Hard-Headed Texan

“Dr. Campbell!” Lilian’s soft-featured face, so at odds with her crisp, no-nonsense personality, was creased with concern. “Daniel Sutton just called. He’s having trouble with one of his mares. He said to come right away. She’s been in labor for a while, and she’s losing ground.”

“Daniel Sutton?” Antonia asked, already unbuttoning her lab coat and starting back toward the front of the clinic. “The ranch I went to last week?”

“No, that’s Marshall. His father. Daniel’s on the same road, though, about ten minutes further west. Marshall Sutton’s a cattleman, but Daniel raises horses. He’s knowledgeable. If he says there’s something wrong, then there is.”

“Okay. I’ll take the mobile.” Antonia hung her lab coat on a hook beside the back door, listening as Lilian gave her detailed directions to Daniel Sutton’s horse farm. She took the key to the clinic’s mobile vet truck from another hook. It was the task of whoever drove the truck last to make sure that it was filled with gas and stocked with supplies so that it was always ready to go the next day.

She ran lightly down the steps and crunched across the gravel lot to where the mobile truck sat parked beneath a shade tree. Dr. Carmichael had told her many tales of his early days in the area, when he had driven around to the nearby ranches in his old International Harvester truck, a forerunner of the modern SUVs, with a stock of supplies in the back that he would need for his large animal practice. Today, of course, like most vets who practiced in rural areas, he had a modern mobile, a truck equipped with a shell, looking much like one of the smaller motor homes, in which there were sinks, refrigeration for some of the medicines and samples, and nearly every kind of instrument or medicine needed for working on animals in the field. It was generally far more practical for the vet to go to the horse or cow than for the animal to be loaded into a trailer and brought to the veterinarian.

Time, of course, was of the essence when a mare was having problems foaling, and the long distances between farms and ranches here ate up that precious time, so Antonia stepped on the gas when she left the outskirts of Angel Eye, bringing the truck up to eighty. She doubted that any sheriff’s deputy in this ranching community would interfere with a speeding vet on her way to save a horse.

Lilian’s directions were as precise as she was, and Antonia had no trouble finding the Sutton horse farm. She turned off the highway onto a graveled road, blocked by a mechanized steel gate. She pushed the button on the small raised platform, and almost immediately the gate began to swing open.

“I’m in the foaling pens, Doc,” a deep male voice, tight with worry, said over the intercom. “Better step on it. She’s in a bad way.”

Antonia stepped on the accelerator and started up the long drive. Automatically she noted the details of the farm as she drove toward the house and barn in the distance. It was obviously a working farm—there were none of the expensive decorative touches that marked the rich hobbyist horse farms. Everything was plain and serviceable, from the front gate to the black metal fences to the old farmhouse at the end of the drive. However, there was nothing shabby or ill-kempt about it, either. The fences, the road, the barn, the paddocks, even the two horse trailers sitting beside the barn—all were in good repair and of good quality. It was a neatly kept place, and the horses in the pasture beside the road looked equally well taken care of.

She pulled to a stop between the barn and the lower-roofed stables and hopped out of the truck. Grabbing her doctor’s bag, she hurried toward the stables, presuming that the foaling pens were there. As she did so, a tall man came out of the building, squinting in the sun. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, stared for a moment without moving, then came toward her at a lope.

He was long-legged, with a lean, muscled build that came from years of hard work rather than an intimate acquaintance with weight-training machines. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore boots, worn blue jeans and a white short-sleeved T-shirt, and he looked so unutterably male that Antonia’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped where she was, a little taken aback by her own reaction. Tight jeans and a wide chest didn’t usually make her stomach flutter anymore, and she had seen plenty of cowboys since moving to Texas. None of them, however, had sent this jolt of pure, instinctive lust shooting straight down through her.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his dark brows drawn together in a deep frown, as he stopped a few feet from her. “Where’s Doc?”

He glanced toward the veterinary truck, then back at her. He was a big man, taller by several inches than Antonia, who was accustomed to looming over most men. He wore no hat, and his hair was thick and black and a trifle shaggy. His skin was tanned from years of exposure to the sun, and there were deep sun lines at the corners of his dark eyes. He was handsome and just as intensely masculine up close as he had appeared at a distance.

Much to Antonia’s astonished dismay, she simply looked at him, unable to speak.

