“I’ll look forward to it,” Stephen said, with a shiver of pleasure that he tried to ignore. No big deal. Just friends. “Should I bring something?”
“Not a thing. Emma is a great arranger. Just show up.” He walked down toward the marina office at the end of the small pier.
Stephen collected, bagged and deposited his trash into the bin. Interesting that Seth had not said his wife was a great cook.
The crow flew off with a final caw that expressed its disappointment at not being given more treats.
Stephen watched the main and jib sails being raised on a small cruising sailboat in the cove. It was late afternoon. The wind was almost nonexistent, but the boat managed to glide through the water toward the exit from the inlet and out into the lake beyond. A man stood at the helm while a woman lounged beside him.
He and Nina had owned and sailed a twenty-four-foot boat when the girls were young, but they’d sold it once the girls grew to the age where they resented being away from their friends and their preferred activities on the weekends. Maybe he should invest in a small day sailer while he stayed up here close to the water. Compared to ski boats, day sailers were relatively inexpensive and didn’t need a slip at a marina. They could be towed back and forth to a house.
As he watched the pair on their small boat relaxing together, content with one another, he felt one of those sudden pangs of grief that hit him like a boxer’s jab in the gut. What did any of it matter without Nina?
He would hate sailing alone. How could he thrill to a coral-and-peach Southern sunset without being able to share the experience with her? He’d always considered himself a loner, a man who enjoyed his own company. His writing and research were a solitary occupation. He’d been surprised to discover how lonely he was.
Working alone in his study while Nina read a book in the den—when he could share some arcane factoid he had just discovered simply by calling out to her—was different from working alone and knowing that no one would answer or care.
Did everyone who had lost a partner find that the little things brought his loss home to him most poignantly? The odor of peaches from her shampoo in the shower; knowing that the special orange marmalade for his toast would be sitting on the breakfast-room table; reaching for a clean shirt and feeling the extra starch she always had the cleaners iron into his collars; the way she rolled his socks—a million small things she did for him he’d taken for granted as a part of his life. The small things he’d done for her in return, he’d often griped about. When he was forced to drive her car, he invariably had to fill up the gas tank or risk running out of gas on his way to the college. Every morning he continued to make their king-size bed because a made-up bed had been important to her. How he wished she was still around to fuss at him if he left it a tangle of sheets.
This was no way to live.
Is that the way Barbara felt about the loss of her husband? Was she as lonely as he was?
He loved his children, but they were building their own memories. He wasn’t building any new ones with anyone at all. Well, he supposed he had built a new memory last night with Barbara.
But for her, professional challenges seemed sufficient. Clients, not friends—except for Emma and Seth. But was that enough to base a life on? There was more to life than work. More than being alone at the end of the day.
Deep within him something stirred.
“Enough with the pity party,” he said as he climbed into his new truck. “I’ve got a life to live, and by God, it is not going to be made up of leftovers.
* * *
BARBARA STRIPPED, DROPPED her bloody overalls into the hamper, jumped into the shower and scrubbed her whole body with the face soap with the exfoliator in it. It scratched a little, but it would remove the lingering scent of cow’s blood she’d gotten covered with when she’d pulled out that doggone oversize Brahman calf. He would have killed himself and his mother if he’d stayed in her womb much longer.
She could live on a diet of miracles like this. It was enough fulfillment for one lifetime. It had to be.
She badly needed a big miracle to get Orville up in the air again. Orville? At least it was better than Wilbur. And the Wright brothers did finally get up in the air.
She leaned against the wall of the shower and realized she was sobbing. Miracles were no longer enough. She was desperately lonely for someone to share a high five with after a win, like she’d had with that healthy calf. And just as lonely for someone to share the grief and pain of losing against her old enemy, death.
She told herself she was simply exhausted. Pure release of tension. But it was more than that. The way the cow had licked her wet, new baby so gently, she could nearly touch the love. She couldn’t go on making do with secondhand love. But could there ever be anything else for her? Did she dare to reach for it?
She had never been as frightened in her life. Staying the same, protecting the borders of her life and her heart was safe. Did she even know how to change? Did she want to?
This was Stephen’s fault. Before he strode into her life, she’d thought she was content with the status quo.
She finished drying off and ran a comb through her wet hair. Then she raced into her bedroom to don clean underwear, a red polo shirt and ironed jeans. No time for makeup—just moisturizer and lipstick. She had to go to dinner with wet hair. She ran a comb through it again, plumped it up with her fingers, put on clean sneakers, grabbed her handbag and ran down the barn aisle to the parking lot. She refused to think. She hardened her heart against the soft, pleading eyes of the latest crop of abandoned fawns she was fostering. They hung their heads over the stall door. Hard to resist, but she knew they’d already been fed.
“You have been fed, knock it off,” she said as she ran by. “You, too, Mabel. Don’t you hiss at me, you goose. I’ll smoke you for Christmas, see if I don’t.”
Mabel, used to empty threats, hissed and flapped her wings but retreated. Her goslings fluttered back under their mother.
