She wasn’t about to tell Jackie any of that, though. The less her work friends knew about her past mistakes, the better. ‘For a start, we live eight hundred kilometres apart,’ she said. ‘Scotty has his own practice in Bindallarah now. I’m established here. It wouldn’t be feasible.’
‘Feasible! Claire, this isn’t a business plan for a new frozen-yoghurt shop. This is your life,’ Jackie said, exasperated. ‘It’s obvious from the way you talk about this guy – and you talk about him a lot – that there’s unfinished business between you. You’ve got three weeks off, so go finish it.’
Once more, Claire felt her skin redden in spite of the frigid temperature in her office. Jackie was always convinced she had all the answers; it was why many of their colleagues found her difficult to work with. Claire usually appreciated – or at least tolerated – Jackie’s bull-headedness. She preferred to examine a problem from every angle and assess all her options before committing to a course of action, so she found Jackie’s confident, rapid-fire decision-making process refreshing. Most of the time.
At other times, it was presumptuous, arrogant and infuriating. Like right now.
‘You’re right, Jac,’ Claire said. She finished her sandwich and tossed the wrapper in the bin under her desk. She stood up and gripped Jackie’s shoulders. ‘It is my life. And I’ll be the one who decides what to do with it.’
Jackie opened her mouth to protest, to have the last word as always. But her rebuttal was drowned out by the sound of the clinic’s PA system crackling to life.
‘All available vets to critical care, please. Emergency on approach.’
Jackie’s eyes widened; Claire was sure they mirrored her own. In neighbouring offices, she could hear muttering and grumbling from her fellow day-shift vets. A critical case late on a Friday was the last thing they wanted, especially when many of them were about to depart on their Christmas holidays.
Claire didn’t mind so much. She loved the challenge of emergency medicine, but more than that she loved that science was finite. In most cases, there were only a handful of possibilities – a small number of potential causes and corresponding treatments. The answer that seemed correct usually was. She could consider all the likely outcomes in a matter of minutes and know with some degree of certainty that she was making the best decision. Sometimes she was wrong – the laminitis case from last winter still bothered her – but most of the time she got it right.
If only she could say the same about the rest of her life.
Anyway, what did it matter if she worked late? As Jackie had kindly pointed out, all that awaited her at home was the stench of sun-baked rubbish. She hadn’t even bothered to put up her Christmas tree this year.
Claire spun on her heel and raced down the hall to the critical-care unit, with Jackie close behind. She arrived to find a top-of-the-range float being reversed into the yard by a sleek black four-wheel drive. From inside the float came the unmistakable snorts and squeals of a horse in deep distress.
Claire barely registered the way the concrete of the yard magnified the heat, which was still fierce even as the shadows lengthened and the sun began its gradual drift towards the horizon. The float rolled to a stop and she stepped forward and unlatched the ramp. She lowered it to the ground and peered into the dim interior.
The horse was a chestnut Arabian mare, heavily pregnant. She was slick with sweat; it flowed from her like rain off a rooftop. She gasped and panted, every breath a mammoth effort. Her tail was clamped down hard and her muscles looked rigid, but she was trembling, as taut as the strings of a violin. Claire couldn’t remember the last time she had seen such a terrified animal.
As other vets gathered, Claire climbed into the trailer to escape the hubbub of competing voices. ‘Shhh, sweetheart,’ she murmured, but the mare didn’t seem to notice her. Her ears were stiff and twitching, her eyes darting from side to side, the whites exposed. Her breathing was growing more rapid with each passing minute. Claire placed a hand on her neck, then instinctively snatched it back as though she’d been scalded: the poor horse was burning hot.
Anger gripped Claire’s insides. In an instant, she knew what was wrong. Hyperthermia. The mare had heat stroke, she was sure of it. She put her stethoscope to the animal’s side and heard the hammer of her racing heartbeat. This was a very, very sick horse.
‘Jackie,’ she said quietly. She was still alone in the float, but she knew Jackie wouldn’t be far away.
‘Right here,’ came the reply from just outside.
