Last season, she and Gypsy had made Buck proud, finishing eighth overall their first year in competition. And then he’d gotten sick. Real sick. Laid flat out in the hospital bed in his bedroom after Christmas, some of his last thoughts had been of her coming rodeo season: “Make it a good one, Daisy Mae,” he’d whispered, gasping for the next breath. “Make it a real good one, for your old man.”
They’d buried him in on the fifth of January.
Hot wind ruffled the brim of Daisy’s battered Stetson. Mid-day sun beat her arms. The season opener kicked off in less than six hours. She had a cell phone, but Daphne was already at work and Gypsy couldn’t stay trailered in the hot sun. She’d have to ride the mare home, then walk back to sort out the chaos under the Chevy’s hood. A no-show at Willow Springs meant lost fees and no points.
Lordy, if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck. It’ll take some kind of miracle to get back on the road tonight. In the back of the trailer, Gypsy Girl shifted. I might as well scratch for the season! C’mon, Daddy!
Half-mourning, half-fuming, Daisy snatched her water bottle and wallet from the cab. The salt of bitter tears stung her eyes as she dropped the ramp and backed Gypsy Girl off the trailer. Arranging a blanket and saddle on the mare’s back, she cinched up, readying for her ride.
Then she heard the growl of a diesel engine coming from behind the ridge. Looking up, she watched a white extra-cab dually crest the knoll. Flickery bright in the heat, steel cattle guard blazing, its wheels threw puffs of sand from the road. And sure enough, the big white truck towed a newly-washed five-horse gooseneck trailer.
Recognizing the broad-shouldered outline behind the tinted windshield, she groaned. So on top of a lost season, I get a nice dose of humiliation, too? Hobble Creek ranchers always pitched in to help each other out of bad spots, but Hank Gallagher was a different matter altogether, as far as Daisy was concerned.
Hank pulled up alongside her rig, his big engine humming. The driver’s window dropped, and he raised his stupid, techie-boy mirrored shades. Steely blue eyes darted to the steam still puffing from the ancient Chevy’s hood before they settled on her, cool as the air-conditioning blowing from the vents of his brand-new truck.
He arranged his lips, not hiding his grin too well.
“Truck broke down, Daisy? You ridin’ to Willow Springs? Barrels start at ten tomorrow morning. Take you awhile to get there, huh?”
Daisy swallowed, sand gritting her tongue. Dusty and messy and already beat, she bit off her words. “Radiator or water pump’s busted, Hank. Won’t know which ‘til it cools. This sun’s too hot for Gypsy Girl. We’re headin’ back.”
“Aw, you tell Gypsy Girl I’ve got room in my trailer for her. Cuervo won’t mind the company, and it’s nice and cool back there.” His eyes skittered over her. “There’s a seat up here next to me, if you want it, Daisy Mae.”
Daisy stood there, hating the tight spot she was in and hating Hank even worse. How dare he call me “Daisy Mae”! He knows that was Daddy’s name for me!
Her head started to spin. She chewed the inside of her mouth. Sweat trickled between her breasts and down her back. Ignoring a fly buzzing around her face, she crossed her arms. “Aw, hell, Hank Gallagher, you’ve got no time for me.”
Hank dropped his stupid action-hero glasses, and his chapped lips twisted. “I’ll admit your attitude sucks, but you and Gypsy are due for a helluva season, Daisy Mae. I’d hate for you to miss the opener. There won’t be another rig comin’ this way headin’ for Willow Springs, y’know.”
Daisy stood stock still. Her mouth felt dry.
Finally, Hank slapped his shades on the dash and swung his big white door open. Fancy black alligator boots hit the dust, and his long, denim-clad legs ambled around to the back of the expensive rig.
His beefy arms stretched, unhitching the trailer’s rear door. It dropped to the ground with a thud; an air-conditioned, thick-rubber padded, non-stop, free ride to Willow Springs.
Save’s me gas money, but it’s hell on the ego.
Hank spit impatiently, and a stream of tobacco juice hit the dusty yellow road. Daisy stared hard at that dark stain, trying to keep her head clear. “Can I take the ride and keep on hating you?”
Hank’s mouth twitched. His lips spread, and white teeth flashed above his tobacco-lumped chin. “Long as you’re quiet about it. No mean looks, either. Gypsy and Cuervo will get along fine, I expect.”
“Right Kinda Bull” (McGreers #3)
Copyright @ 2013 by Lilly Christine
Texas A&M Veterinary Clinic
Lindsay Robbins tossed short red curls from her face and peered at the night docket, “Ty McGreer, 6312 Red Rock Ranch Road, Hobble Creek, TX. Black Angus bull weanling calf, #2319, colic/irritated gut, possible obstruction. Departure time 3:37 PM. Expected arrival 6:30 PM.”
Hurrying towards the locker room, she clattered down concrete steps in flex-step clogs. Ty McGreer? Why does that name sound familiar?
But the client’s name didn’t really matter; she only had fifteen minutes to prep for his bull calf’s surgery.
