The Country Vet. Eleanor Jones
yesterday...getting there, I mean?”
Cass’s mouth set into a firm line as she glanced at him, catching his eye.
“Yesterday would have been a tragedy no matter who owned the little mare. I did what needed to be done. There’s no doubt in my mind about that.”
“Good for you.” He nodded. “And I guess you’ll be looking forward to saying ‘I told you so.’ Is that why you wanted to come?”
Cass’s response was immediate. “No, not at all. I came because I want to see it through. The guy was obviously very upset. Anyone would be. It still doesn’t give him the right to be so unpleasant.”
“What if I told you that his mother and little daughter were both killed in an accident a while ago,” Donald said quietly, concentrating on the road ahead. “And he doesn’t like people to talk about it, so you never heard it from me.”
A lurch of sympathy left Cass momentarily speechless. “I didn’t realize,” she eventually managed. “And of course the chestnut was his daughter’s pony.”
Donald shrugged. “Yes, but you weren’t to know. It wouldn’t have made any difference, anyway...if she did have a twisted gut.”
Cass fought back a sharp retort, staring out the window but seeing nothing. Jake would understand soon enough, and then maybe next time no one would question her.
“Was it his fault?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, no,” Donald said. “Well, at least not directly. I think he may blame himself, though. He was away, competing in Europe, when it happened.”
“Competing?” echoed Cass.
Donald nodded, carefully negotiating the entrance to Sky View.
“He used to show jump. Top level, too. He gave it up after the accident.”
“So what does he do now?”
Cass’s question fell on deaf ears as Jake Munro’s tall figure materialized in front of the Land Rover, forcing it to stop. He was just as she remembered—ruggedly handsome and fierce, his expression extremely arrogant. Was he like that before the accident? Somehow, Cass thought he probably was.
The tense line of his jaw softened when Donald climbed out of the vehicle. Jake almost smiled.
“Morning,” he called, holding out his hand and ignoring Cass. Donald took it, pumping it up and down, his soft white fingers clutched in Jake’s broad, suntanned grip.
“Bad business,” Donald remarked. “How are you holding up?”
Jake’s response was curt and to the point. “These things happen. I just needed to be sure.”
He looked pointedly at Cass, who held his gaze unflinchingly, raising her chin with an air of defiance.
“I’m already sure,” she said.
“Right, then,” interrupted Donald. “Let’s get on with it.”
Jake watched, arms wrapped across his chest and dark eyes narrowed, until Donald took out his scalpel. Then he turned on his heel and walked away to lean against the paddock fence, resting his head on his forearms. For a moment, Cass felt like going to him and placing her hand on his taut shoulders. No matter how irritating he was, the poor guy was suffering—she could see that.
“Look at this,” Donald said, getting her attention.
Cass had seen enough postmortems and dead creatures in the last few years to make her pretty hardened. They’d gone to a better place—it was only their owners who suffered now. But this pony, Rosie, had gotten to her somehow. She was glad of the blanket someone had so thoughtfully laid over her, relieved not to see her glazed eyes.
Donald was on his knees.
“Look,” he repeated. “Half the gut must have already been dead when you euthanized her. Poor little beggar.”
A shadow fell across them, and Cass glanced up to see Jake. His face was expressionless.
“Good job Cass acted quickly, as far as I can see,” Donald said. “I’ll tidy up here while you go and put the kettle on.”
“I’ll finish for you if you like,” Cass offered.
“Is that it then?” Jake said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, turning away abruptly.
“Thanks, Cass,” Donald cut in before she could respond, obviously trying to lighten the mood. He stood up, smiling. “I think I’ll take you on all my jobs.” When they both ignored him, he walked off toward the house. “I guess I’ll go put the kettle on myself, then,” he called.
Jake began to follow him, but stopped to look back at Cass, holding her defiant gaze.
“I really am sorry about Rosie,” she said quietly, her expression softening. “It must be tough for you.”
“What, no ‘I told you so?’” he retorted.
She just shook her head, turning her attention back to the job at hand, and he glared at her for another moment before striding off after Donald.
“No change there, then,” she murmured.Cass finished up and put Donald’s bag back in the Land Rover before following the two men across the yard toward the square, stone cottage. It should have been a pretty building, she thought, but the roses that had once grown around the front door looked half-dead, and the whole place needed fresh paint and some TLC. She found herself wondering what it had been like when Jake’s mother was alive.
A man’s deep voice interrupted her daydream.
“They’ll be round the back in the kitchen.”
Looking up with a start, she saw Bill Munro standing in the shadow of an oak tree at the side of the yard, one hand stroking his bearded chin.
She smiled impulsively, pleased to see the old man. He fell into step beside her.
“You were right, then?” he asked.
“You knew I was.”
He nodded slowly.
“Yes, I knew, but there’s no telling Jake. He had to see for himself.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll get an apology.”
Bill’s bright blue eyes sparkled. “You’ve already sussed him out, I see.”
Cass wanted to tell Bill how sorry she was to hear about his wife and granddaughter, but it wasn’t her business, and she didn’t want him to think she’d been prying.
Bill walked with her toward the kitchen door. “Staying around here long?” he asked.
Cass shrugged, smiling. “I hope to. I like the beautiful wild countryside and the tranquility.”
“You’re staying at the B and B, I believe?”
She glanced at him in amusement.
“Does everyone know everything around here? It’s temporary, while I look for somewhere to rent.”
“What, you mean a cottage or something?”
“Something,” she responded. “I’m not really sure, to be honest. I could do with a place for six months or so. I’m only on a six-month contract at the moment—a kind of trial period, I suppose you’d call it.”
She placed her hand on the dull brass handle in front of her, pressing it down with a sense of foreboding. The door was scratched and dirty, and desperate for a coat of paint. She looked over at Bill.
“Are you coming in?”
He turned away, shaking his head.
“Better things to do. I’ll no doubt see you soon.”
“No doubt,” she agreed.
As