‘It’s heat stroke. Take her temp to confirm, but prep the hydro pool and get a hose on her in the meantime. She also needs IV fluids and nasal oxygen, please. And she’s pregnant, so once we’ve cooled her down let’s get one of the theriogenologists to ultrasound the foal.’
Claire heard the scuffle of feet as Jackie relayed Claire’s instructions to the other vets.
‘You want bloods too?’ she said.
‘Definitely,’ Claire replied. ‘I’ll do that, but let’s get her out first.’
‘You sure, Claire? Easier to do it while she’s confined.’
‘She needs fresh air. She’s out of her mind.’
Carefully, Claire freed the lead rope from the float’s tie ring and wound it tightly around her hand. She knew horses and this mare was telling her in no uncertain terms that, despite being gravely ill, she wanted out of the float. Claire didn’t want to risk her rocketing backwards and injuring herself, but she knew she was no match for a 630-kilogram horse. If the mare did bolt, Claire would at best be a sort of flimsy anchor.
She gave the lead rope a gentle tug and took a step towards the mare. The horse stumbled a little and stomped her front foot but then, mercifully, she began to walk slowly backwards. Gradually, she eased out of the float and into the yard, where three vets immediately surrounded her with hoses and wet towels. Claire unwound the rope and handed it to a vet nurse.
Jackie was standing on the mare’s near side, her hands hidden beneath the switching tail. She had somehow drawn the short straw and was taking the horse’s temperature. When the electronic thermometer beeped, Jackie looked down at the reading and shook her head.
‘Forty-one degrees,’ she told Claire, the disgust in her voice palpable.
Again, Claire felt fury twist in her stomach. Though it often had dire consequences, heat stroke wasn’t a particularly complex condition. In most cases, it was caused by overexertion – too much work or too much exercise in hot conditions and not enough opportunities for the horse to cool down.
Which meant that some colossal idiot had, either by neglect or design, allowed a pregnant mare – a horse that shouldn’t have even been out of her stall in these hellish conditions – to nearly kill herself on a day that was hotter than Hades. Claire would put money on the mare belonging to a riding stable trying to keep up with school-holiday demand. Mostly, they treated their horses like royalty, but some cared more about cashing in on rich parents desperate to keep their kids entertained, even if it meant pushing an animal far beyond its limits.
‘Where’s the owner?’ Claire spat. ‘Who brought her in?’ She eschewed confrontation as a rule, but whoever was responsible for this was going to hear about it.
‘That would be me,’ said a voice from behind her.
She turned and saw the shape of a person standing next to the four-wheel drive that was hitched to the float. The sonorous tone of the voice told her it was a man, but in the glare of the late-afternoon sun she couldn’t make out his face.
‘Come with me,’ she snarled.
Without confirming that he was following her, Claire stalked across the yard and into the welcome cool of the hospital. If the heat was driving her mad, this man who had left his horse to its mercy was making her positively incandescent.
She heard his footsteps behind her as she went into the walk-in supply cupboard. ‘Your horse has heat stroke,’ she coldly informed him, not turning around.
‘I know,’ he replied. Something in the timb
re of his voice stirred a flicker of recognition in the back of Claire’s mind, but she was too angry to follow the trail.
‘You know?’ She wrenched open drawers and cupboards, assembling the syringes and vials she would need for the mare’s blood tests. ‘Then you should know better than to have exercised her in this weather.’
‘Can you test her for MH while you’re at it?’ he said, ignoring her accusation.
Claire scoffed. Malignant hyperthermia – was this guy serious? ‘Wouldn’t that be convenient?’ she said. ‘A genetic disease that makes your mare prone to heat stroke. Nothing to do with forcing her to work on a blistering summer’s day.’
‘I didn’t —’
‘And I cannot believe you floated her in that state. You should have called and had us come to you. She could have collapsed and died in that trailer.’
‘She was already in —’
Claire grabbed a kidney dish from a shelf and dumped the vials and syringes in it. ‘I’ll be reporting you to the RSPCA. People like you shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near animals.’
‘Claire.’
