The Valentine Two-Step

by RaeAnne Thayne

  “No. She’s just as upset as she was before.”

  She snapped on a sterile pair of latex gloves and was pleased he had the sense to open the stall for her so she could keep them clean.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked, his voice pitched low to avoid upsetting the horse more than she already was.

  “Can you hold her head for me?”

  He nodded and obeyed, then scrutinized her closely as she approached the animal slowly, murmuring nonsense words as she went. Mystic, though still frantic at the tumult churning her insides, calmed enough to let Ellie examine her.

  What she found heartened her. Although she could feel contractions rock the horse’s belly, the foal hadn’t begun to move through the birth canal. She pressed her stethoscope to the mare’s side and heard the foal’s heart beating loud and strong, if a little too fast.

  “Can you tell what’s going on?” Matt asked in that same low, soothing voice he used for the mare.

  She spared a quick glance toward him. “My best guess is maybe she got into some mold or something and it’s making her body try to flush itself of the fetus.”

  He clamped his teeth together, resignation in his eyes. “Can you give her something to ease the pain, then? Just until she delivers?”

  “I could.” She drew in a deep breath, her nerves kicking. “Or I can calm her down and try to save the foal.”

  He frowned. “How? I’ve been around horses all my life, certainly long enough to know there’s not a damn thing you can do once a mare decides a foal has to go.”

  “Not with traditional Western medicine, you’re right. But I’ve treated similar situations before, Matt. And saved several foals. I can’t make any guarantees but I’d like to try.”

  His jaw tightened. “With your needles? No way.”

  She wanted to smack him for his old-school stubbornness. “I took an oath as a veterinarian. That I’ll first do no harm, just like every other kind of medical doctor. I take it very seriously. It won’t hurt her, I promise. And it might help save the foal’s life where nothing else will.”

  Objections swamped his throat like spring runoff. He liked Ellie well enough as a person—too much, if he were completely honest with himself about it—but he wasn’t too sure about her as a vet.

  Her heart seemed to be in the right place, but the idea of her turning one of his horses into a pincushion didn’t appeal to him whatsoever.

  “If she’s going to lose the foal anyway, what can it hurt to try?” she asked.

  Across Mystic’s withers, he gazed at Ellie and realized for the first time that she still wore the soft, pretty skirt she’d had on at dinner and those fancy leather boots. The boots were covered in who-knew-what, and a six-inch-wide bloodstain slashed across her skirt where she must have brushed up against Mystic’s belly during the exam.

  Ellie didn’t seem to care a bit about her clothes, though. All her attention was focused on his mare. She genuinely thought she could save the foal—he could see the conviction blazing out of those sparkly green eyes—and that was the only thing that mattered to her right now.

  Her confidence had him wavering. Like she said, what could it hurt to let her try?

  A week ago he wouldn’t have allowed it under any circumstances, would have still been convinced the whole acupuncture thing was a bunch of hooey. But he’d done a little reading up on the Internet lately and discovered the practice wasn’t nearly as weird as he thought. Even the American Veterinary Association considered acupuncture an accepted method of care.

  Mystic suddenly jerked hard against the bit and threw her head back, eyes wild with pain.

  “Please, Matt. Just let me try.”

  What other choice did he have? The foal was going to die, and there was a chance Mystic would, too. He blew out a breath. “Be careful,” he said gruffly. “She’s a damn fine mare, and I don’t want her hurt.”

  He watched carefully while she ran her hands over the animal one more time, then placed her finger at certain points, speaking quietly to both of them as she went.

  “According to traditional Chinese veterinary acupuncture, each animal’s body—and yours, too—has a network of meridians, with acupoints along that meridian that communicate with a specific organ,” she said softly as she worked. “When a particular organ is out of balance, the related acupoints may become tender or show some other abnormality. That’s what I’m looking for.”

  Mystic had a dozen or so needles in various places when Ellie inserted one more and gave it a little twist. Mystic jumped and shuddered.

  He was just about to call the whole blasted thing off and tell Ellie to get away from his horse when the mare’s straining, panting sides suddenly went completely still.

  After a moment, the horse blew out a snorting breath then pulled away from him. With the needles in her flesh still quivering like porcupine quills, she calmly ambled to her water trough and indulged in a long drink of water.

  He stared after her, dumbfounded at how quickly she transformed from panic-stricken to tranquil. What the hell just happened here?

  Ellie didn’t seem nearly as astonished. She followed the horse and began removing the needles one by one, discarding them in a special plastic container she pulled out of her bag. When they were all collected, she cleaned and dressed the self-inflicted wounds on Mystic’s belly, then ran her hands over the horse one last time before joining Matt on the other side of the stall.

  “Is that it?” he asked, unable to keep the shock out of his voice.

  Her mouth twisted into a smile. “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head in amazement. “I’ve got to tell you, Doc, that was just about the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Despite the circumstances, her low laugh sent heat flashing to his gut. “I had the same reaction the first time I saw an animal treated with acupuncture. Some animals respond so instantly it seems nothing short of a miracle. Not all do, but the first horse I saw responded exactly like Mystic just did.”