“Damn it!” the man went on. “I told her I needed Dr. Carmichael. Didn’t she understand? The foal’s in the wrong position. I gotta have a vet, not some tech fresh out of school!”

Antonia stiffened at his words, a quick rush of anger coming to her rescue. “I am the vet,” she told him crisply and extended her hand, pleased to see that it didn’t shake despite the bizarre inner turmoil that afflicted her.

The man stared at her, his jaw dropping comically. “What?”

“I’m the vet. Dr. Carmichael’s new associate. I am Dr. Campbell.” She dropped her hand, unsure whether shock or simple rudeness had kept him from shaking her hand. “Now, where’s your mare?”

“But you can’t be—” he said, a stunned look on his face. “You’re a girl.”

“I will take that as a compliment to my youthful appearance rather than a male chauvinist remark,” Antonia said coolly. “However, I am the vet. Dr. Carmichael needed someone younger to help with his practice. I take the early morning calls.”

The man let out a brief, vivid curse. “We’re talking about a horse here, not a cat or dog. You can’t—”

“In fact, horses are my specialty, so you’re in luck,” Antonia went on, struggling to keep a hold on her temper.

“Damn it, I’m not losing my best mare because Carmichael decided to go all politically correct and hire a woman vet!”

“You won’t lose that horse because of me!” Antonia shot back, fury shooting up in her. “I am fully qualified to—”

“A woman doesn’t have the strength to doctor a horse. I’ve seen big men who couldn’t—”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Antonia bit out, “I am scarcely delicate. I am six feet tall and I work out. I can handle a horse. Usually I use my brains to overcome the difference in strength, and if brains won’t do it, I could turn it over to you. How’s that?”

A light flared in his eyes, and he came a long step closer, looming over her. Antonia was not about to be intimidated, and she, too, stepped forward, so that they were now so close she could see the thick dark lashes that ringed his eyes, making their dark brown color appear almost black.

She looked him straight in the eyes, putting her hands on her hips pugnaciously, and said, “Dr. Carmichael is not here. I am. Now, I can leave and you can wait until Dr. Carmichael comes into the clinic and can drive out here, by which time your stubbornness will probably have cost you a mare and a foal. Or you can show me your mare and let me try to save them. Which do you want to do?”

A vein pulsed at his temple, and for a moment Antonia thought that Sutton was going to explode, but then he stepped back. “This way,” he said shortly, and turned and walked back into the stables. Antonia followed him.

The mare was obviously in trouble. A splendid bay quarterhorse, with a white stripe down the center of her face, she stood with head lowered and feet spread apart. She was shivering, and her body was covered with sweat. Antonia took in the details of the stall automatically as she examined the mother, even as she had noticed the condition of the farm. Here, too, all was in order and prepared. The foaling stall was clean and floored with fresh straw, and several buckets stood at the ready, along with a supply of towels, and a shelf containing various bottles and tubes and a box of latex gloves. A large sink stood a few feet away, between this and another foaling stall, and at it were a nail brush and antiseptic soap. No matter how obnoxious the owner might be, he ran a good farm.

Talking soothingly to the mare, Antonia ran a calming hand down her neck and side, moving around to the back to examine her. “When did she go into labor?”

“During the night,” Sutton said, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead. Antonia saw, now that the anger had subsided from it, that weariness and worry stamped his face. “Five o’clock, maybe,” he told her in a deep, rumbling voice. “She started waxing up yesterday evening, and I knew it would be coming soon. I slept on a cot in the other stall. I checked her right after her water bag broke, and I couldn’t find the foal’s head, so I knew it was turned around. I called the clinic, and I’ve been walking her around.” He paused, then went on. “She’s my best mare, and the sire is Garson’s Evening Star at Mason Farms. It should be a good foal.” He sighed and looked at Antonia. “I don’t want to lose that mare.”

“I’ll do my best to save both of them,” Antonia said, softening a little at the undercurrent of emotion in his voice. This man wasn’t just talking about investments; he obviously loved his animals, and as far as Antonia was concerned, that fact made up for a multitude of sins. “Okay, let’s get to work.”

She went to the sink and began to scrub her hands. It was obvious that Sutton was right. The foal was turned around. It was trying to emerge; one tiny hoof protruded from the mare. But it was a rear hoof, instead of the two front hooves that should come out first in a normal delivery. The poor mare, in obvious pain, was struggling to deliver. The first thing Antonia did was examine the mare, reaching in to locate the foal’s head and forelegs. That in itself was difficult enough to do, but she finally determined that its head was twisted to the side, and the foal was more or less wedged sideways.

