Sun Kissed

by Catherine Anderson

Tucker didn’t like the sound of that, either. “I’m not inept. Confused, more like. And I’m not sure how to mend my fences with her.”

  “I would advise you not to stop the next time around,” Mary said, “but that goes against everything I believe. Unless, of course, you marry her first.”

  “People don’t get married first anymore.”

  “They don’t?”

  Tucker renewed his vow to have his father’s head for putting him in this position. “Most people don’t,” he revised. “It’s really old-fashioned.”

  “There’s something to be said for old-fashioned,” Mary replied. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d ever once listened to your mother and refrained from engaging in physical intimacy outside marriage. You would have kissed the girl, told her how beautiful she is, and left be fore you shoved that size-twelve boot in your mouth.”

  Tucker couldn’t argue that point, so he settled for saying, “Size thirteen.”

  “That’s even worse,” she said with a warm laugh.

  “What am I going to do, Mom? I really care about her.”

  Mary shook her head. “I don’t know. You might try talking to her and telling her how you feel. That’s what your father always does.”

  “Dad doesn’t stick his foot in his mouth that often any more, does he?”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “Of course. Sometimes I think the man was born with it there. Just last week I was studying myself in the mirror, moaning and groaning about how old I’m starting to look. I wanted him to tell me he still thinks I’m beautiful. But you know what he said?”

  “No, what?”

  “That he looks older than dirt, too, so we make a fine pair.”

  Tucker choked back a startled laugh. “Seriously? Dad said that?”

  “He did, and it hurt my feelings. He went around half the day, scratching his head, without a clue why I was mad at him. When he finally figured it out, he went to town and bought me a dozen roses. On the card, he wrote, ‘To my Mary girl, who’ll always be the prettiest rose of all.’” Mary beamed a happy smile. “I didn’t believe a word of it, of course. I’m not blind, after all. But I forgave him all the same. By going clear to town and to all that bother, he told me how much he loves me, and that was all I really needed to know.”

  Tucker thought about that. Then he narrowed an eye at his mother. “So women never outgrow it?”

  “Outgrow what?”

  “Being”—he almost said “absurdly sensitive,” but caught himself just in time—“perceptive.”

  Mary laughed and hugged his arm. “No, dear heart, I’m afraid not. We remain perceptive until the end.”

  They sat quietly for a while, listening to the leaves of the oak tree rustling in the breeze and a bird singing in the yard next door. Max, who’d curled up near Tucker’s feet, finally began to snore.

  “So,” Mary said softly, “when will we get to meet this special young lady?”

  Tucker rested his cheek atop her head. “Sometime shortly after she starts talking to me again, I guess. Would two dozen roses work, do you think?”

  Mary tipped her head back to grin at him. “Possibly, if you send them every day for a week.”

  Thirty minutes later, Tucker hunched over the far end of the floral shop counter, trying to compose a romantic note to Samantha. So far he’d ruined five cards, and he still wasn’t happy with the results. I think you’re beautiful. How original was that? I’m sorry about last night. Definitely not a keeper. It didn’t seem right to steal his father’s words, but Tucker was sorely tempted. The old man might be a lousy mind reader, but he had a few tried-and-true lines memorized. Comparing his mom to a rose and saying she would always be the prettiest one of all had been absolutely brilliant.

  In the end, Tucker asked for a sixth card, committed plagiarism, and arranged for the dozen roses to be delivered before closing time that day. The older woman who rang up the purchase smiled knowingly as she read the card.

  “Oh, how nice. You’re very good with words, Mr. Coulter. She’ll love it.”

  Samantha answered the stable phone just as a security guard entered the arena via the personnel door and loped across the exercise area toward her. “Hello, Sage Creek Quarter Horse Ranch. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, sis.” Quincy’s voice fairly boomed over the airway, and a squeaking sound blasted in her ear. He had a new, hands-free cell phone with a clip-on earpiece that picked up ambient noise and shrieked occasionally. “Has the gerbil been in touch yet?”

  “The who?” she repeated blankly.

  “Ballantine. He has to have come up with something on Fisher by now.”