* * *
SHE PULLED INTO Seth’s driveway only twenty minutes late. An animal emergency always trumped dinner plans, but she tried to keep to a polite schedule. Across the street, in front of the house Stephen MacDonald was renting, sat a shiny red truck. Even from here, she could tell it was an outrageously overdressed monster. So, Mayor Sonny had seduced the good professor into a sale. He’d never allow anyone to rent that chariot.
Seth opened the door to her. She was surprised to hear two voices from the living room—Emma’s voice and a baritone male.
Her heart gave a lurch. Stephen MacDonald. And here she looked like she’d been rode hard and put away wet. Which she had. He would probably be dressed as though he’d helicoptered in from Savile Row in London, where the bespoke tailors hung out. No woman liked looking like a rag doll with a strange man around. All that emotion that had hit her so unexpectedly while she was in the shower did not mean she wanted to open the gates and let him or anyone else into her life. She had no intention of taking so much as a baby step outside her comfort zone.
Face it—she was scared. Better not to care than to care and lose again, the way she’d lost John. But she was finding it difficult to remain cool and detached around Stephen. He definitely made her heart speed up.
What on earth could interest a man like Stephen in a woman like her? Okay, so they had shared a life-and-death moment with the eagle. They had a connection, but only as doctor and client.
Her defenses were thin at the moment. High time she beefed them up.
When she came in to the living room, Emma turned to smile at her, but made no attempt to climb out of the leather recliner where she sat with her feet up. Twisting even that far didn’t look easy.
Stephen stood. He was nearly as tall as Seth, but thinner. He wore pristine chinos, a gray polo shirt and a pair of cordovan loafers that looked downright burnished. Not Savile Row, but not fr
om a discount store, either. A dark wood cane topped by a wolf’s head leaned against the arm of the sofa. Not the plain aluminum cane he’d used at the café. A formal cane? Maybe he had one to go with every outfit.
“White or red?” Seth called from the kitchen.
“White, thanks,” Barbara said as she came forward to shake Stephen’s hand. It felt smooth, unlike her hands, eternally rough from too much soaking in horse liniment and antiseptic. “Remember I warned you about naming him, but I find myself calling him Orville, too, so I guess Orville he is. He’s settling down, although he is still irate and blaming you,” she said to Stephen.
“I am innocent, Your Honor,” he said. “How come you escape the blame?”
“Oh, he’d probably tear a strip off me, too, if he could reach me. But maybe he’s smart enough to know who hit him.”
“I keep telling you...”
She grinned.
After a second, he grinned back at her. “Is he doing all right? I’ve been worried, but I hesitated to keep calling your office for updates.”
“He’s holding his own. Thank you for not calling back every five minutes the way some of my clients do. We’re just too busy to field all the calls. Things do slow down a bit in the fall and winter. Breeding season is over for many species, like horses, and dogs and cats seem to stick closer to home, so they don’t get hit by cars quite as often.”
“How is the search for Mr. Right coming?” Emma asked. She turned to Stephen. “Barbara is finally on the hunt for another vet to help share the load. She’s needed one for donkey’s years.”
“Dr. Right, please. I’m open to somebody fresh out of vet school, to either a male or female associate veterinarian. And, yes, I’ve had several inquiries, but I haven’t scheduled any interviews yet. This is quite a ways to drive for an interview, so I’m trying to take care on the front end. I don’t want to interview somebody that doesn’t look good on paper.” She held up a hand. “But—and this is a good but—I’ve had a promising answer to my ad for an office assistant. I’m seeing her tomorrow morning. You can help interview and choose if she’ll do.”
“Yeah!” Emma said. “I don’t know how long I can keep working without having someone trundle me around in a wheelbarrow. I really can’t manage anything but paperwork without help. I’m so ready to have this baby I’m considering driving down bumpy roads to hurry things up a tad.”
“You still have two months left, tiger,” Seth said.
“And first babies frequently come late,” Stephen added.
“The bumpy-road thing is an old wives’ tale,” Barbara said. “My first was three weeks late, and I hit all the potholes I could find. They come when they want to. You will never be more out of control. Relax and put up with it.”
“Ooh, aren’t you a little ray of sunshine,” Emma said with a grin. “No more baby talk. Tell us about Orville. How’s he doing?”
“As well as can be expected. Maybe a little better,” Barbara answered. “We ended up not having to pin his break, just immobilize it.”
“At some point I have to take a statement from you, Stephen. It’s the responsibility of us fish-and-wildlife game wardens,” Seth said. “I have to write up the incident and fill out a bunch of forms. It’s a good thing you drove straight to Barbara’s and got help.”
“I’m willing to stipulate in my professional opinion it was an unavoidable accident, in which Dr. MacDonald was in no way at fault,” Barbara said. She lifted her glass to Stephen and took a sip, then winked at him.
* * *
SO SHE HAD decided to back him up. Stephen would thank her later when they were alone.
“Good. Otherwise, Stephen, you might wind up before a judge. The fine can be up to five thousand dollars with possible jail time.”
“But wouldn’t that be if you shot it?” Emma asked.
“I’ve already volunteered to pay any vet charges associated with the incident,” Stephen said.
