Long Shot
Page 1
Synopsis
If you’re going to bet a long shot, you have to be prepared to lose.
Equine veterinarian Tory Greyson has always played the safe bet. That is, until she runs into a very cute, opinionated, jobless journalist. The small town of Cherokee Falls is just a pit stop for Leah Montgomery while she figures out how to put her career back on track and deal with her grandmother’s slide into dementia.
Tory is unable to resist when Leah talks her into putting money on a long shot at the track and then spending the winnings to buy a wild pony. Will Tory take a chance on Leah, too? Or will she stick with the safe bet and pursue Bridgette LeRoy, the calm, Zen-centered artist who arrives to teach at the local college?
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Long Shot
© 2010 By D. Jackson Leigh. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-426-3
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Printing: March 2010
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editors: Shelley Thrasher and Stacia Seaman
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)
By the Author
Bareback
Long Shot
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my partner for her proud support. I will never forget her part in rallying our friends to make my very first book signing for Bareback a huge success. I also deeply appreciate her willingness, when the writing fever hits, to give up some of the few precious hours we have together each week.
I want to thank my sole beta reader, Gail. She is one of the few truly good people among the flawed masses. You can count on her to bake a ham for someone who is ill, or to sit for months at the bedside of the dying, or to read your manuscript at the last minute despite her more pressing, more important work.
Thanks again to Cindy, for answering pesky veterinarian questions at odd hours.
Thanks to Jennifer Knight for saying “I know you can do better” when I was only in the proposal writing process for Long Shot. You were right.
I deeply appreciate my editor, Shelley Thrasher. Her insightful coaching made the editing process a pure pleasure and, most certainly, my book better.
Finally, I kiss the ring of the Queen of Romance, Radclyffe, for nurturing writers and constantly feeding all who are hungry to escape into a world where the important characters are like us.
Dedication
For Angie,
The sweet tea in this Southerner’s life
Chapter One
Sweat trickled down Tory Greyson’s back. It was unreasonably hot even for July, and Tory hunched over the horse’s foot clamped firmly between her knees, shaving away the excess hoof.
It had never occurred to her before how vulnerable she was in that position—her ass in the air and her head nearly between her knees—at least not until the warning came.
“You better get away from my horses.”
Tory looked over her shoulder, into the glare of the sun, toward the threatening voice.
She didn’t see anyone but the sweet old lady she had talked to earlier. Correct that: The sweet old lady with a shotgun aimed right at her.
A shot rang out and a spray of buckshot rained against the barn wall next to Tory. The horse bolted, sending her tumbling across the ground. Before she could scramble to her feet, another shot exploded and the dirt in front of her kicked up in a dozen places. Weighted down by her heavy farrier’s apron, she half crawled, half ran around the end of the barn and dove inside.
“Holy Mother! Thank God she’s a bad shot,” Tory muttered.
She crouched behind some bales of straw and grabbed her cell phone from her belt to dial 911.
*
The day had started out well enough. Tory’s busy equine veterinary practice, nestled in the foothills near Charlottesville, Virginia, spanned three counties that were dotted with more tiny farms than she could ever hope to visit or even spot from the road. However, her appointments today were thankfully within a ten-mile radius, in territory with which she was somewhat familiar.
Her first appointment was quick. In and out. But it was the last to go smoothly.
The second client wanted her to look at another horse not scheduled in her appointment book. Then the third client overslept and Tory had to wait twenty minutes for him to bring the horse that needed vaccinations up from the pasture.
So when a friend at the sheriff’s department asked her to check out a report of neglected horses, Tory knew her schedule was doomed. She should have called her secretary, Joyce, and had the appointment set for later in the week. But she did occasional work like this pro bono for the county, and the site was only a mile away from the barn she’d just left. She would stop by and give up the thirty minutes she had scheduled to catch up on her paperwork while she ate a sandwich.
Her white Chevy Tahoe, loaded with heavy cabinets and veterinary supplies, bounced and swayed through the potholes of the deeply pitted gravel drive. It led to a modest ranch-style home and a weathered barn that tilted slightly to the left. Two horses and a very fat pony grazed in a weed-choked pasture. Tory sighed and prepared to deliver her “horses are not goats; they have to have the right kind of grass” lecture.
She rang the doorbell at the house and knocked several times without response. But as she was stepping off the porch, the door swung open to reveal a slight, sweet-faced elderly woman.
“Oh! I thought maybe Leah had forgotten her key.” The woman combed her fingers nervously through her short gray curls and peered at Tory. “Are you a friend of Leah’s?”
“No, ma’am. I’m Tory Greyson. I’m a veterinarian. I came out to check on your horses.”
“Goodness. Are they okay?” The woman turned toward the pasture and shaded her eyes against the sun.