“You’re right. I’ll have to turn it,” she said, explaining the position of the foal as she once again scrubbed her hands and arm. “First I’m going to give her a tranquilizer to calm her down, as well as an epidural. This will take a while.”

Once she had administered the drugs, she went to work to turn the foal inside its mother. It was a long, tedious process, for she had to find the head and pull it back, as well as push and pull and twist until the foal was in the correct position, forelegs and head facing forward. Time after time, she tugged on the muzzle to no avail. She could not find one of the forelegs, and when she did, it slipped from her grasp.

Finally, however, she managed to get the leg secured with an obstetrical chain around it, then grasped the muzzle and wiggled and pulled until it slid around to the correct position. “I’ve got it!”

She began to pull, and slowly the foal slid forward until its forelegs and the tip of its muzzle emerged. Behind her Sutton let out a whoop. Antonia dropped her arm; it felt like a lead weight, numb from the strain. She shook it a little to get the feeling back, then began to pull again. The foal stuck at the chest and shoulders. It was large, and the mare was weak and tired, barely able to stand. Antonia was afraid that the mare would go down at any moment, and she was certainly no longer capable of expelling the foal.

Sutton moved up beside Antonia and grasped the muzzle and one foreleg. Antonia glanced up at him. He winked, surprising her, and said, “Looks like this is my specialty, as you pointed out earlier.”

Antonia had to grin, and she reached up to take the other foreleg. They began to pull again. It was a stubborn animal, big and slippery, and the two of them had to pull mightily, but then suddenly the shoulders popped through, and a moment later the foal was out, still wrapped in its amniotic membrane.

“Yes!” Antonia cried, triumph surging through her as Sutton gently laid the little animal down on the ground, close to its mother’s head.

She squatted down beside the man to strip the membrane from around the foal’s face and mouth. The mare would do the rest. Sutton turned to Antonia, a huge smile breaking across his face, and she grinned back at him.

“We did it!” he exclaimed, and as they stood up, he suddenly reached out and swung her up into his arms, whirling her around in a paroxysm of joy. They were both filthy, their shirts and arms covered with blood and amniotic fluid, but neither of them cared. The joy of bringing life into the world filled them. Antonia laughed, exhilarated, curling her arms around his shoulders as he spun her.

In the next moment she became aware of the reality of his body against hers. His hard chest pressed into her breasts; his arms were around her like a lover’s. She could feel the dampness of his sweat against her skin. A sudden, fierce desire slammed through her, almost frightening in its intensity. Antonia wanted to kiss him, to press herself against his muscular body. She wanted to taste the salt of his skin, to rub her face against his hair, to breathe in the healthy masculine smell of him.

Her breath caught in her throat. What in the world was she doing! She stiffened, embarrassment sweeping through her. This was a client! And her behavior was anything but professional.

Sutton seemed to become aware of the peculiarity of their situation in the same moment. Quickly he set her down and stepped back.

“I…ah…” He fixed his eyes on a point just over her shoulder. “Sorry. Got a little carried away, I guess.”

“Yes. This kind of thing doesn’t happen every day,” Antonia agreed, trying to smooth over the awkward moment. Her heart pounding against her ribs, she turned back to the mare, who was now engaged in licking her foal clean. The foal lay there, adjusting to its new world, its mother’s lifeblood still filling it through the umbilical cord. Antonia never cut the cord right away, as it would deprive the foal of much-needed nourishment.

“It looks as if everything’s proceeding normally,” she went on, aware that her voice sounded a trifle prissy, but she felt as though she had to say something, with the sudden, awkward silence settling around them.

“Yeah. I—usually Doc uses the shower out here in the barn to clean up. But—” He glanced doubtfully down the wide hallway. “Maybe you ought to use the one in the house. I’ll take this one. I mean…that is, if you have something to change into. I could loan you a shirt, of course, but…” His eyes fell to her slender legs, encased in denim. “Course you’re pretty tall. I reckon you could, you know, wear something of mine…if you wanted…you could roll them up—Oh, Lord, why don’t you just shoot me and shut me up before I make a complete fool of myself?”