One Perfect Year

He nodded.

“Submitted for publication?”

Another nod.

“Been published?”

He shrugged. “Mostly.”

“So we can get rid of those.”

“No, no, no. What if someone challenges my findings? I may need to write a rebuttal or be asked to write a companion piece.” He drew himself up in bony regalness. “I have a system. Don’t touch a thing.”

“You do remember I’m here to stay with you through harvest?” She’d landed a job as the cellar master at the local winery. Grape harvest at Harmony Valley Vineyards started soon. She’d be working ten hours or more a day from now until the holidays, managing the various containers and equipment where the grapes would ferment, plus making clean transfers as the wine moved from crusher to tank to barrel to bottle. Once this was under way, as well as launching construction of a wine cellar, she’d have time to find a place of her own. And she’d know if Harmony Valley would live up to its name and her memories of it being a close-knit town. “You do remember I’m not that graceful.”

“Of course I remember.” Grandpa tapped his temple with a thin, age-spotted finger. “I’m not senile.”

“We need to find a place to put your inactive research, so I won’t—” and her grandfather wouldn’t “—come in late at night when my reflexes are shot, and knock everything down.” Given how he walked, it was a miracle the stacks hadn’t toppled already.

“I like my library where it is. You can come in the kitchen door.” Her grandfather had a barnacle expression of his own, reminding her why his nickname was War.

Shelby realized she’d have to raise the stakes. “You know, Grandma Ruby wouldn’t approve.”

“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But she’d understand. You’ll come through the kitchen door.”

* * *

“ACCEPT MY APOLOGY, Sugar Lips?” Gage Jamero was up to his elbows in trouble with his latest lady love.

Well, at least one elbow.

Sugar Lips’s contraction built like a blood pressure cuff around Gage’s right biceps. His face heated, his fingers numbed, his body felt as if it was wrapped in a too-tight ace bandage.

“Breathe easy, honey.” Gage tried to follow his own advice. During his internship and residency, he’d gained quite a reputation as a horse whisperer when it came to peevish, pregnant horses. Since then, he’d soothed countless mares and saved many foals trapped in utero by breach positions, like this one was. But this foal, sired by a Kentucky Derby winner, was the equivalent of a million dollar baby.

On the floor of a hay-lined stall, sprawled on his back, his legs half across Sugar Lips’s chestnut flanks, Gage sweated through the mare’s next contraction. He hadn’t been this nervous about his performance since he choked while asking his lab partner out in the twelfth grade. Saving this foal would make or break his fledgling career.

He’d graduated. He’d passed his licensing exam, both in California and Kentucky. He had a job offer in Lexington. All he was waiting for was his predecessor’s retirement. Until then, he was working for lucrative per-delivery fees from the Thomason Equine Hospital, a facility in Davis which was also an open classroom to local university vet students. They received notification when a procedure or delivery was imminent at Thomason and were able to observe through specially installed viewing windows. Today they were witnessing Gage, one of their own a year ago, on the main stage. He’d never been requested to deliver such a valuable foal before. If he screwed this up—and there were many ways to fail here—it would be a blow to his young career. He might even lose the job in Kentucky.

As if sensing what was at stake, the student onlookers and support staff in the hallway of the birthing center fell into a hushed silence, much like the gallery at a golf tournament before a pro-golfer shot for birdie and the win. And just like that pro-golfer, Gage knew he had supporters and detractors. No one wanted anything bad to happen to the mare and her foal, but everyone was hungry for the spotlight he’d recently claimed.

The contraction faded and Gage regained use of his fingers, pressing them harder against the flat of the foal’s forehead, pushing it farther back into the mare’s uterus. He shifted more weight onto his shoulders and the mare’s haunches. Extending his arm, he found the foal’s front leg and eased it forward without snagging the umbilical cord until he had two delicate hooves in his grasp.

“Here we go, Sugar Lips,” he crooned, much too aware that his back was at the mare’s mercy should she kick.

The mare’s wet flanks heaved as if this breath would be her last. She was young and this was her first pregnancy. She’d spent much of her prelabor huffing, glaring and kicking at Gage, blaming him for her condition. So far he’d been extremely lucky in avoiding injury, but luck only lasted so long when idiots were present.

“Dr. Jamero?” The question echoed through the birthing stall.