  Samantha said, “Hold on just a second,” and cupped her hand over the mouthpiece to see what the security guard wanted. Judging by his looks, she guessed him to be Nan’s sexy Latino. “What’s up?”

  All shiny black hair, copper skin, brown eyes, and inflated muscles, the guy had dark spots of sweat on his uniform shirt. “There’s a delivery. I need your permission to sign for it.”

  Most of the deliveries were to the ranch, not to her personally, and it was her policy never to let anyone else but Jerome sign for them. She didn’t want another bad load of hay. “Where’s my foreman?”

  The man shrugged. “Dunno. I haven’t seen him for a bit.”

  “Is it a feed or hay delivery?”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t think so. It’s a lady in a green uniform, driving a little red economy car. A magnetic sign on the door says, ‘Floral Fantasies.’”

  “Oh.” Samantha was intrigued, for she never received flowers. Maybe they were from her dad or one of her brothers, a little something to brighten her day because so many things had been going wrong lately. “It’s fine for you to sign for me then,” she told the guard. “Just put the delivery on my front porch.” As he turned to jog away, she called, “Is Nona back on duty tonight?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, running backward. “She’ll be here at nine.”

  Samantha was relieved to hear it. All of the security people seemed competent enough, but Nona Redcliff had impressed Samantha with her knowledge and professional manner.

  “I’m back,” she said into the phone. “Sorry about the interruption, Quincy. With so many people milling around, there’s not a moment’s peace.”

  “No problem. I just called for an update. What has the gerbil come up with?”

  “That isn’t nice.”

  “I guess we can call him the condom sleuth.”

  Samantha grinned in spite of herself. She still couldn’t believe her brother had bought an entire case of prophylactics. Maybe it was a whole year’s supply. “Why don’t we just call him the genius? I know he’s a strange-looking fellow, but I was impressed with his demonstration.”

  “So has he come up with anything on Fisher yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. I imagine he’ll probably check in with Dad, not me. He’ll be paying the bill, after all.”

  Quincy sighed. “Well, I hope we hear something soon.”

  Samantha seconded that. If Ballantine couldn’t find anything to hang Steve with, it would be her neck in the noose.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Roses. Samantha’s hands trembled as she lifted them from the long white box and drew back the green paper. She knew the instant she saw the bloodred blossoms that they hadn’t been sent by her father or one of her brothers. They were from Tucker. Had to be.

  Like a child saving the best part for last, she left the card in the box while she found a vase, snipped the rose stems, added flower food to the water, and then arranged the blossoms and delicate ferns in fans of scarlet against backdrops of green. She set the roses at the center of the table, then stood back to admire them. Definitely from Tucker. Her father or brothers would have sent wildflowers, thinking she’d like them better because she was so often outdoors and simple in her tastes. Not. She did love wildflowers, of course, but deep in her feminine heart of hearts, roses were far more special.


  When she finally opened the card and read the message, she couldn’t help but smile and press the card over her heart. How sweet. She’d seen Tucker’s longhand on more than one occasion and instantly recognized his bold scrawl. It touched her that he’d gone to all the trouble to drop by the florist’s to choose the flowers personally instead of simply ordering them over the phone, and that he’d written the note himself. Not that she believed a word of it. But it was still lovely to pretend, just for a moment, that she was beautiful and desirable.

  Stepping into the downstairs bathroom, she took a long, hard look at herself in the mirror. The slender young woman who stared back at her was far from gorgeous, but for the first time in a very long while, Samantha was able to focus on her good points instead of the bad. The oval shape of her face would never give anyone nightmares, her lips were nicely defined, and her nose, though a little too much like her father’s to be feminine, wasn’t really that big. Leaning close to the glass, she decided her eyes were her best feature, large, dark, and naturally lined with thick, black lashes.

  Sudden, poignant memories of herself standing before a mirror as a teenager flashed through Samantha’s mind. Trying to fix her hair, learning to apply makeup. In those days she’d never felt plain or downright homely because her father had frequently told her just the opposite: that she was the prettiest girl in town. As an adult, dispassionately taking inventory of her reflection, Samantha decided that the truth fell somewhere in the middle. She wasn’t as unattractive as Steve had so often claimed, and she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in Crystal Falls, either. But she was pretty, in her own way, and maybe, just maybe, in the eyes of one special man, she truly was the loveliest rose of all.

