Sun Kissed (19 page)

He checked Tabasco’s IV. “The Irish are good, solid stock. Hardworking, and sometimes hard drinking, but I’ve never met an Irishman yet with a cold heart.”

That was true in Samantha’s experience as well. Her grandpa Harrigan had loved his Irish whiskey, but even in his cups, he’d always had a gentle hand and a ready hug for his grandchildren.

“I’m sorry about Max crawling in bed with you,” Tucker said, jerking her from her reverie. “I took him to dog obedience school, believe it or not.”

He left that revelation hanging.

“And did he learn a lot?” she couldn’t resist asking.

Tucker’s dark face flushed slightly. “Yes, how to count. He totally ignores me until I say something three times.”

The honest discomfiture in his expression made Samantha burst out laughing, a great, huge guffaw that came so hard and fast it embarrassed her. She liked this
man. From the start, he’d had a way of working past her defenses, and the better she came to know him, the less inclined she felt to resist his relaxed, effortless charm.

That made him ever so dangerous to her still-wounded heart, and she would do well to remember it.

Over the next several days, Samantha came to realize there were certain things in life against which she was nearly incapable of defending herself: kindness offered without any strings attached, dollops of humor tossed in to lighten her heart when she least expected it, and quiet strength when she needed support.

Tucker Coulter offered her all three.

He brought her fresh coffee whenever he was at the clinic, made strong, just the way she liked it. He ordered takeout for her, morning, noon, and night, refusing recompense even when she insisted on paying the tabs. He also made sure the clinic bathroom was kept stocked with fresh towels and washcloths so she could take regular showers. And during the rocky stages of Tabasco’s recovery, when Samantha felt sure the stallion might die and wanted only some privacy to cry, Tucker was there with a joke to make her laugh or a heartening prediction to rekindle her hope.

“He
can’t
die,” he said one evening when a blood panel showed no improvement in the stallion’s kidney and liver counts. “I’ve worked too hard and said too many prayers, damn it. He just can’t die.”

With that proclamation, he promptly began changing the horse’s medications, muttering the names of drugs Samantha had never heard of as he mixed what he called
“a surefire cocktail” and gave it to her horse intravenously.

“He
isn’t
going to die,” he told her again. “Trust me. It’s not happening.”

And Samantha believed him, even though common sense told her that there were some things this side of heaven that all the medicine on earth couldn’t cure. Perhaps her confidence was inspired by her growing belief that Tucker Coulter was no ordinary vet. Each time he studied her horse, his eyes burned with determination, and she couldn’t count the times he brought thick tomes into the stall, sat on the straw, and pored over sections of text, trying to devise new treatment strategies. His dedication was truly amazing.

“What is it you’re trying now?” she asked.

He glanced up from the book he was scanning. “I’ve used all the tried-and-true chelating agents, so I decided it was time to start rolling the dice. I’m trying a drug that has been used on humans to good effect. I can’t find any documented findings on its success with horses, but I’m still looking, and either way, I think it’s worth a shot.”

Her throat felt tight and itchy. “So the one you were using wasn’t working?”

A deep line appeared between his thick, dark brows. “I can’t say it wasn’t working, just not as quickly as I’d like. I want to experiment. Are you game?”

Samantha took a while to answer. What if this new drug wasn’t as effective as the one they’d been using up until now? She’d never been much of a gambler, and she was especially reluctant with Tabasco’s life hanging in the balance. But she’d come to believe in Tucker Coulter
and in what he’d told her early on in their acquaintance: that he was a phenomenal equine specialist. If he thought a different drug might work better, she could be signing Tabasco’s death warrant if she withheld permission.

“My horse is in your hands,” she managed to say. “If you think it’s time to roll the dice, then continue to roll them.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded decisively. “I think it’s time.”

Instead of going home that night, Tucker stayed at the clinic, grabbing catnaps on his reclining desk chair, but awakening every two hours on the dot to check Tabasco’s vitals or give him another dose of what Samantha prayed was a lifesaving concoction.