******
Ty McGreer decelerated down the off-ramp, slowly braking before the intersection. Checking his side-view mirror, he clicked the blinker and turned right onto Raymond Stoltzer Parkway. Hours before, he’d found his favorite weanling bull calf in the pasture, sweating and kicking at his stomach.
He’d called Doc Timpson, who admitted his hands weren’t as steady as they used to be. Doc suggested Ty take the ride to College Station. Texas A&M, Ty’s alma mater, was three hours from the ranch.
It was August, high summer, and too damn hot. He hoped his little black Angus bull calf was holding up back there, leaning on his momma. They’d be at the clinic in just a few minutes.
******
Lindsay walked into the surgery in green scrubs and a cap and booties, glad that Samantha was on. Sam was her favorite vet tech, and a super competent surgical assistant. Scratching the soft, ruffly spot between the little calf’s ears, she looked over the ultrasound. It showed a white, spherical object lodged firmly in the tiny ruminant’s first stomach.
The bull calf’s daddy stood in the corner. He was a cowboy, tall and broad-chested, way too handsome, with friendly amber eyes and curly brown hair.
Ty McGreer? Shit! Ty McGreer!
They’d met at a frat party. After a few drinks, she hadn’t been able to keep her hands off him. And now, in his plaid shirt and dark Levi’s, he stood there exuding the same male hotness that had wreaked havoc with her self-control years before.
It was a frat party, he doesn’t remember, Lindsay told herself. But the look on his face said maybe he did. Uh-oh.
“Golf much?” she asked, keeping her voice cool.
Ty shook his head. “I don’t, but my cousin does. He visited last weekend. He’s not much of a rider, so I give him a bucket of balls and he practices towards the corn fields. Apparently, his aim was off. A ball must have made it into the bull pasture.”
“Apparently so,” Lindsay agreed, arching an eyebrow. “You better look for another, too, Ty. In my experience, balls in bull pastures usually come in pairs.”
He laughed at her joke, his white teeth bright against his tan face. A hot charge jolted her spine. That was lame, Lindsay. It’s been way too long since you’ve gotten properly laid, but your clients don’t need to know it.
Red-faced, she pivoted to her helper. “Let’s get an IV in this little guy, Sam, and get him on the table.” She turned back to Ty, awkwardly conscious of her scrub cap and booties. “This won’t take long. We’ll have him right as rain in no time, Mr. McGreer.”
The hot cowboy cleared his throat. “Um, Dr. Robbins? I was thinking about the National Angus Show for this little guy as a three year old. He’s got the breeding to take the title. How much of a scar will there be?”
Lindsay took latex gloves from the box on the aluminum shelf. Snapping them on, she smiled at him. “I’ll be extra careful with the su
tures, Mr. McGreer. In six months, the scar will be barely visible. I doubt you’ll be able to find it in a year’s time.”
“Great.” The way Ty grinned down at her, it was an effort not to squirm. “Thanks for that. I’m not usually much on appearances, but I had semen flown down from Wyoming this year from an award winning bull, and my cows threw some fine bull calves. I’ve waited a long time for this little guy.”
“Gotcha,” Lindsay said, turning away to hide her confusion. Then a surge of annoyance washed over her.
As I recall you ARE big on appearances, Ty McGreer. The blonde cheerleader you dropped me for was a knockout.
Checking the bull calf over carefully, she couldn’t help remembering how Ty’s full, soft, and incredibly hot lips pressed against hers. He wasn’t interested, and I’m being pathetic. I’m wearing a scrub cap, for God’s sake! He’s not attracted to me. This is all in my head. Again.
Lindsay’s record of surgical successes was excellent. Her record with men. Worse than abysmal.
Sam was leading the little guy to the hydraulic table. The IV sedation was taking effect, and the bull’s head drooped. Pointing to the glass window, Lindsay told Ty, “The viewing room’s out there, Mr. McGreer. You’re free to watch.” Then she dropped her mask over her mouth.
Ty smiled as he backed out of the room. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Dr. Robbins. It’s been a long day. I’ll just go get a beer.”
“We’ll be here.”
His lips still gave her the fidgets. Dammit!
As he turned into the hallway, she caught a glimpse of his butt and thighs, firm beneath his Levi’s. Shutting her eyes, Lindsay closed the door firmly. This isn’t helping my concentration any.
The surgery table was lifting hydraulically, Sam was holding a tray for her, and the little bull was fully sedated.
Back in her comfort zone, Lindsay picked up the scalpel. Ty McGreer was most assuredly not what she needed right now…
Cover Art by Libra Press Graphics
LIBRA PRESS
Libra Press is a division of Equilibria, LLC
Designs On Daphne copyright 2014 by Lilly Christine
ASIN: B00JAW3T1G
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this book may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever without written permission
except in the case of brief quotations imbedded in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents either
are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or
locales or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.
For publisher information, contact [email protected]. Contact the author at [email protected]
Designs On Daphne: (McGreers #4) Page 12