‘You’d better hope like hell that poor horse and her foal survive this because —’
‘Claire.’
She froze. How does he know my name? She was damn sure she hadn’t bothered to introduce herself to this loser. He must have heard Jackie address her in the yard. Unless . . .
A chill unfurled at the base of her spine and scuttled up to her neck like a spider. I do know that voice. Slowly, Claire set the kidney dish on the bench. Even more slowly, she turned to look at the man who seemed to know her.
I know that face, too.
CHAPTER TWO
The power of speech had deserted her. Claire opened her mouth then closed it again, doing her best impression of a goldfish.
Scotty Shannon. In the flesh.
Over the past six months they had kept in touch as often as any far-flung old friends in this new digital age: not that often at all. Their occasional emails were full of easy small talk about work, travel, books, what they were binge-watching on Netflix. They hadn’t picked over the carcass of their relationship or rehashed its gut-wrenching conclusion eight years earlier. They didn’t discuss significant others – not that there was anything to discuss on her side anyway. That wasn’t in the spirit of their tentative new arrangement. They were now, if not quite bona fide mates, then definitely warm acquaintances. Anything else that had once existed between them was long dead. Their banter wasn’t serious and neither were they. It suited her. Scotty-and-Claire version 2.0 felt relaxed, uncomplicated, nice. She liked just knowing he was out there somewhere – and that he didn’t seem to despise her.
The geographical distance between them also meant there was no pressure to take their revived friendship into the real world. He hadn’t asked her why she never went back to Bindallarah; she never suggested he pay her a visit in Sydney. She’d mostly managed to avoid imagining what she might say to him if she ever saw him again. Claire hadn’t contemplated what it would feel like to come face to face with Scotty because it simply wasn’t in the cards.
Except now here he was, wearing that crooked smile that had always surprised her because it made his serious face look so different. Now it made him look . . .
Gorgeous.
The thought alarmed her. She was entirely unprepared for Scotty as a man. When she had last seen him, he had been twenty-one: still an overgrown boy. A little too tall. A little too thin. Features a little too big for his face. He had always been beautiful in her eyes, but now, at twenty-nine, Scotty had grown into himself. All the girls who had ignored him at school would swipe right on his Tinder profile for sure. His height was commanding rather than gangly. He’d filled out: his chest and shoulders were broad and sturdy, his hands tanned and powerful. The lines on his face that he’d had even as a teenager had deepened and given his face a craggy character. In his dark blue jeans, scuffed workboots, fitted casual shirt and wide-brimmed hat, he was the quintessential strapping country guy. He’d let his sandy hair grow and the natural curl softened him, lent him an easygoing air. His green eyes were as arresting as ever.
He was, Claire realised with a sinking sensation in her stomach that felt like dismay, sexy as hell. She certainly hadn’t anticipated that. And she was staring at him in stupefied silence.
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ she said at last.
Scotty blinked, as surprised by the question as she was. ‘Sorry?’ he said.
‘The mare.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Scotty shook his head as understanding dawned. ‘Autumn. She’s not mine. She belongs to my little brother. You remember Chris? He runs Cape Ashe now.’
Claire crossed her arms and glared.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘Autumn has been, uh, enjoying some gentlemanly company at a stud farm down on the South Coast for the last few months and Chris wants her brought back to Bindy to give birth. I was in Melbourne for a conference so I offered to pick her up and drive her home. We got as far as Wollongong yesterday and she was absolutely fine, but on our way past Sydney today she just crashed.’
Past Sydney. Not to Sydney. So he’d had no intention of stopping off to see her. If Autumn hadn’t fallen ill he would have continued on to Bindallarah without a word. Not that she had any right to feel disappointed, Claire sharply reminded herself.
‘Of course she crashed, Scotty!’ she snapped. Saying his name aloud in his presence felt strange and forbidden after so many years. ‘It’s nearly forty degrees out there today. It was probably close to twice that in the float. She’s pregnant. How could you do that to her?’
