Sun Kissed (4 page)

Curiosity piqued, she stared out the window at the passing buildings for a moment. Then she sent him a questioning look. “Are you new to the rodeo scene?”

He grinned good-naturedly. “I’m not part of the scene, period. Used to be years ago, but then a family tragedy made me lose interest. I only volunteer now because it’s good for business.”

He had the look of a horseman. Sam had teethed on saddle leather and knew a greenhorn when she saw one. Tucker Coulter didn’t fit the bill. He even walked like a cowboy, his long legs slightly bowed, his hips moving with well-oiled ease. She’d first pegged him as a second-or third-generation rancher, someone who’d spent most of his life on a horse and remained in the family enterprise as an adult, much as she had. He wore the right clothing for it—well-worn Wrangler jeans, a wrinkled chambray shirt, and scuffed riding boots.

The car rocked to one side as it took a turn. With her arms cuffed behind her, Samantha had to lean sharply in the opposite direction to keep from toppling. “So you don’t like horses and cows?”

“Didn’t say that.” Instead of struggling to stay erect, as she was, he pressed a shoulder against his door. “I love horses, and I like cows all right, although I have to say cows aren’t the smartest animals on the planet. In my opinion, they’re more appealing on a barbecue grill than on the hoof.” Never missing a beat, he added, “Please don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian.”

Samantha found herself wanting to smile again. Was it possible that he found her as attractive as she did him?

Not a good situation. Just looking at him made her pulse beat a little faster. “No, I’m not a vegetarian.”

“Whew,” he said, feigning relief. “You never know these days. I’ve dated four, no, five women over the last six months who got so pissed when I ordered a steak, they left the restaurant and called a cab.”

Samantha wasn’t surprised to learn that he dated a lot. A man with his dark good looks probably had a little black book as thick as a Bible. And there it was, a reason to dislike him.

“I’ll bet you’ve never been married,” she mused aloud.

“Nope. Here I am, almost thirty-six, and I haven’t found the right lady yet.” He gave her another long study. “Maybe I’ve just been looking in all the wrong places.”

Samantha had heard that line before. She wanted to tell him not to waste his breath. But why waste hers?

“Count yourself lucky,” the deputy interjected from the front seat. “I wish I was thirty-six and single. It beats the hell out of being forty-two and divorced with three kids to support.”

Tucker winked at Samantha. “He’s human, after all.”

“Go ahead. Take your shots,” the deputy said. “You think this job is a walk in the park? I’ve dealt with nothing but drunk troublemakers for two solid days.” He jerked off his hat and tossed it onto the front passenger seat. “Long hours, pitiful pay, and”—he glowered at Tucker in the rearview mirror—“no respect. Do you think I
wanted
to arrest your lady friend? It’s obvious as hell the drunk boxed her on the jaw. But guilt or innocence
isn’t for me to decide. I’m sworn to uphold the law. The other guy pressed charges. I can’t let the two of you walk just because I think he’s lying.”

After a moment of silence, Tucker nodded. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

“You guess?”

“All right, I
do
owe you an apology,” Tucker amended. “I’ve given you a hard time for doing your job. I shouldn’t have.”

The deputy’s sunglasses followed his hat onto the adjacent seat. “Thank you. And if I came off as unfeeling, I apologize, too. If it’s any consolation, I think you’ll be in and out pretty fast. That guy is so plastered he can’t keep his name straight, let alone his story. It won’t be difficult to trip him up and get to the bottom of what actually happened.”

“So what went wrong with your marriage?” Tucker asked. “If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

“You ever heard that song about the guy driving by his house and seeing some stranger living his life?” the deputy asked. “That’s me. He’s got my house, my wife and kids, even my dog. While I was working the night shift, trying to support my family, she was two-timing me. When all was said and done, the only thing I got was my pickup truck, and I owe payments on that.”

Tucker lifted a dark eyebrow. “Surely you get to see your kids.”

“Every other weekend, but it’s getting so they don’t want to come anymore. I don’t have much to offer them for entertainment. I can’t even afford a pizza.” He huffed in disgust.

Samantha’s heart hurt for the deputy. She knew how it felt to trust someone and be betrayed. At least she and Steve hadn’t had children.

“Not all marriages end that way,” Tucker said. “My parents have been together for forty years.”

