The Danger Within. Valerie Hansen
corn bread to go with it.”
“Sounds good.” He scanned the growing lunch crowd. “Have you seen Doc Pritchard lately? I’ve been calling his office and all I get is the answering machine.”
“That’s all you will get for a while. He’s having some sort of midlife crisis, I guess. Took off for Vegas and left old Wilt in charge.”
Michael grimaced. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Why? What do you need a vet for?”
He lowered his voice and spoke aside. “I’ve lost five head recently. No sickness, no symptoms of disease. They just keeled over. I’m not about to trust the rest of the herd to Wilt. He retired from practice twenty years ago. His methods of diagnosis have to be outdated.”
“You going to bring in another vet then?”
Michael again raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I don’t know yet. I hate to. The last thing we ranchers need is to have the government get in a tizzy over nothing and quarantine us before we figure out what’s causing the problem. The price of beef is already unsteady.”
“Well, no wonder your chin is draggin’ the ground. You just sit there and relax for a bit. I’ll get your order in and bring you a cup of coffee while you wait. How’s that sound?”
“Better than anything that’s happened to me lately,” Michael said. “And a piece of your famous apple pie, too, please.”
“Gladly. Back in a jiffy.”
Michael watched Fiona wend her way between the red-checkered, cloth-covered tables, greeting patrons as she went. The decor of the place was rustic and Western and the food was superb, but the real ambience came from its owner. Fiona radiated a homespun warmth that gave the Stagecoach Café its special aura of welcome, of home. Though her pride in the restaurant’s offerings was understandable, he suspected she could have served mundane fast food like any generic burger joint and been just as successful.
Speaking of burgers…Michael’s gut twisted. The mysterious losses he’d experienced hadn’t looked as though they were caused by any known bovine diseases but anything was possible, even though remote. The Double V was his life. His reason for being. His uncle Max, his sister, Holly, and most of his cousins had gone into some form of law enforcement. That kind of career had never appealed to him. He was man of the land. A rancher to the core. If he lost the ranch…
Philippians 4:6 popped into his mind and made him smile. “Yeah,” he said, trying not to be cynical, “‘Be anxious for nothing…’” Easier said than done. It was almost as hard to trust the Lord and not worry as it was to give thanks for the mess he was in.
Fiona delivered his meal and he bowed quietly over it to whisper, “Thank You for this food, Lord. Please be patient. I’m working on thanking You for the other stuff.”
Michael sighed, then added an honestly reverent, “Amen.”
Layla hesitated at the door of the busy restaurant. The red, barnlike building had been an empty, rundown relic of the nineteenth century the last time she’d visited Colorado Springs. Whoever had renovated it had done a monumental job of restoration. Curiosity urged her to open the door. Once she did, tantalizing aromas drew her inside without a second thought. She might not choose to eat meat but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate well-prepared cuisine.
She slipped off her scarf, propped one hip on the nearest stool and leaned an elbow on the small counter just inside the entrance. A woman with hair the color of a shiny fire truck hurried over.
“Afternoon. Something to drink?” Fiona asked.
“No, thanks. I’m just waiting for a table. I can eat out here if you’re too full.”
“Nonsense. We’ll find you a place in a jiffy. What brings you to Colorado Springs?”
“Just passing through,” Layla said pleasantly. “I used to live around here, years ago.”
“Really?” There was no condemnation in the titian-haired woman’s expression when she said, “Maybe I knew you. I used to have lots of friends from the hippie commune on the way to Cripple Creek.”
“Then you may have heard of my family. I’m Layla Rainbow Dixon. My mother is Carol and my dad’s Gilbert.”
“Dixon? Not Carol ‘Moonsong’ and Gilbert ‘River’ Dixon!”
“That’s them.”
“Well, well, what a small world. What’re they up to these days? Still selling organic vegetables?”
“Actually, they run an herb business on the Internet. Dad may be sold on the simple life but it hasn’t stopped him from taking advantage of modern conveniences.”
“You don’t say. How about the little ones? Didn’t you have a brother and sister?”
“Sure did. My brother Hendrix is a stockbroker. My sister designs clothes.” Layla lifted a side panel of her flowing skirt and held it out in a soft drape. “Petal’s specialty is wedding couture but she designed this to look like a rainbow, just for me. I love it, don’t you?”
“It’s beautiful with your blond hair and blue eyes.” Fiona patted her bright coif. “Afraid it would clash with my natural coloring, though.”
Trying to keep from looking incredulous, Layla smiled. “It sure might.” She scanned the busy room. “So, do you work here or is this your place?”
“It’s all mine. Mine and the bank’s,” Fiona quipped. “What do you do, travel around and sell your sister’s designs?”
“No, no.” Layla’s soft curls danced as she shook her head. “I may not look like it, but I have a degree in veterinary medicine.” Seeing the older woman’s jaw drop she frowned. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, no. Where do you practice?”
“Here and there. I’m not tied down to an office, if that’s what you mean. I like the freedom of going where I want, when I want.”
Fiona glanced over her shoulder. “Tell you what. It could be half an hour or more before a table opens up. Would you mind if I sat you with another customer?”
Layla shrugged. “I guess not. I am pretty hungry.”
“Terrific.” She whirled and started away at a fast pace. “Follow me. I think I have the perfect place for you.”
Michael was deep in thought and concentrating on his bowl of chili and corn bread when Fiona approached. He looked up expecting her to offer a coffee refill. Instead, he saw her pointing to the opposite side of his small table. Beside her stood a blonde who looked like a cross between a country music wannabe and a gypsy. Mostly gypsy, he decided after a more careful perusal that included the multiple earrings peeking through her loose curls. She could have been a flower child of the sixties, except she was far too young.
Fiona was beaming. “Michael, honey, we’re out of room. Do you mind sharing?”
Before he could answer she prattled on. “I think the Lord has already answered our prayers. I’d like you to meet Layla Dixon. That’s Doctor Dixon. She’s a vet. Isn’t that wonderful? She was just passing through and look where she decided to stop for lunch.”
Michael pushed back his chair and stood politely, napkin in hand. The young woman looked amiable enough but he was far from pleased by Fiona’s well-intentioned interference.
“Michael Vance. Pleased to meet you.” He briefly shook the hand Layla offered and was startled at how cold—and how soft—her fingers were. “You’re freezing,” he said. “Here. Sit down and grab a cup of hot coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” she said pleasantly. “I would like a cup of tea, though.”
“Fine.”