Sometime the next afternoon, he sent samples of Tabasco’s blood off to a lab for analysis.

“Yes!” she heard him yell at about seven that night. “Thank you, God!”

Before Samantha could leave the stall to see what on earth Tucker was shouting about, he appeared at the gate. “I just got off the phone with a gal at Saint Matthew’s lab.” He gave her a thumbs-up. “His levels have improved. Not by much, but it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I started using the new drug.”

Samantha’s heart lifted with joy. “Oh, how wonderful! That’s the best news I’ve had in a week!”

“It’s a little early to celebrate too much,” he cautioned. “I can’t guarantee anything yet. But it’s a very good sign.”

During the long, exhausting hours that followed, Samantha lost track of night and day. She dozed off and
on, but never for long stretches at a time, and at some point she moved past exhausted numbness into survival mode, no longer noticing that her body ached and cried out for sleep. What she did notice was Tucker Coulter, veterinarian extraordinaire, who had taken to spending al most as much time at the clinic as she was, going home only to shower and change clothes.

As a result, Max, the friendly rottweiler, who couldn’t be left at home unattended for so many hours, was always at the clinic with his master and took to sneaking into the stall to snooze on Samantha’s cot every chance he got. When she wanted to lie down herself, she had to make Max move over. He was a huge, sweet, and absurdly lovable animal whose only major fault was chicken breath, after all. So why not share?

As three days mounted into four, and four became five, Samantha realized that she’d come to trust Tucker Coulter as much as she’d ever trusted anyone, including her father. The feeling frightened her and made her wonder if she’d lost her mind. But when she tried to steel her heart against him, she found it to be impossible. Even when he wasn’t physically present in the stall, she could hear his voice as he spoke to the other animals he treated, his tone always gentle and comforting, much as it was when he spoke to her.

Several days after she’d taken up squatting rights at the clinic, Tucker appeared in the stall wearing riding boots, Wrangler jeans, a green plaid short-sleeved shirt, and a brown Stetson tipped low over his sky blue eyes. Accustomed to seeing him in a lab jacket, Samantha had
almost forgotten how devastatingly sexy he looked in regular clothes.

“You’re due for an outing,” he announced, his deep voice as rich and warm as fine Irish whiskey.

“I am?”

“You are.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms, his relaxed posture at odds with the stubborn gleam in his eyes. “It’s been so long since you’ve been outdoors, you’re developing a case of prison pallor. You need a little sun and some fresh air—doctor’s orders.”

Samantha knew an outing would do her a world of good, but she didn’t want to leave Tabasco. “You’re not a people doctor.”

“True, but I own this joint. That gives me special license. You’re going for a ride with me and Max. The horse will be fine. Riley has promised to keep a close eye on him while we’re gone, no worries.”

When she hesitated, he added, “Please? I just got a call from a very special client. He’s an old guy with five acres of patchy sod, two cows, three pigs, a flock of chickens, and an ancient gelding named Old Doc. The horse is eating dirt, and if my guess is right, he’s probably ingested foxtails like three other horses I’ve treated recently. If the foxtails have caused abscesses in his mouth or throat, I’ll have to anesthetize him to swab them out. John Sorenson is too old and feeble to be of much help, and I’m going to need assistance.”

Samantha knew Tucker seldom required an extra pair of hands. Besides, if he truly needed help, which she doubted, he would ask one of his techs to go along. This
was only a trumped-up excuse to get her outdoors for a while, nothing more. Nevertheless, how could she say no? He’d been there for Tabasco, and by extension for her, day after day and night after night, never complaining.

A few minutes later Samantha was in Tucker’s Dodge, sandwiched between her chauffeur and Max, who crooked his front feet over the bottom edge of the open passenger window to enjoy the wind in his face. Every time Samantha looked in the dog’s direction, all she saw was the rust-colored heart shape on his butt.

“Max has no modesty,” Tucker informed her. “If he farts—and he does that a lot—bury your nose in my shirt, or you’ll expire from the smell.”

