What She Wants for Christmas. Janice Johnson Kay
don’t suppose you want to find that deserted road.”
“I, uh, don’t think that’d be such a good idea.”
“Are you embarrassed or mad?”
She appreciated his bluntness. It made it easier to turn toward him. “Embarrassed,” she admitted.
“I don’t usually act like a randy teenager.”
“I didn’t do any better.”
“I enjoyed it,” he confessed.
“Me, too.”
“Then?” He waited.
“Oh, heck.” She fidgeted with the seat belt. “I just don’t want you to think—”
“I don’t.”
“Oh, well, since we’ve settled that…”
He must have liked her sarcasm, because he laughed. “I’ll give you a chaste good-night kiss. On the cheek.”
“Something to live for.”
He laughed again, the sound less rusty than the first time she’d heard it. She had some use in life.
The good-night kiss wasn’t all that chaste. But this time, there wasn’t any potential audience, either. Her legs felt a little shaky when Joe walked her to the front door. She didn’t want him to go tonight, either, which made her wonder with renewed panic where, and how quickly, this relationship was headed. How long would he—would she—be content with kisses? Was she really ready to have an affair with a man she hadn’t met three weeks ago?
And in all honesty she had to admit she didn’t know him very well. They talked, they laughed, but he hadn’t let her see below the surface. Maybe he had no profound secrets, but everyone had a darker side. Every time she edged too close to a truly personal issue, his face went expressionless. Even kissing her, he hadn’t yet reached the edge of control. How could she make love with a man she’d never seen angry, despairing, laughing helplessly? She wanted to know that he went deeper than amusement, amiable charm, lazy sensuality.
Maybe she was expecting too much after two dates—well, counting the lunch, two and a half. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything to goad him to anger or despair, or that she was all that funny.
But then, she shouldn’t be thinking about making love with him, either. It was too soon.
Oh, how she wished it wasn’t.
CHAPTER FOUR
“DAMN IT, WE’LL JUST send you, anyway.” Eric dropped his scalpel and reached for a handful of gauze sponges. He was working on a shepherd with an ear hematoma. Teresa had anesthetized the dog and now stood watching her partner. It was a pleasure—in more ways than one. He worked quickly and neatly. He also looked damned good while he was doing it. Tall and rangy, he had close-cropped blond hair, a narrow intelligent face and gray-green eyes that could be as sharp as his scalpel. He didn’t stir up her hormones, though, and she couldn’t figure out why. In his own way, he was as sexy as Joe Hughes.
“What can they say?” Eric continued. “Even if you were incompetent, it’s not as though you could do any damage on a preg check.”
“Except be wrong,” she said. Knowing as early as possible that a breeding had taken was critical to the dairy farmers—thus the monthly pregnancy checks.
He grunted and clipped off a piece of suture material. “You know, we’ve been letting a few of the old farts keep you from doing farm calls. Truth is, plenty of the younger dairy farmers wouldn’t mind a woman. Some of them have wives who are darn near equal partners. All they care is whether you can do the job.”
“I can do it.”
“Then you take the farm calls today.” He nodded toward the office. “It’ll be a hell of a day. Ten farms, I think. You’ll be shoulder deep in—”
She didn’t need him to tell her what she’d be shoulder deep in. Cows—especially dairy cows—made a toddler with diarrhea seem like a poor producer. “I don’t mind,” she said.
Eric flashed her a quick grin. “Have fun.”
“And if we make someone mad?”
“We can afford to lose some customers. They get damned good service from us. If they go with another veterinarian, so be it. Their loss.”
“You’re a prince,” Teresa told him, and headed off to finish loading up the truck.
An hour later, she was driving through one of the mountain valleys, where an early snowfall already gleamed on the peaks. She found the first farm with no problem. A Dairy of Merit sign hung proudly out front. Long low red barns and green fenced pastures beyond made a postcard-pretty scene.
Teresa parked in front of the nearest barn and climbed out. She already wore rubber boots and overalls over a heavy flannel shirt. She was shrugging into the vinyl vest and reaching for a plastic sleeve to cover her arm when the farmer appeared in the barn door.
“Hi,” she said, holding out a hand. “Eric was tied up today. I’m Dr. Burkett, his new partner.”
The middle-aged man in the dairyman’s customary costume of jeans and high rubber boots shook her hand without noticeable enthusiasm. “Know dairy cows?”
“You bet.” She’d done some reading to update her knowledge, acquired during an internship in Minnesota. After that year, she’d looked forward to working in a warm clinic on animals she outweighed. But the cold stinky physical parts of the job had faded quickly from her memory, leaving the good parts: the satisfaction of helping with a difficult birth, of curing instantly a cow down with milk fever, the relationships with farmers. She’d come to miss the Jerseys and Holsteins, with their generally good natures and soft brown eyes.
This farmer jerked his head toward the open double doors. “I have the first batch locked in.”
Figuring he’d prefer someone laconic, she only nodded and grabbed her tray of syringes, prepared with anything she might need.
They passed the milking parlor, spotlessly clean. A dozen black-and-white Holsteins were lined up, heads locked into stanchions, in a concrete holding area. Teresa breathed in the odors, which she’d never found objectionable. Setting down the tray, she went straight to work.
“Number 23,” she said, peering at the ear tag.
The farmer nodded and referred to his clipboard. “Bred September 5.”
Teresa inserted her hand into the cow’s rectum and began cleaning it out. Green manure splashed at her feet. Eventually, concentrating, she reached in deep, feeling through the wall of the rectum for the uterus and the pea-size growth of a new calf. She smiled when she found it.
“Pregnant.”
The farmer nodded and made a check on his list.
“Number 138,” she said, moving on to the next cow. The rump shifted away and she grabbed the tail.
“September 10.”
“Nope,” she concluded at last.
They fell into a rhythm that she remembered and enjoyed; few words were exchanged, and those were to the point. Along with the pregnancy checks, she examined the cows that had recently given birth, treating a few for infections.
When she finished the first batch, the farmer released the metal stanchions and waved the animals out into a loafing area. Another man chased the next ten in. Grain lured them to thrust their heads through the locking mechanism. Teresa shook liquid manure off her arm, clad in clear plastic, and called out the first number.
When she was done, she threw away her plastic sleeve and hosed herself down. Manure sluiced off her boots and overalls.
The farmer asked if she wanted to look around, and she agreed. In a separate