  “Was she another pregnant mare?”

  “No. It was a racehorse that had suddenly gone lame. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I tried everything I could think of to help him and nothing worked. He just got worse and worse. Finally, as a last-ditch effort before putting him down, the owners decided against my advice to call in another vet who practiced acupuncture.

  “I thought they were completely nuts, but I decided to watch. One minute the vet was sticking in the needles, the next he opened the door and Galaxy took off into the pasture like a yearling, with no sign whatsoever of the lameness that had nearly ended his life. I called up and registered for the training course the next day.”

  Her face glowed when she talked about her work. Somehow it seemed to light up from the inside. She looked so pretty and passionate it was all he could do to keep from reaching across the few feet that separated them and drawing her into his arms.

  “How does it work?” he asked, trying to distract himself from that soft smile and those sparkling eyes and the need suddenly pulsing through him.

  “The Chinese believe health and energy are like a stream flowing downhill—if something blocks that flow, upsetting the body’s natural balance, energy can dam up behind the blockage, causing illness and pain. The needles help guide the energy a different way, restoring the balance and allowing healing to begin.”

  “And you buy all that?”

  She sent him a sidelong look, smiling a little at his skeptical voice. “It worked for Mystic, didn’t it?”

  He couldn’t argue with that. The mare was happily munching grain from her feed bag.

  “I’m not a zealot, Matt. I don’t use acupuncture as a treatment in every situation. Sometimes traditional Western medicine without question is the best course of action. But sometimes a situation calls for something different. Something more.”

  “But doesn’t it conflict with what you know of regular medicine? All that talk abo
ut energy and flow?”

  “Sometimes. It was hard at first for me to reconcile the two. But I’ve since learned it’s a balance. Like life.”

  She smiled again. “I can’t explain it. I just know acupuncture has been practiced for six thousand years—on people as well as animals—and sometimes it works beautifully. One of my instructors used to say that if the only tool in your toolbox is a hammer, the whole world looks like a nail. I want to have as many tools in my toolbox as I possibly can.”

  “You love being a vet, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Why?” He was surprised to find he genuinely wanted to know. “What made you become one?”

  She said nothing for several moments, her face pensive as she worked out an answer. He didn’t mind, strangely content just watching her and listening to the low, soothing sounds of the barn.

  Finally she broke the comfortable silence between them. “I wanted to help animals and I discovered I was good at it. Animals are uncomplicated. They give their love freely and without conditions. I was drawn to that.”

  Who in her life had put conditions on loving her? Dylan’s father? He longed to ask but reminded himself it was none of his business.

  “Did you overrun your house with pets when you were a kid?” he asked instead.

  Her laugh sounded oddly hollow. “No. My mother never wanted the bother or the mess.”

  She was quiet for a moment, gazing at Mystic, who was resting quietly in the stall. He had the feeling Ellie was miles away, somewhere he couldn’t even guess at.

  “I take that back,” she said slowly. “I had a dog once when I was ten. Sparky. A mongrel. Well, he wasn’t really mine, he belonged to a kid at one of the…”

  She looked at him suddenly, as if she’d forgotten he was there.

  “At one of the foster homes I lived in,” she continued stubbornly, her cheeks tinted a dusky rose. “But that didn’t stop me from pretending he was mine.”

  Her defiant declaration broke his heart and helped a lot of things about her finally make sense. “You lived in many foster homes?”

  “One is too many. And yeah, I did.”

  She was quiet again, and he thought for a moment she was done with the subject. And then she spoke in a quiet, unemotional voice that somehow affected him far more than tears or regrets would have.

  “My dad was a long-haul trucker who took a load of artichokes to Florida when I was five and decided to stay. Without bothering to leave a forwarding address, of course. My mother was devastated. She couldn’t even make a decision about what shampoo to use without a man in her life, so she climbed into a bottle and never climbed back out. I stayed with her for about a year and then child-protective services stepped in.” She paused. “And you can stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re feeling sorry for the poor little foster girl playing make-believe with some other kid’s dog.” She lifted her chin. “I did just fine.”

  He didn’t like this fragile tenderness twisting around inside him like a morning glory vine making itself at home where it wasn’t wanted. Did not like it one single bit.

  “I never said otherwise,” he said gruffly.

  “You didn’t have to say a word. I can see what you’re thinking clear as day in those big baby blues of yours. I’ve seen pity plenty of times—that’s why I generally keep my mouth shut about my childhood. But I did just fine,” she said again, more vehemently this time. “I’ve got a beautiful daughter, a job I love fiercely and now I get to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. Not bad for a white-trash foster kid. I turned out okay.”

  “Which one of us are you trying to convince?”

  Her glare would have melted plastic. “Neither. I know exactly where I’ve been and where I’m going. I’m very happy with my life and I really don’t care what you think about me, Harte.”

  “Good. Then it won’t bother you when I tell you I think about you all the time. Or that I’m overwhelmed that you’d be willing to wade through blood and muck in your best clothes to save one of my horses. Or—” he finished quietly “—when I tell you that I think you’re just about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen standing in my barn.”