  Curling her hands over the edge of the sink, Samantha took a deep, cleansing breath, and then slowly released it, turning loose of all the old hurts. With her life in such turmoil because of Steve Fisher, it was probably crazy, but she finally felt free of him—totally, absolutely, and permanently free.

  As Tucker parked his Dodge outside the equine clinic, he caught movement in his side mirror and realized a man carrying a camera was hurrying toward the truck. What now? He pushed open the door, about to ask what the guy wanted, when a flash went off in his eyes.

  “You’re Tucker Coulter, right, Samantha Harrigan’s vet?” the man asked. He jerked a plastic ID card from his shirt pocket. “Royce Mulligan, Crystal Falls Daily. How did you feel when you realized Ms. Harrigan poisoned her own horses for the insurance money?”

  “I never realized any such thing.” Tucker slammed the truck door hard behind him.

  “The reports you filed are now public record, Dr. Coulter. All the facts implicate Ms. Harrigan. She’s knowledgeable about horses, she alone stands to gain financially, and, according to the police, though they’re working on some other leads, they have no other suspects at this time.”

  Tucker wanted so badly to mention Fisher’s name. But he instinctively knew not to tip their hand. Let the bastard think he’d gotten away with it and that no one suspected him. “No comment,” he said, shoving past the reporter, who refused to get out of the way. “And be careful what you print, buster. Frank Harrigan will haul your ass into court for slander so fast it will make your head spin.”

  As the camera flashed again, Tucker entered his clinic and slammed the door closed in the reporter’s face. He was shaking, he realized. Talk about getting blindsided. He hadn’t considered the possibility that local newshounds might pick up this story. Stupid, so stupid. Samantha was Frank Harrigan’s daughter. The man was a baron in the horse-breeding industry and famous in his way, a self-made millionaire. Juicy scandals about wealthy, important people sold newsprint.

  Tucker jerked his cell phone from his belt and dialed the number of the Sage Creek Ranch. If the reporters were breathing down his neck, they were going to try to catch Samantha off guard, too. At least she had security out at her place now. But he still needed to warn her.

  Samantha heard a ruckus outside and hurried out onto the front porch to see what was happening. The Latino security guard stood nose-to-nose with a redheaded woman, behind whom was parked a white van splashed with a local television station’s logo. The two were arguing furiously, the guard’s posture threatening, the female reporter’s determined.

  “I merely want to interview Ms. Harrigan. You can watch my every move if you like, but I’m not leaving without speaking to her first.”

  “This ranch is under tight security. You aren’t authorized to be here!” the guard insisted.

  A man inside the van saw Samantha on the porch and hurriedly exited the vehicle. To her horror, he drew a video camera from the back, rested it on his shoulder, and was already filming as he came around the front bumper.

  “There she is!” he shouted to his female associate. “Ms. Harrigan, can you answer some questions?”

  Samantha couldn’t make her feet move. She stood frozen, watching the man pan the front of her home with his camera and then zero in on her.

  The story was on the six-o’clock news. Tucker got word of it via cell phone at twenty after the hour as he was driving out to Samantha’s ranch.

  “Are you watching the news?” Isaiah asked.

  “No.” Tucker flipped on the turn signal and adjusted his visor to block the sun from his eyes. “Should I be?”

  “Ah, damn, Tucker, they’re crucifying her.”

  “Samantha?”

  “Who else? Of course, Samantha. Whatever happened to being innocent until proven guilty? This is bad, Tucker, really bad. The female reporter isn’t flat-out accusing her of anything, but the way she’s asking the questions implies one hell of a lot.” A brief silence. “I’m recording it. You need to see this.”

  Tucker shoved harder on the accelerator, sending Max into a sprawl against the back of the bench seat. “I’m on my way out to her place as we speak.”

  “Too late now,” Isaiah replied. “The damage is already done.”