She saw anger flash across his face. ‘The float is air-conditioned, Claire.’ He hurled her name at her like a grenade. ‘Autumn was in climate-controlled comfort all the way. That’s why I want you to test her for MH. You know stress can be a trigger in horses that carry the gene. It must have been the anxiety of the transport that caused it, not the heat.’
Claire frowned. His expression was a mix of irritation and appeal for understanding. If it had been anyone else, she would have picked up the phone and dialled the local RSPCA inspector. But this was Scotty. Aside from the fact that he was an accomplished vet, he had been around horses every day of his life. He knew the majestic beasts better than anyone she’d ever met – even her, and she had close to ten years of study to become an equine specialist under her belt.
And he was a good guy, despite this heated exchange. Scotty was a big-hearted, earnest person, whose instinct was to do the right thing by everyone at all times. Deep down, Claire knew he would never have intentionally risked Autumn’s safety.
‘I’ll run the test,’ she said. ‘The results will take twenty-four hours.’ She picked up her collection of needles and vials.
Scotty’s breath came out in a whoosh. ‘Thanks, Claire. Hey,’ he said as she turned to leave. ‘Autumn will be fine, but obviously we won’t be going anywhere for a day or two. Got any plans tonight?’
Claire dropped the kidney dish with a clatter. Syringes and tubes rolled across the floor. Was he going to suggest she put him up for the night? The idea filled her with panic, which was absurd. What did it matter if Scotty crashed on her couch? They’d known each other forever and – she hoped – were on their way to being real friends again. Friends should offer each other their sofa beds.
But the thought of him in her home, filling the meagre space with this potent masculinity he now possessed, felt dangerous. Five minutes in his presence and she was already practically catatonic.
She dropped to her knees to gather the spilled equipment, buying time. Scotty squatted beside her. ‘Because if you don’t,’ he said, handing her a hermetically sealed syringe, ‘how about meeting me for a drink? I’ll book into a hotel in the city. We can catch up properly.’
Relief washed over her. A casual drink she could do. It was lovely to see him again, and a catch-up in a public place where there was no chance she’d succumb to the lo
ng-buried ache now stirring deep inside her would be fine. Safe.
‘That would be great, Scotty,’ she said, smiling at last. Saying his name felt a little easier each time.
He knew Claire worked there, but it hadn’t occurred to him that she’d be there.
He’d been cruising on the freeway on Sydney’s outer western fringe when he’d seen on the dash-mounted video monitor that Autumn was becoming distressed in the float. He hadn’t wanted to pull over and risk her collapsing, or worse, bolting into four lanes of speeding traffic, so Scotty had simply googled the nearest emergency equine clinic. It was her clinic. He had plugged the address into his phone.
His original plan had been to bypass Sydney altogether. He’d been aiming to spend the night at Tuncurry on the Mid-North Coast. Four and a half hours was about the longest he felt comfortable having the mare confined to the float, and, besides, horses were allowed on Nine Mile Beach. He wouldn’t ride Autumn this late in her pregnancy, but he knew she’d love a walk in the surf before they made the final push to Bindallarah the next morning.
He had thought about Claire constantly on the drive north from Wollongong, wondered if he should call and tell her he was in the neighbourhood, suggest they get together for a beer. But he didn’t know if she wanted that. In the six months since she’d reached out to him online, Claire hadn’t given so much as a whisper of an indication that she had any interest in seeing him. He was keen to catch up with her, but he didn’t want to push it. Claire was like the horses she worked with: she spooked easily. Always had.
And then, like magic, there she was in front of him in blue hospital scrubs that matched her ultramarine eyes, her dark curls piled on top of her head in a haphazard bun. Scotty watched her work on Autumn as if in a daze. The heat haze shimmered above the concrete floor of the yard, giving the whole scene an ethereal quality. To have her suddenly materialise like that, like an apparition, shook him.
Asking her to meet him for a drink hadn’t been the plan, but Scotty Shannon wasn’t one to squander an opportunity. It had taken her eight years to come back to him and another six months to shore up their renewed bond so that it felt like it might stick.
Two Weeks 'til Christmas Page 2