“I haven’t looked at them yet. Can you tell me the last time they were vaccinated?”
The woman’s speech was slow and halting as she struggled to respond. “Oh, dear. Let’s see. Herbert Adams comes out every year. I’m not sure what month. He likes my pies. I always bake him a chocolate one. Do you like pie?”
Herbert Adams was a local veterinarian who had been dead for at least six years.
“Yes, ma’am. I do like pie, but I’m sort of in a hurry, and I need to look at your horses.”
“Horses?”
“There, in the pasture.”
“Oh, I don’t think I want to sell them, but you can take a look.”
Tory was beginning to understand the report that the animals might be endangered because the owner was mentally impaired. Despite her shattered schedule and need to be efficient, Tory couldn’t be rude to this sweet little woman.
“Are you the only one here?” she asked patiently.
“My granddaughter is visiting. She came all the way from Tennessee. No, not Tennessee…” The exact place seemed too difficult to summon from her memory, so she abandoned the effort and simply smiled up at Tory.
“Can I talk to your granddaughter?”
“Is she in the house?”
The woman looked through the open door a moment, as if checking for the missing granddaughter, then recall clicked in again. “She went to the store.”
Well, they were making progress.
“Okay. I’ll just look the horses over to make sure they’re healthy, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“That’s fine, dear. You go ahead. I’ll tell her that Willie is out looking at the horses.”
Tory didn’t see much sense in trying to correct the name mistake, so she smiled and waved as she headed toward the pasture gate.
The pony limped over as soon as Tory stepped into the pasture. The two horses, grazing farther away, hurried over just in case she was handing out treats or grain.
She checked them carefully. Their teeth needed filing, but not so badly that it had to be done today. Their hooves needed trimming. Since they weren’t wearing shoes, she wouldn’t need to call a farrier. She could do a quick trim job.
Despite the weeds, a good base of nutritious grass flourished, and the animals did not look malnourished. In fact, the pony was much too fat and stood slightly rocked back on his hindquarters. Horses normally supported the majority of their bulk on their front legs, so shifting his weight meant his front feet were sore. This could be a problem.
The pony stood patiently while Tory examined his feet. The soles were warmer than normal, and the rings of discolor on the hoof wall showed that this guy had suffered from founder before. Caught early, this inflammation of the hoof caused by too much protein could usually be remedied by a strict diet and anti-inflammatory drugs. Left untreated, it could permanently cripple the animal so badly that it would have to be euthanized.
So, it was a good thing for the pony that Tory had stopped by. At least that was what she told herself as she crouched behind some dusty bales of straw and waited for a sheriff’s deputy to arrive and save her from Sniper Granny.
She could hear the woman struggling with the gate. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! If Sniper Granny had followed her into the back of the barn, Tory could have run out the front and maybe made it to her truck. Leaving the pasture through the gate put her stalker in the position to block any escape.
Tory strained to hear. Was a vehicle coming up the drive? That was a fast response, especially for the deputies around Cherokee Falls. She listened as the tires crunched slowly along the gravel and finally came to a stop. At the sound of a car door slamming, she slipped out from her hiding place and waited for a stern “drop that gun.” Instead, a lilting, feminine voice floated her way.
“Hey, Gram. How was your nap?”
Her nap? Sniper Granny is standing there with a smoking shotgun and this person wants to know about her nap time?
The voice took on a worried tone. “Sugar, what are you doing with that gun? Whose truck is that?”
Tory cautiously edged forward to peek out of the barn. She wasn’t anxious to be a target again. Sniper Granny was standing next to an equally petite young woman dressed in cut-off jeans, a tight black T-shirt that said “Journalists love issues,” and Western boots. Boots and shorts? Must be the granddaughter from Texas.
“She was trying to shoot me,” Tory shouted from the doorway of the barn.
“Someone’s in the barn,” Gram said. “Trying to steal the horses.”
“Let me have the gun, and stand back, Gram. I’ll take care of this.”
Daisy Duke calmly returned her bag of groceries to her Jeep Wrangler and took the gun from the old lady. She cradled it in the crook of her arm, barrel pointed toward the ground like someone completely comfortable around weapons. Standing in front of the barn, legs spread in the defiant stance of a gunslinger, she demanded, “All right, horse thief. Come out with your hands up. Try anything funny and I’ll fill your butt with buckshot before you can spit.”
Tory shook her head, but held her hands where they could be clearly seen and stepped out into the sun.
“Put your hands on top of your head and turn around and spread ’em.” Daisy Duke grinned at Sniper Granny. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
Tory put her hands on her hips and glared at the woman. “No, I will not. This is ridiculous. Your grandmother tried to kill me. She shot at me twice and nearly hit me.”
