Cowboy Vet. Pamela Britton
belly.
He shot forward so fast she felt like a mouse tethered to a hot air balloon.
“Holy—” She cut off her curse because all at once she had to keep up with the beast, and to do that she had to run. For every three steps she took, the horse took one. Jessie was forced to half hop, half skip to keep up.
The distinctive clip-clop-clunk of a horse whose gait was off rang out. The animal’s head bobbed every time his right front hoof hit the ground.
“Poor baby,” she said, forgetting her animosity.
“Okay, that’s far enough,” Rand called.
“Whoa,” Jessie ordered.
The horse kept going. Big surprise.
She planted her heels.
And he still kept going.
Her feet left furrows in the ground. She would have laughed, but she was too busy trying to stop the horse. Jessie called out a stern “Whoa” again before something embarrassing could happen, such as losing her footing.
But the horse, in the perverse way of equines, didn’t want to whoa. Jessie could have sworn she saw the beast wrinkle his nose at her.
That did it.
She pulled on the rope with everything she had, giving herself rope burn in the process, and digging her feet into the ground as if she was anchoring the Titanic. And in a way, she was.
Mongo, likely stunned by the sudden dead weight, stopped.
“Good boy,” she wheezed, out of breath. She resisted the urge to double over and gasp.
“Okay,” she heard Rand call. Was that amusement in his voice? “Bring him back.”
“Great,” she muttered. “I was afraid he’d say that.” And then she turned and peered up at the huge gray. “If you do that again, I’m calling Alpo.”
The horse’s head flicked up; his ears swiveled back and forth, back and forth.
“Yeah, that’s right. Alpo. Or maybe Elmer’s Glue. Or the restaurant down the street from where I live. Whatever. Just don’t cross me.”
She eyed the horse. He eyed her back. She then slid the end of the braided cord through the gelding’s halter, just below his chin, the rope serving as a makeshift chin strap. “Let’s see how you like this,” she said, taking a deep breath before setting off again.
He didn’t want to trot, and she really didn’t blame him. If her foot hurt, she wouldn’t want to run, either. But she made him move by using the same technique as before—a flick of the rope—except this time she was prepared for his quick lunge forward. And this time when she asked him to stop, he obeyed, the pressure on his chin obviously doing the trick.
“Yup. Right front,” Rand said as she halted, winded—but trying not to look it. And even though his eyes were shaded by his hat, she could see his amusement.
Miracle of miracles.
“Thought you were going for a ride there,” he said.
“Me, too.”
“You really think it’s the right front?” Lacy asked. “I thought it was the left rear.”
“Nope. It’s the front. Jessie, we’ll need to take X rays. Do you know how to do that?”
“Of course,” she said.
“Good. Then hand Mongo off to Lacy and help me set up the equipment.”
WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG with him? Rand thought as he gathered the square X-ray plates. He was supposed to be checking a horse for soundness and all he could think about was how impressive Jessie had looked bravely trotting that big gelding back and forth.
And how a smile changed the color of her eyes.
“Here,” he said, handing her the thick film.
“Hey!” She shifted quickly to avoid dropping the plates.
“Sorry,” he muttered, turning to grab the portable machine, which resembled a tiny generator more than a piece of high-tech equipment.
“What’s wrong?” Jessie asked, her head tipping sideways so that her red hair touched her shoulder.
He released a breath, easing his neck. She had every reason to stare at him that way. She was doing a good job—a damn good job—and he’d yet to commend her on it.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, scratching his neck again. Damn poison oak, or whatever it was. “You’re doing a great job, Jessie,” he admitted. “I thought for sure that horse was going to drag you all the way to the main road.”
“Me, too,” she confessed again, and there was that smile…
He used the brim of his hat to shield his eyes. “When I find someone for my clinic, you won’t have to worry about getting a recommendation from me.”
Then why don’t you hire her?
“Really?” she asked.
Because I believe in self-preservation.
“Really.”
“Oh, jeez, thanks. You have no idea how much easier it’ll be for me to find a job with a recommendation from an actual vet, not one of my instructors, or the people I’ve been interning for.”
The grin she gave him was open. Free.
Special.
“You’re welcome,” he said gruffly.
Lord, he better find somebody soon.
Very soon.
Chapter Five
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