Samantha laughed in spite of herself. “With a vet as his owner, I’m surprised he’s flatulent. Have you tried putting him on a special diet?”

Tucker flashed a mischievous grin at her. “Absolutely. Pizza, burritos, steaks, hamburgers, and fries. You name it; he gets it. I’m very good at lecturing my clients on proper diets for their pets, but I can’t quite bring myself to practice what I preach. Max has the pleading, abused-puppy-dog look perfected to a fine art.”

Samantha almost laughed again. Tucker Coulter made her want to forget that she was a jaded divorcée who’d vowed never to trust another handsome man. She was enjoying the ride. The breeze coming in through the open windows created a fresh and clean whirlwind inside the cab that moved over her scalp and face in cool gusts and made her feel more alive than she had in days.

Once at the north end of town, Tucker headed for the rural outskirts, where ranch and farmland replaced
businesses and residential areas. Here the air smelled even cleaner, and Samantha drew in a huge breath, savoring the scents of alfalfa and grass hay.

“Good?” Tucker asked.

“Fabulous,” she admitted. “Thank you for inviting me.”

A moment later Tucker slowed the Dodge and turned onto a long graveled driveway that led to a blue ranch rambler badly in need of fresh paint. Neglected flower beds overgrown with weeds told Samantha the gardening enthusiast who’d once tended the plants had either fallen ill or was no longer in residence.

“Mae Sorenson passed away two years ago,” Tucker explained. “This was a showplace when she was alive. She grew the most gorgeous irises on record, and, oh, man, you should have seen her geraniums. Mine are pretty, but they’re nothing compared to hers.”

Samantha glanced up in surprise. “You grow geraniums?”

“Oh, yeah, and just about every other kind of flower you can name. I have a gorgeous English garden in my backyard, complete with white trellises and wrought-iron benches. Do you like clematis?”

She had no idea what a clematis was. It sounded like a kinky sexual act. “I’m totally ignorant about flowers, I’m afraid. Are they pretty?”

“Breathtaking. I’ll take you over to see my garden some afternoon. I hire landscapers to maintain it because I work such long hours, but I still spend a lot of my leisure time puttering in the dirt.” He killed the truck en
gine, threw open his door, and then turned to help her out. “Max, you stay put.”

An elderly man in blue overalls, a threadbare red shirt, and a limp straw hat met them at the end of the drive. His kindly blue eyes warmed with friendliness as he shook Samantha’s hand. Then he led the way around to the pastures and outbuildings in back.

Old Doc, the buckskin gelding with the sudden passion for dirt, stood motionless with his head hanging dejectedly as they approached his pen. His elderly owner unfastened the chain on the gate and preceded them into the enclosure.

“I’m sorry to bring you out on a Sunday, Tucker, especially when it’s not your weekend to take calls. But he’s in a bad way, and I don’t trust anyone else. I’ve never seen anything like this. He’s eating dirt like there’s no tomorrow. Downright strange, I tell you.”

Tucker spoke softly to the horse, then asked, “Is he off his feed?”

“It bein’ summer, I’m mostly only givin’ him hay. He ate a little this mornin’, but not much.” Sorenson gestured to a pile on the ground nearby. “You can see for yourself he didn’t eat a lot.”

Samantha crouched beside the mound to more closely inspect the hay. “You guessed right, Tucker. This stuff is loaded with foxtails.” Glancing up at Sorenson, she added, “I’ll bet you got it from Crystal Falls Feed and Tack.”

“Yep.” The old man lumbered over to squint at the pile. “Foxtails, you say? My eyes aren’t what they used to be. I never noticed.”

“Lots of foxtails,” she replied. “They delivered a truckload of bad hay to my place, too, but my foreman caught it right away and sent it back.”

Tucker ran a hand along the ridge of the gelding’s neck. Then, murmuring reassurances, he drew back the animal’s lip. Standing at his elbow, Samantha saw pus oozing out over the horse’s bottom gum. Further exploration revealed two large abscesses under Old Doc’s tongue.