“You are trespassing on her farm.” The gun’s muzzle lifted, and so did Tory’s hands.
At the sound of tires again crunching over gravel, they all turned to see a sheriff’s cruiser carefully navigating the driveway.
“Fine. We’ll let the police sort this out,” Tory said.
“Gram, did you call the police, sugar? I told you to call me, not the cops again.”
Gram shifted nervously and wrung her hands. “They were trying to steal my horses.” She hurried over to the gate and peered into the pasture.
“I called the police. She had me penned down in the barn, trying to kill me,” Tory yelled in exasperation.
“Will you shut up? Can’t you see you’re upsetting her? You come out here and start poking around in her barn. How is she supposed to know you aren’t stealing her horses? And while we’re talking about it, what were you doing in there? Maybe you were trying to steal something.”
Tory opened her mouth to explain, but apparently the question was rhetorical. Daisy Duke barely drew a breath before continuing her tirade.
“You might be dangerous, somebody who preys on the elderly, scamming them out of their horses and selling the poor animals to the dog-food factory. Well, you picked the wrong mark today, lady, because Gram was one step away from tacking your hide to the side of the barn. That should make you think twice about coming on this property again, trying to steal our horses.” She turned to the tall, lean deputy who had parked his cruiser and was ambling over. “Lock her up, Jimmy. There’s got to be some kind of law about scaring little old women to death.”
“Look who’s here. Hey, Leah.”
Satisfied that the horses were fine, Gram returned to the group. “Oh, dear. I wasn’t expecting so much company today. I would have baked some pies.” Gram peered at the deputy. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Montgomery. I’m Jimmy. Buddy’s boy.” He removed his Stetson to give her a better look.
Gram stared, but showed no sign of recognition. Leah wrapped a comforting arm around her grandmother’s shoulders.
“I think there’s still a pie left in the fridge. Remember the ones I helped you bake the other day? Why don’t you go see. We’ll all come in and have some.”
Gram nodded and obediently headed for the house.
“Can I help you take your groceries in?” Jimmy asked Leah.
“Thanks, I can get them. How’s Angela?”
“She’s great. We’re expecting a baby in September.”
“That’s so wonderful. I knew y’all were meant for each other.”
“How long are you in town for?”
Leah ran her fingers through her hair to brush it back from her face and sighed. “As long as it takes to figure out what to do about Gram’s situation. I’m afraid it’s getting to the point that she can’t live alone anymore.”
“You gonna move back here to live with her?”
“God, no. There’s nothing for me to do in this little-bitty town.”
Jimmy returned his hat to his head, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Oh, yeah. I forgot you were a big-time newspaper reporter now.”
Tory stared in disbelief. They were chatting like she wasn’t even there.
“Hello,” she said loudly. “I’m the one who called the police.”
Jimmy turned to Tory as though he had just noticed her.
“Hey, Doc. Sorry. You okay? I’d have met you out here if I knew you were coming right away.”
“No, I’m not okay. I’m an hour late for a paying appointment because Sniper Granny wa
s shooting at me, and then Daisy Duke here shows up and holds me at gunpoint.”
“Is that a crack about my boots? Because I can still fill your butt full of buckshot.”
Jimmy laughed. “Daisy Duke. That’s a good one.”
Leah glared at him, so he apparently decided it was time to make introductions.
“Leah Montgomery, this is Dr. Tory Greyson. Animal Control got a call from a neighbor who was afraid Mrs. Montgomery wasn’t able to take care of the horses anymore. So we asked Dr. Greyson to stop by and take a look at them. Dr. Greyson, this is Leah Montgomery, Mrs. Montgomery’s granddaughter.”
“I told you I wasn’t a horse thief,” Tory insisted to Leah.
“Well, duh. That wasn’t hard to figure out. The sign on the side of your truck says Greyson Veterinarian Services.” Leah gestured to the farrier’s apron that Tory still wore. “And I don’t expect too many thieves trim hooves before they steal the animals.”
Tory ground her teeth in frustration. “So, if you had it all figured out, what was the Rambo act for?”
Leah smiled sweetly. “Just indulging my cop fantasy. You’re lucky I didn’t have any handcuffs.”
Tory gave a disgusted grunt and reached around to release the apron’s buckle at the small of her back.
“You sure you’re okay, Doc?” Jimmy asked. “Mrs. Montgomery didn’t mean nothing by it. She just gets confused.”
“I think my hip is bruised from landing on my keister when the horse took off on me, but I’m okay.”
She pulled the apron off with one hand and rubbed her sore backside with the other. Tory winced and stared at her hand. It was covered with blood.
“Christ! She did hit me.” Tory glared at Leah. “Now I’m going to have to spend the afternoon in the emergency room.” She turned for them to see her bloody jeans.