Courted By The Cowboy

“Expecting some calves?” Fisher asked. It was common enough for the heifers close to delivering to wander off until the calf was steady on his feet.

“Expect so,” his father answered. “What, exactly, happened last night?”

Fisher drew Waylon alongside his father’s horse, Chip, wincing when his thumb brushed the saddle horn. “George Carson.”

“George Carson?” His father raised an eyebrow. “His daddy John Carson?”

Fisher shrugged.

“John Carson was a mean drunk.”

“Then chances are the two of them are related,” Fisher answered.

“What did you do?” his father asked.

“Knocked him out,” Fisher answered, his jaw rigid.

Teddy chuckled. “I imagine you did. But I was asking why he felt the need to use your face for a punching bag.”

Fisher didn’t know what had transpired between Archer and George Carson. But he did know Archer and their father had a strained relationship. Teddy Boone thought Archer was an odd duck—worrying more over the care of his horse refuge than the people in his life. While Fisher agreed Archer marched to the beat of his own drum, he suspected Archer would do anything for his family. No point in adding fuel to the conflict between father and son when the ruckus with George Carson was over and done with.

“Not sure,” Fisher said, which was mostly true.

“That right there is why I don’t drink,” Teddy said. “A man shouldn’t put himself in a position to lose control. Damn fool thing to do.” His father clicked his tongue and Chip’s pace picked up, turning into a full-blown gallop.

Fisher didn’t argue. But he knew firsthand a man could lose control without drinking. He lived with that knowledge every damn day. Dwelling on unpleasant memories didn’t make much sense, so he concentrated on keeping up with his father for the next hour. There was no denying his father’s disappointment when their search was unsuccessful.

“They’ll turn up when they’re ready, I guess,” Teddy said before they parted ways.

“I’ll check again tonight,” Fisher volunteered. “If they haven’t turned up by then.”

Fisher turned Waylon out to pasture, took a quick shower and pulled himself together, cleaning the cut on his eye before heading into the vet hospital. Once he’d deposited his things in his office, he slipped on his lab coat and headed into the lounge for coffee.

“What happened to your face?” Archer glanced over the rim of his reading glasses.

“George Carson,” Fisher mumbled, pouring a cup of coffee. He nodded at one of the vet techs walking through the hospital lounge, grinning at her startled expression. His eye looked worse than it felt—but it hurt pretty damn bad.

“Carson?” Archer frowned. “I fired him yesterday.”

Fisher sat his cup down, taking care not to jostle his thumb. “That makes sense.” He’d have to get Mario to splint it, to support the ligament. “He wanted me to deliver a message to you.”

Archer’s eyebrows rose.

Fisher pointed to his face. “Message.”

Archer nodded, turning his attention back to the medical journal he was reading. “He’s a jerk.”

Fisher chuckled, wincing from the bruise on his stomach. Archer wasn’t emotional, he knew that. But a “sorry” or “that sucks” or something that resembled sympathy would have been nice. Calling Carson a jerk was an understatement. He waited for more but Archer was silently reading again so he asked, “What did he do?”

“Drinking on the job,” Archer answered. “He doesn’t want the job, I’ll find someone who will. Can’t risk anyone’s safety, animals or employees.”

Fisher couldn’t argue with his brother. There was no excuse for that sort of thing. He glanced at the clock. Almost time for morning rounds. “Anything exciting today?” he asked his brother. Archer only worked in the hospital a couple of days a week, spending most of his time at the animal refuge and rehabilitation center he operated on his part of Boone Ranch.

Archer shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

“I’ll let you know if something rolls in,” Fisher offered. “Have a good one.”

Archer nodded, flipping the page on his journal.

He headed straight for the operating room, hoping to catch Mario or Jarvis before any procedures got underway.

“I knew she wasn’t interested, but I never thought she’d beat you up,” Jarvis teased, staring at his face.

“Got time to tape this?” Fisher held up his hand and shook his head. “Or are you too busy thinking of smart-ass comebacks?”

Jarvis took in the violently colored bruising along Fisher’s thumb. “What did you do, man?”

“She takes thumb wars really seriously,” Fisher quipped, pointing at his eye. “She didn’t like losing.”

Jarvis laughed, setting to work on Fisher’s thumb. “X-ray it?” he asked. “Might need a ligament repair.”

Fisher shook his head. “It’ll be fine.”

“Dr. Fisher.” One of his students stuck her head in. “We need you up front.”

Fisher nodded. “What is it?”

“Stray.” Abigail paused. “Are you okay?” She glanced at him. “You—”

“The patient?”

“Right. Sorry.” But she couldn’t stop staring at his face. “Dog with several deep bites along the neck and back leg. Ear laceration, almost bitten off. His right eye looks pretty bad, too.”

“Bites from?” he asked.

“Two other dogs, apparently. Miss...” she paused to scan her notes. “Miss James just brought him in.”

He nodded, following Abigail from the operating room and into the patient care room. A speckled dog lay on a metal table, his gray coat matted with blood and dirt. At first glance, he looked like a blue heeler, same size and build. The dog didn’t raise his head when Fisher approached the table, though his uninjured eye was open and alert.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Fisher turned to the woman standing nervously in the corner. “Kylee?”

Was it his imagination or did she seem to relax when she saw him?

“Hi, Doc... Fisher.” Her arms were crossed tightly over her bloodstained, oversize white T-shirt. “I was walking around the park and these two big dogs were on him. He was fighting so hard. But they were too big for him. I saw him go down beneath them...”

Fisher listened to the dog’s heart rate with his stethoscope. Accelerated. One hundred ten. Respirations were shallow and rapid, distressed. But, from the number of injuries the animal had sustained, that was to be expected.

“No owners?” Abigail asked, taking notes on her clipboard.