“They’re lucky,” the deputy replied. “Damn lucky. Nowadays marriages are like cars: not made to last.”

Samantha agreed with that sentiment. The only way she would ever say “I do” again was with a gun pressed to her head.

The deputy braked to make a right turn into the sheriff’s department parking lot.

“Well,” she said, hoping to change the subject. “It looks like we’re here.”

Tucker gave her a sharp look. “Don’t let them put you in a cell with anyone else,” he said. “Chances are we won’t be here very long, but just in case, it’s better to be locked up alone.”

“You think we have vacancies?” The deputy collected his hat and settled it back on his head. “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t count on it being much. The place is packed tighter than a can of sardines.”

Samantha turned her gaze to the cinder-block building, painted icky government green. The only jails she’d ever seen had been in movies. “If they try to put you in with someone else, raise holy hell,” Tucker stressed.

That was all he had time to say. The next second, another male deputy emerged from the building, the rear doors of the vehicle were jerked open, and she was seized by the elbow to be pulled unceremoniously from the car.

T
he inside of the sheriff’s department was a bustle of confused activity, with uniformed officers, both male and female, hurrying about, looking harried and exhausted. “Rodeo Days” was a muttered refrain in much the same tone as one might say, “Black plague.” Tucker lost sight of Samantha Harrigan in the blur of moving bodies. He hoped she was having a better time of it than he was. He also hoped she remembered his warning and insisted on being given an unoccupied cell. As crowded as this place was, God only knew what kind of person she might get stuck with.

A few minutes later Tucker was led into an interior office, relieved of the handcuffs, and told to have a seat. “Aren’t you going to lock me up?” he asked the stocky male deputy.

“No room.” The man smoothed a hand over his gray hair. His uniform looked as if he’d slept in it. “All one hundred and forty-one cells are packed full. Never fails. Rodeo Days brings ’em crawling out of the woodwork.” He sighed and shook his head. “We’re working on getting
the charges against you dropped. The drunk can’t keep his story straight, and the woman is developing a shiner, corroborating her story that the man slugged her.”

Sanity, at last. Tucker sat back on the chair, rubbing his wrists. “If she hadn’t fallen against the horse, he would have decked her. What was I supposed to do, let him hit her again?”

“Between you, me, and a fence post, I would have jumped in, too.” The deputy jabbed a thumb at a coffee machine along the wall. “Java’s free. While you’re waiting, help yourself. Just don’t put your feet on the boss’s desk. It really pisses him off.”

Tucker took that to mean he was in the head honcho’s office. After the deputy exited, taking care to lock the door behind him, Tucker pushed to his feet to circle the room. The walls were covered haphazardly with tattered papers—changes in procedure, work schedules, and scribbled notes.

A group of news clippings on a bulletin board drew Tucker’s attention. He had just stepped over to check them out when the door clicked open behind him. He turned to see Samantha Harrigan entering, a middle-aged female deputy following at her heels.

“Since the two of you are friends, you can wait it out in here together,” the deputy said. “Might make the time pass more quickly.”

Speaking simultaneously, both Samantha and Tucker blurted, “We aren’t really—” But then they both broke off before finishing the sentence. They weren’t exactly friends, after all—or even what most people might term
acquaintances. But the alternative—being stuffed into a cell crowded with strangers—wasn’t appealing.

The deputy removed Samantha’s handcuffs and gave her the same spiel Tucker had heard, that the drunk couldn’t keep his story straight and she should be out of there and headed home within a couple of hours.

“Have you found the horse?” Samantha asked, rubbing her wrists where the cuffs had chafed her skin.

“We’ve called the Humane Society,” the deputy assured her. “They’ve got people combing the fairgrounds trying to find him as we speak.”

“He’s hurt,” Samantha stressed, “and probably frightened as well. He shouldn’t be wandering loose in a crowded compound. Horses are large, potentially dangerous animals, especially when they panic.”

“We’re on top of it,” the older brunette insisted. “They’ll find him.”

“When they do, will they return him to his owner?” Samantha asked.