  Tucker half expected to find his lady fair hiding inside her house. Instead she was in the stable, working like a dervish at cleaning stalls. When she saw him, she didn’t stop shoveling, just gave him her back and increased her pace. Her blue chambray work shirt sported a dark blue line of sweat down her spine. Her beautiful black hair sprang out the back of her ball cap like a garden bush badly in need of sculpturing. The seat of her jeans was also dirty. But in Tucker’s opinion, she was still incredibly beautiful, and effortlessly so.

  He folded his arms over the top of the stall gate, willing to wait her out. Nutmeg, a pretty bay mare and the occupant of the enclosure, was out in her paddock, dining on her evening ration of hay. The floor of the stall looked as if it had been cleaned only recently, a telltale sign to Tucker that Samantha was working just to be working, not because the chore really needed to be done. He completely understood the tactic; when he was upset, he often threw himself into a task to hold his thoughts at bay.

  When the wheelbarrow was brimming with what appeared to be mostly clean straw, Samantha went outside to dump it, not returning for a couple of minutes. In the interim, Nan approached from Tucker’s left, startling him with her presence.

  “I thought all of you had left,” he said.

  She joined him at the gate. “Nah, not yet. Sometimes we get out of here shortly after six, but other times it’s al most seven. It depends on whether or not Jerome needs us to help with the evening hay. Today was hectic, so we all stayed late to help him catch up.”

  “How many of you work full-time?” Tucker asked, partly to keep the conversation going, but also to avoid hearing why the day had been so hectic. He’d met Nan in passing and didn’t feel comfortable discussing the TV crew’s visit with her. “Three, four?”

  “Me, Kyle, and Mac are the full-time underlings,” she replied.

  “Mac?”

  “You haven’t met him. He’s been off on vacation. Next to Jerome, and excluding all the Harrigans, of course, he’s one of the best trainers around. Carri
e, the stocky gal, and Ronnie Post, the little redhead with dimples, are part-timers for now. When she can afford it, Samantha plans to increase their hours.”

  “I don’t recall ever seeing Ronnie.”

  Nan’s pretty face broke into an affectionate grin. “Yeah, well, if she was working in a stall when you walked by, you wouldn’t have seen her. If she’s five feet tall, I’ll eat my hat. Vertically challenged, that’s our Ronnie. Great with horses, though.”

  Nan gazed thoughtfully into the paddock, her fair brows drawn together in a frown. Finally she said, “Am I wrong to suspect that you and Samantha have become an item, Dr. Coulter?”

  Tucker was taken off guard by the question. “What makes you think that?”

  “Call it female intuition.” Nan held up a hand. “You don’t have to answer. It’s none of my business, really. It’s just that I care about Samantha, and to be straight out with it, I hope you won’t hurt her. I hired on right after she got divorced, so I never met Steve Fisher, but judging from what I’ve seen and heard, he’s a world-class asshole. The next time around, Sam deserves happiness, not heartache.”

  Tucker totally agreed and decided he liked Nan Branson. Her loyalty to her boss told him a lot. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he settled for saying.

  A twinkle warmed the stable hand’s clear blue eyes. “See that you do.”

  Tucker was almost smiling as she walked away, almost being the key word. The day had brought too many worries and concerns for him to relax enough to be amused about much of anything.

  Samantha returned to the stall just then, this time without the wheelbarrow. Shoulders straight, small chin lifted, she strode directly toward him, her gaze unwavering on his. “Tucker, we need to talk.”

  He’d been about to say the same thing and had expected her to argue. “I agree. Will the stable office do?”

  She shook her head. “Not enough privacy. How about walking over to the house with me?”

  Bracing one hand on the gate rail, Tucker vaulted over into the enclosure and fell into step beside her to exit the building via the paddock. When they’d cleared the fence and picked up the pace, he expected her to say something more, but she remained stubbornly silent. He felt eyes on them as they crossed the parking area to her small front yard, which sported only a few patches of hardy grass surrounded by packed dirt. He thought of his English garden, with its stepping-stones, trellises, and ornate benches, and wondered how Samantha would feel about having at least a few flowers here and there and maybe some ornamental shrubs.