  Somewhere in the middle of his speech her jaw sagged open and she stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “Close your mouth, Doc,” he murmured wryly.

  She snapped it shut with a pop that echoed in the barn, and he gave a resigned sigh, knowing exactly what he was going to do.

  He had a minute to think that this was about the stupidest thing he’d ever done, then his lips found hers and he stopped thinking, lost in the slick, warm welcome of her mouth.

  For a moment after his mouth captured hers, Ellie could only stand motionless and stare at him, his face a breath away and those long, thick eyelashes shielding his glittering eyes from her view.

  Matt Harte was kissing her! She wouldn’t have been more shocked if all the horses in the stable had suddenly reared up and started singing Broadway show tunes as one.

  And what a kiss it was. His mouth was hot and spicy, flavored with cinnamon and nutmeg. Pumpkin-pie sweet. He must have snuck a taste in the kitchen when he was cleaning up.

  That was the last coherent thought she had before he slowly slid his mouth over hers, carefully, thoroughly, as if he didn’t want to miss a single square inch.

  Ellie completely forgot how to breathe. Liquid heat surged to her stomach, pooled there, then rushed through the rest of her body on a raging, storm-swollen river of desire.

  Completely focused on his mouth and the incredible things the man knew what to do with it, she wasn’t aware of her hands sliding to his chest until her fingers curled into the soft fabric of his sweater. Through the thick cotton, steel-hard muscles rippled and bunched beneath her hands, and she splayed them, fascinated by the leashed power there.

  He groaned and pulled her more tightly against him, and his mouth shifted from leisurely exploring hers to conquering it, to searing his taste and touch on her senses.

  His tongue dipped inside, and she welcomed it as his lean, muscular body pressed her against the stall. His heat warmed her, wrapped around and through her from the outside in, and she leaned against him.

  How long had it been since she’d been held by a man like this, had hard male arms wrapped around her, snugging her against a broad male chest? Since she’d been made to feel small and feminine and wanted?

  It shocked her that she couldn’t remember, that every other kiss seemed to have faded into some distant corner of her mind, leaving only Matt Harte and his mouth and his hands.

  Even if she had been able to recall any other kisses, she had a feeling they would pale into nothingness anyway compared to this. She certainly would have remembered something that made her feel as if she were riding a horse on a steep mountain trail with only air between her and heaven, as if the slightest false step would send her tumbling over the edge.

  She’d been right.

  The thought whispered through her dazed and jumbled mind, and she sighed. She had wondered that day in her office how Matt would go about kissing a woman and now she knew—slowly, carefully, completely absorbed in what he was doing, as if the fate of the entire world hinged on him kissing her exactly right.

  Until she didn’t have a thought left in her head except more.

  She had no idea how long they stood there locked together. Time slowed to a crawl, then speeded up again in a whirling, mad rush.

  She would have stayed there all night, lost in the amazing wonder of his mouth and his hands and his strength amid the rustle of hay and the low murmuring of horses—if she had her way, they would have stayed there until Christmas.

  But just as she twisted her arms around the strong, tanned column of his neck to pull him even closer, her subconscious registered a sound that didn’t belong. Girls’ voices and high-pitched laughter outside the barn, then the rusty-hinged squeak of
a door opening.

  For one second they froze, still tightly entwined together, then Matt jerked away from her, his breathing ragged and harsh, just as both of their daughters rounded the corner of a stall bundled up like Eskimos against the cold.

  “Hi.” The girls chirped the word together.

  Ellie thought she must have made some sound but she was too busy trying to grab hold of her wildly scrambled thoughts to know what it might have been.

  “We came out to see if you might need any help,” Lucy said.

  Ellie darted a quick look at Matt and saw that he looked every bit as stunned as she felt, as if he’d just run smack up against one of those wood supports holding the roof in place.

  “Is something wrong?” Dylan’s brows furrowed as she studied them closely. “Did…did something happen to the foal?”

  She’d forgotten all about Mystic. What kind of a veterinarian was she to completely abandon her duties while she tangled mouths with a man like Matt Harte? She jerked her gaze to the stall and was relieved to find the pregnant mare sleeping, her sides moving slowly and steadily with each breath. In a quick visual check, Ellie could see no outward sign of her earlier distress.

  She rubbed her hands down her skirt—filthy beyond redemption, she feared—and forced a smile through the clutter of emotions tumbling through her. “I think she’s going to be okay.”

  “And her foal, too?” Lucy asked, features creased with worry.

  “And her foal, too.”

  Matt cleared his throat, looking at the girls and not at her. “Yeah, the crisis seems to be over, thanks to Doc Webster here.”

  “She’s amazing, isn’t she, Dad?” Lucy said. Awe that Ellie knew perfectly well she didn’t deserve in his daughter’s voice and shining in her soft powder-gray eyes.

  Finally Matt met her gaze, and Ellie would have given a week’s salary to know what he was thinking. The blasted man could hide his emotions better than a dog burying a soup bone. His features looked carved in granite, all blunt angles and rough planes.

  After a few moments of that unnerving scrutiny, he turned to his daughter. “I’m beginning to think so,” he murmured.