The deputy hooked the cuffs over her belt. “If what you’ve told us is true and the animal has been beaten, the owner will have to get a court order to reclaim his property.” She flashed Samantha a saucy grin. “A more likely scenario is that the judge will slap him with a heavy fine and give him some jail time. In Oregon, the penalty for animal abuse is a maximum of five years in prison and one hundred and twenty-five grand. The horse will go to a shelter to be adopted out. If the guy owns any other animals, the same will go for them.”

“I’m impressed,” Samantha said. “I had no idea our laws on animal abuse were so strict.”

“Legislators have concluded that there’s a link between animal abuse and human abuse,” the deputy explained. “By cracking down on criminal acts against animals, they hope to reduce the number of crimes against people as well.”

Tucker folded his arms across his chest. “While on the subject, I need to fill out a report on this incident.”

The deputy narrowed an eye at him. “Give us a break. okay? You’ll be walking out of here shortly. By filing countercharges, all you’ll do is create more red tape.”

“I don’t want to file charges, just a report,” Tucker replied. “If I witness animal abuse of any kind, I’m required by law to file a report. If I fail to do so, I can be fined up to a thousand dollars, and it goes on my record.”

“I don’t remember any law like that,” the deputy said dubiously.

Tucker shrugged. “Look it up. I’m a vet. Oregon statute 686.455.”

The deputy’s penciled brows lifted. Then she nodded. “I’ll bring you the paperwork.”

Samantha tucked in her shirt with short, expert jabs of her slender fingers as she followed the deputy to the door. “I need to contact my family. No one knows where I am, and they’re going to be worried. Can I use this phone?”

“No, ma’am. We’re so busy that all the lines have to be left open for official business only. When you’re released, you can call out on your cell or use the public phone in the other room.”

Samantha sighed as the door closed behind the departing officer. She turned to face Tucker. Except for the bruise on her cheek, which was still bright pink, and the
slight swelling under her eye, she was to him absurdly beautiful for a woman who’d been through all that in one day. Her black hair fell to her shoulders in shimmering curls that looked artfully tousled rather than mussed, and her durable clothing showed few signs of the punishment it had taken.

“I thought the law guaranteed me one phone call,” she complained. “That’s not considered official business?”

“Guess not.” Tucker cocked his head to listen to the cacophony of ringing phones, buzzers, office machines, and voices. “From their side, I suppose our contacting members of our family ranks pretty low on the importance chart right now. Business is pretty good today.”

She puffed at a lock of hair that had fallen over her eye. “It’s definitely crazy out there.”

A few minutes later Tucker sat behind the desk filling out a form and trying to compose a concluding statement while Samantha paced from one side of the room to the other. Every few seconds she glanced at the wall clock. Blue’s competition started at three, and it was already two forty. Even if she were released right then, she couldn’t reach the fairgrounds in time. The realization brought a lump of disappointment to her throat. She and Blue had worked so hard to prepare for this day. Now she would miss seeing him win the championship.

“So you’re a vet,” she mused aloud to the top of Tucker’s bent head. His hair was the rich color of homemade fudge that hadn’t been whipped long enough to lose its gloss. “I’m surprised you didn’t mention that.”

He glanced up, his blue eyes twinkling above his
swollen, discolored, and off-center nose. “At what point—before I hit the guy, or afterward?”

“I realize it wasn’t exactly a great time to exchange personal information.” Pivoting on her heel to change direction, she added, “It just seems strange, is all. When we were talking later, you mentioned volunteering at the rodeo because it was good for business, but you never said what your business was.”

“I figured it went without saying.”

“Why did you think that?”

“Because I showed up carrying a satchel, and I’m wearing a name badge that says Tucker Coulter, DVM?”

“I never saw a satchel, and you’re not wearing a badge.”

He glanced down and shoved a finger into a hole in his shirt above the right breast pocket. “I’ll be damned. It was there earlier. The jerk ripped it off.”

He looked so upset that Samantha said, “I’m sure they’ll give you a new one.”

“Not possible. It’s irreplaceable.”

“The name badge?”

“No,” he replied, sounding exasperated, “my lucky shirt!”

Samantha examined the garment in question. It looked older than the hills and much the worse for wear. “Your
lucky
shirt?”

“Yes.” He plucked at the hole again. “Good things always happen when I wear this shirt.”

He’d done it again—made her smile. “I hate to point it out, but I don’t think it brought you any luck today.”