“And he’s going to help with the rehabilitation,” Barbara said.
“I am?” Stephen glanced at her quizzically. “I haven’t any idea how to do something like that.”
“You’ll learn. There really isn’t anyone else available without interfering with the work at the clinic. Write that as part of your report, Seth. And you, Stephen, smile and say ‘of course I am.’”
Seth laughed. “My friend, I think you have just been expertly sandbagged.”
“The main problem is that I don’t have a flight cage,” Barbara said. “The closest one is in Kentucky, and I don’t want to move Orville out of Tennessee.”
“Then you shouldn’t,” Stephen said. “We’d have no way of tracking his progress, knowing if he was getting the proper care...”
“It may be the only solution to the lack of a flight cage. In my professional opinion, he’s better off where he is for the moment, but that could change. Dealing with the federal government over an accident involving a protected species and dealing with the state of Tennessee, too—I do not even want to think about adding another state’s regulations and bureaucrats. More red tape that might interfere with Orville’s healing, not good for Orville’s recovery. I know what I’m dealing with in Tennessee, and I trust myself.”
“With you he’s getting the best possible care,” Stephen said. “Why would anyone purposely hurt a bald eagle?”
“Men and their trophies,” Barbara said.
“I have a theory that the only reason we have survived to evolve this far is because we taste bad.” The others began to laugh. She held up her hands. “No, listen. Most young, healthy predators avoid killing human beings in favor of yummier meals for themselves and their young. When the hunters take out a man-eater, they generally find that it’s old or diseased and too slow to run away.”
“How about grizzlies?” Stephen asked.
“Animals basically want to assure their DNA is passed on to the next generation,” Stephen said. “The same thing Orville wants.”
“Orville probably has mated for life,” Barbara said. “For tough birds, they can seem to be extremely romantic. When they mate, they lock their talons together high up in the atmosphere and fall and fall until you think they’re going to plummet to the ground, before they break apart and soar again.”
“We’re going to send Orville soaring again to find his lady,” Stephen said and patted her hand.
She withdrew it quickly. “Talk about counting chickens! Don’t say things like that—it’s bad luck.”
“Then let’s talk about you instead.” He grinned at her. “Why did you become a veterinarian? And don’t most women gravitate to small-animal practices? Dogs and cats?”
Barbara looked away and shrugged. She seemed casual, but Stephen had noticed that when she talked about something important to her, her earlobes turned pink. He thought it endearing and wondered what she’d do if he nibbled one.
Smack him, probably, or give him a what-on-earth? stare. Even the way she sat slightly turned away from him said “Keep your distance.”
Fine. He intended to, but he rather enjoyed looking at her pink earlobes.
“I like animals,” she said simply. “Even when I was little, if it breathed, I wanted to keep it.” She turned the palm of her hand toward him. “See that little scar?” She pointed to a raised place beside the thumb. “When I was about five I tried to catch a baby raccoon. Its mother was opposed and bit me.”
“Did you have to take rabies shots?” Emma asked.
“The old-fashioned kind in the stomach,” Barbara said. “That should have cured me, but it didn’t. More and more women are going in for large-animal practices. I met John at orientation the first day of classes. Neither of us ever looked at anyone else again.” She stared into the fireplace, took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
Stephen caught the glint of tears in the firelight. He’d done his cr
ying where no one could see or hear him, but he knew what she felt. That big open hole that seemed unfillable. He would’ve liked to put his arms around her and let her cry on his shoulder.
If he no longer wanted a leftover life to live, maybe he could convince her she didn’t want one, either. He knew Nina would have been furious at him for wallowing in grief for so long. From the little he had heard about the man, he strongly suspected John would have been just as annoyed at Barbara.
From the kitchen came a ding. Emma rocked her chair back into place. “Seth, darling, where have you hidden the forklift?”
The dinner was simple but tasty. Spaghetti Bolognese, a big salad, French bread and cheesecake. “The cheesecake is from the café in Williamston,” Emma admitted. “Seth knows I am no great shakes as a cook. But I’m trying.”
They all made appropriate complimentary noises. Without being asked, Barbara took over cleaning duties so that Emma could enjoy the company.
“May I help?” Stephen asked.
Emma shook her head. “I count as family. You still count as company. Go sit.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go. How’s the addition coming?” she called to the living room. “From here the kitchen looks pretty much finished.”
“Nearly,” Emma called back. “Seth’s mother, Laila, is going to try to come over this weekend to help get it all put back in order. Seth, why don’t you give them the grand tour?”
* * *
STEPHEN WAS SURPRISED how much of the construction had been finished fast. The nursery—buttercup-yellow, as Emma had said—was finished, complete with a crib and a roomy, plush rocking chair.
Barbara joined them as soon as she put the dishes into the dishwasher and scrubbed the counters.
“I never had a rocking chair that luxurious when John and I had our two,” Barbara said. “There was no way I could breast-feed and set up a new practice at the same time, let alone build the clinic and the barn with our apartment. John and I split feeding duties, and our old rocking chair felt comforting to the babies whoever was on bottle duty.”
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