dare die,” she muttered as she let the horse have its head. Her father would kill her, since it was quite possibly her fault the horse was all cut to pieces. And besides that … she didn’t know if she could live with herself if she was responsible for this beautiful animal’s death.
“Where are you, Sam Hyatt?” she yelled, scuffing her foot into the snow and kicking a small spray away from the horse.
“Are you all right?” Margarite called again.
“Fine.”
Just then headlights appeared around a bend in the driveway, bobbing up and down as the truck went into the little dip before the last rise up to the ranch house. Thank goodness.
“Okay. It’s going to be okay,” she said to the horse. She’d never spent that much time around animals. Her mother was allergic to dogs and cats, so they’d never had family pets when she was a child. Then what did her father do? He moved her mother to a Nevada ranch after selling the investment firm he’d built from the ground up. Still no dogs and cats—in the house, anyway—but lots of cattle and horses. The crazy thing was, her mother had settled in without complaint. She seemed to enjoy country life.
Not Jodie. She appreciated the occasional holiday or long weekend, but right now—especially right now—she wanted to get back to Vegas. Back to the law firm where she worked, a place where she actually felt competent and could indulge in her need to overachieve.
The truck stopped next to the pump house and Sam got out. He opened one of the exterior panels and removed a kit. Margarite was already at his side, talking and waving. He nodded once and then gestured toward the house. Margarite didn’t need a second invitation. She scuttled inside as Sam began walking toward the gate.
He was a big man. Not so much broad as tall and sturdy. Fair-haired and gray eyed. Striking really, if one favored Vikings. Jodie favored sophistication and dark good looks—a preference that had gotten her into trouble in the past. Her restaurateur ex-husband had been dark and sophisticated. He was also no longer in her life, although his name remained. She’d started building her legal career as Jodie De Vanti and kept the surname to avoid confusion.
Sam grimaced as he shone the flashlight on the horse, took in the cuts on its chest, shoulder and legs. “What happened?”
“He got out of the pasture and one of the dogs spooked him. It was dark and he hit a piece of farm equipment. The disk.”
Sam blew out a breath, then knelt down and started checking the horse’s vital signs. “I’ll need you to hold the light. We’ll stitch him right here. I’m going to have to suture the muscle first on this bigger gash….”
Jodie swallowed and took the light. It shook. He shot her an impatient glance, which made her backbone stiffen.
“You can drop the lead rope. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Right.” She did so and held the light with both hands. Sam went to the truck, then came jogging back with more equipment. A few minutes later the wounded area was numbed and he was stitching a gash. Or Jodie assumed he was. She couldn’t make herself watch.
“Hold the damned light steady.”
“I’m trying.”
“It would help if you watched where you were shining it.”
“I don’t see how my fainting would help anything,” she said, though she ventured a glance.
His hands stilled momentarily before he pulled the thread on through the flesh, did a few fancy passes with the suturing needle, then snipped the thread.
“Blood makes you faint?”
“I’m not a fan.” It was the needle going into the skin that made her queasy at the moment.
“Great,” he muttered.
“You could have brought an assistant.”
“So you could sue the pair of us?”
“That’s uncalled for.”
Sam didn’t reply. He started stitching in a new area. The horse’s chest was in ribbons and this was going to take a long, long time. Jodie bit her lip and fixed her eyes on the rise and fall of the gelding’s ribcage.
BY THE TIME SAM HAD finished sewing up the horse, his fingers were numb and his legs were cramped from being in almost the same position the entire time. But thanks to the cold, the blood had flowed slowly, so the animal hadn’t lost a significant amount, and Sam was able to get the poor horse put back together. He sat back on his heels, surveying his work. What a damned shame. This gelding was a beautiful animal, and now he would be scarred for life. Joe Barton, Jodie’s father, wouldn’t be able to ride him to impress people, and he was gelded so he couldn’t breed him. Sam wondered just what he would do with him. The horse would probably make a decent pleasure ride.
Sam glanced at Jodie, who was staring sightlessly at the rows of neat black sutures crisscrossing the horse’s chest and foreleg. She’d lost her cool, all-business demeanor. In fact, she appeared to be done in. Her dark blond hair, longer in the front than in the back, was jammed behind her ears, her face was pale and there were smudges of mascara under her eyes.
“How’d he get loose?” The shift in Jodie’s expression was brief, fleeting, but he caught it. “Did you forget to latch the gate?” he asked as he got