Frowning, he tugged at the rip again. Then he glanced
up at her and his expression cleared. “I don’t know about that. I met you, didn’t I?”

Samantha chose to ignore that. “So do you specialize in large animals?”

He signed the form, tossed down the pen, and rocked back on the chair. “I’m working my way into that, yes. My brother and I are partners at a clinic. He enjoys the small-animal end of it, and I love the fieldwork. I’m especially fond of working with horses.”

Samantha gave him a thoughtful study. “Are you any good?”

His firm mouth tipped into a grin. “I’m the best. Unfortunately it takes a while to build a reputation, and I’m just getting started.”

“No conceit in your family, because you have it all?”

He chuckled. “You asked, I gave you an honest answer. I’m not merely good; I’m phenomenal.”

Samantha couldn’t help but laugh. What was it about this man that she found so difficult to resist?

“What makes you so good?” she asked.

“My rapport with horses,” he answered easily. “Runs in my family, along with conceit. You ever heard of my brother, Jake Coulter?”

Samantha thought for a moment. “The horse whisperer?”

Tucker let loose with another deep chuckle. “He isn’t a whisperer. Is there such a thing?”

Samantha hugged her waist, a posture she recognized as being defensive even as she assumed it. As much as she liked this man, he frightened her on a deep and purely
feminine level. She felt like a starvation dieter who’d stumbled into a room filled with chocolate cake.

“I don’t know. You tell me,” she challenged.

He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and gazed at her over the tips of his steepled fingers. “To my knowledge, horse whisperers don’t really exist. Rare individuals who have an instinctive understanding of horses are another story. My brother Jake is one of them. He calls himself an equine behavioral analyst.”

“A sort of horse psychiatrist?”

“That pretty much sums it up. He takes in horses with serious behavior issues and patiently works with them to correct the problems. Then he sends them back to their owners so the problems can start all over again. He’s a firm believer that the major problem with any horse is the person who owns it.”

Samantha held to that belief herself. “And you? What do you think?”

“I absolutely agree. Which leads me straight back to why I’m so good with equines—because I have more respect for them than I do for most people.”

Samantha nodded. “I know what you mean.” And she did. In the stables with her horses was the only place she felt truly at peace. No lies, no subterfuge, no heartbreaking betrayals. Her animals loved her absolutely and unconditionally, and they were unfailingly steadfast. She couldn’t say that about many of the humans she’d known over the course of her lifetime. “They’re incredible creatures.”

“Very large, powerful creatures,” he elaborated. “Which is why a lot of vets prefer a small-animal prac
tice. Going into a stall with a strange horse can be a dicey situation, especially if the animal is sick or in pain.”

“But it doesn’t bother you?”

“Didn’t say that. I have a healthy respect for the kicking power of an equine. I don’t waltz into a stall and start poking and prodding, I can tell you that.”

Samantha had seen cautious vets in action. They came armed with hobbles and lip twitches. She had nothing against a vet using preventive measures with an ill-mannered horse, but she strongly objected when her own equines were victimized. Every animal on her ranch had been imprinted at birth and was easy to handle. “You take precautions, then?”

“I do,” he confessed. “I start off by having a talk with the horse. Normally they’ll let me know, right up front, if they’d like to kick my teeth down my throat.” Amusement warmed his eyes. “Most times they wouldn’t. They seem to realize I’m there to help and are glad to see me.”

“I own a horse ranch,” Samantha revealed.

A deep dimple she hadn’t noticed before slashed his lean cheek. “You don’t say? Never would have guessed.”

She chose to let that pass. She knew her clothing marked her as a horsewoman, and she had no intention of changing that. As she retraced her steps across the room, she said, “This community can use another good horse vet. Doc Washburn, the vet we’ve used for as long as I can remember, is getting close to retirement age. My father worries that he may be the last of a dying breed.”

The door swung open just then, and the female deputy entered with two plastic bags in her hands. “You folks are free to go,” she chirped as she put their possessions on the
desk. “Mr. Matlock finally admitted striking you,” she said to Samantha. “Unapologetically, I might add. He says you interfered between him and his horse, and you had it coming for trying to call the cops on him.” She picked up the report Tucker had filled out. “Very good. I’ll make sure this goes on file. One more nail in his coffin when he goes before a judge.”