Sugar Lips coldcocked Gage in the kidney with one powerful hoof. Pain sucked his legs and torso into a stiff ball. Gage almost lost his grip on the foal. It was a sign of how spent the mare was that she didn’t kick him repeatedly. It was a sign of good fortune that this position allowed him greater mobility to shift when delivery was at hand. He’d have to remember that.

Sugar Lips’s uterus tensed once more. It was go-time.

Moments later, he lay panting in the hay cradling the trembling key to his dreams. Sugar Lips lifted her head to see what all the fuss was about, whinnying when she saw her newborn.

Gage’s chest swelled with pride. This was what he loved about being a veterinarian—facing difficult challenges, saving a life, making a connection with a beautiful creature that communicated primarily with body language.

Some boneheads started clapping. Gage curled protectively around the foal being careful not to tear the umbilical cord. He glared at the lone student who was still applauding until the onlooker stopped. Steady hands transferred the newborn to the ground, and checked the vitals of both mare and foal.

Dr. Leo Faraji, a colleague and the man Gage had beaten out for the Kentucky job, helped him to his feet. “Need a doctor, doctor?” he asked in his singsong accent.

“Never.” Knowing he looked as if he was the only survivor in a horror movie, covered as he was in blood and birth fluids, Gage drew himself up to his full six-two height, pretending Sugar Lips hadn’t nearly deflated his kidney.

“Someone wanted me?” he asked. And then he smiled. His mother always said his smile could charm a tantrumy two-year-old into eating vegetables. Since Nick had died, Gage saw it more as a first line of defense. He smiled and people assumed he was okay. Now he used it because he wasn’t going to let these clean, white-coated, wanna-be veterinarians see how nauseous and spent he was.

Someone sucked in a breath, as if awestruck.

That was a more godlike reaction than he’d been hoping for, but as veiled praise went, Gage would take it.

“Yeah, um, Dr. Jamero? There’s some guy on the phone for you.” It was the center’s new student assistant. She hadn’t been around long enough for Gage to learn her name, test her knowledge or teach her barn etiquette. “He’s been on hold awhile now.” She handed him a pink note.

Gage’s smile didn’t break as he reached for the message, dripping the mare’s afterbirth onto the girl’s hand. Accidentally, of course.

“Ew.” She hopped back, shaking the fluid from her fingers.

“Sorry.” Gage checked the stained pink pad and read the name—Dr. Wentworth. His smile faded as he sped from the stall, his steps purposeful and steady, despite the pain radiating in his midsection. Dr. Wentworth had nurtured Gage’s interest in animals since he was a kid. Whenever he called, Gage quickly responded.

Gage’s family had been small town cattle ranchers. Their home was situated in the middle of a neighborhood street on the edge of Harmony Valley, one without sidewalks or streetlights. Their backyard led out to twenty acres of grazing land. Doc’s family had been their next door neighbors and were always bringing home stray animals in need of care. Gage had gravitated toward Doc and his patients. He’d set broken legs and viewed medical procedures before he’d earned his driver’s license.

Minutes later, Gage had ditched the messy smock he’d been wearing and grabbed the office phone. Today was one helluva good day. He couldn’t wait to share the news of the healthy foal with Dr. Wentworth. “What can I do for you?”

“Turn on your cell phone, for one.” The gruff voice, loaded with the attitude of a seasoned hound dog, brought back fond memories of the things Gage liked best about Harmony Valley—its people. “Whoever heard of a doctor nowadays without a phone or a beeper strapped to his waist?”

“I’ll turn on my cell as soon as we hang up.” His phone was in his backpack in the corner of the sparsely furnished office beneath a picture of Secretariat draped in red roses.

The old vet wasted no time on pleasantries. “I wanted to be the first to offer you a chance to buy into a practice—mine. Here in Harmony Valley.”

“Wow.” Gage’s knees buckled and his butt dropped onto the metal desktop. Practice back home? That wasn’t happening. Harmony Valley was filled with bittersweet memories. Not to mention it was wine country now. No racing thoroughbreds or horse breeding farms in the entire off-the-beaten-path valley. “Uh, thanks—”

“The folks in Harmony Valley sure do have a lot of respect for you. We need a vet.”

“But—”

“Don’t interrupt. Did leaving town wipe away all your manners?”

“No, sir.” It had just reinforced the view that life outside Harmony Valley had more to offer and less heartache.

“Now. Where was I?”