Tennessee Vet. Carolyn McSparren

sounded as the gate opened, and the motion-sensor lights flashed on in the clinic parking lot as someone drove around the building and stopped at the back door. “What the heck?” She yanked on her boots back over her bare feet, grabbed her big flashlight and went to see who in Sam Hill was coming in this late without calling ahead.

      * * *

      “IS DR. CAREW AVAILABLE?” A male voice, deep baritone. He was standing at the back door of the clinic, silhouetted against the lights. All she could tell about him was that he was tall and sounded as though he had some education.

      “I’m available,” Barbara said. “And the only Dr. Carew there is.”

      “I’ve got an emergency. Emma Logan told me your clinic was down this way but didn’t give me your phone number. I couldn’t think of anything to do but search you out.” Behind him the very bright lights of some kind of fancy sports car shone directly into Barbara’s eyes. “It may be too late to help him, but he was moving, and this is all I could think of.”

      “You hit something on the road.” Probably a deer.

      “It hit me,” he said. “Flew smack into the front of my car.”

      “So you squashed an owl?”

      “Not quite. Take a look.”

      He stood aside. Barbara turned on her powerful flashlight and walked up to the front of the car. “You mind turning your lights off? I can’t see squat.”

      A moment later the headlights went out. Barbara allowed her eyes to adjust to the lower light of the motion sensors under the eaves before she looked at the damage to whatever it was. She fully expected it to be dead.

      It shrieked. A hair-raising, enraged and I’m-alive-here-people shriek.

      “That’s no owl,” Barbara whispered.

      She dropped to her haunches two feet from the grille of the car and shone the light on... “Lord save us,” she whispered. “You hit a bald eagle.”

      “Indeed I did not. It hit me. I wasn’t driving fast, not on these roads, when I’ve barely moved in to The Hovel after driving up here this morning, then back to Memphis to pick up my stuff and right back here. I thought some kind of pterodactyl was about to yank me out of the car. One minute nothing, the next this thing appears in front of me and whomp!”

      “Take off the grille,” Barbara said.

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “These cars carry fancy toolkits, don’t they? Let’s see if we can keep him alive long enough to get him out of there.” She stood and walked back toward the barn.

      “Where are you going?”

      “To get some towels and heavy gloves. If we do get him loose, we’ll have to wrap him up tight. He’s going to come out of there fighting like a dragon, no matter how badly he’s hurt. You have any heavy driving gloves?”

      “In the glove compartment.”

      “Get ’em.” She pointed at the car. “Unscrew that grille, please. Carefully. Stay out of talon or beak range. He’ll take your head off as soon as he looks at you. He’s certain this is your fault. Eagles aren’t noted for forgiveness. They prefer punishment, preferably death by devouring.”

      Wearing leather gauntlets, Barbara returned with an armload of heavy towels. “Whoa!” she snapped as the eagle screamed again. “Calm down, you. We’re trying to help.”

      The eagle stared at her with insane black eyes, but stopped thrashing momentarily, almost as though it understood. Barbara knew it did not. More likely, it was gathering itself to try to break free and savage the people who were attempting to save it.

      “I think the left wing is broken—see how twisted it is hanging between the struts on the grille?” she asked.

      “There is no way I can unscrew this grille. The grille has not been off since it came from the showroom years ago. This car is a genuine antique. It’s as rusted as I am.”

      “Can you actually cut those struts? Ease it off him?” She expected horror. In the lights, she could tell the car was a classic, beautifully maintained.

      That grille would cost a fortune and probably take weeks to replace.

      Instead, the man said, “Do you have some heavy-duty bolt cutters?”

      “Be right back.”

      Not one howl of complaint from him. Hmm. Even if he did drive a silly car and hit birds with it. She handed him her largest bolt cutters.

      “Show me where to cut,” he said.

      “I’m not altogether certain. Need to get him loose but keep hold of him so he doesn’t flap himself to death.” For a long minute vet and eagle stared one another in the eye, then Barbara nodded. “Yeah. I’m going to try something that should work for the short haul.” She took a small towel and tossed it over the eagle’s head, covering its eyes. Instantly it stopped fighting. “Now, cut here and here. Fast. It’ll take him less than a minute to realize he isn’t actually hooded. Can you manage alone?”

      The man actually growled at her, as if she’d impugned his masculinity. “Hang in there, big guy,” he whispered. “We’re trying to help you.” He grunted with the effort of snapping the grille. “We’re not about to let you die on us.”

      The grille snapped and snapped again. Possibly all to the good that it was old.

      Man’s got muscles, I’ll say that for him. And it almost sounded as though he was commanding the bird to survive. “Hold the feet, avoid the talons,” Barbara said. “I don’t want to have to sew you up, too. With luck I’ll get him out fast and swaddle him tight.”

      Getting him actually loose didn’t prove to be as difficult as Barbara had thought. “I wish I had a real raptors’ hood,” she said as she held the bird, snugly, under one arm, while she kept the towel taut over the eagle’s head. “If I can keep his head covered until we get him on the table, I can give him a little gas. Then we’ll see what’s going on. Come on. We need to move fast.”

       CHAPTER THREE

      STEPHEN MACDONALD GLANCED at the pieces of his grille lying on the tarmac of the parking lot. Small price to pay to save this living creature. He now understood what an eagle eye was. The bird had glared at him as though to say, “This is your fault. Fix it!” He was already too involved, as though his life had become intertwined with the eagle’s. He’d been helpless to save Nina, watching her fade away. And he hadn’t been able to heal his own injuries, either. Somehow, he had to help this wounded creature. That was nuts, but it was the way he felt.

      He followed Barbara toward the back door of the clinic.

      He’d managed to hold the eagle’s feet until the doctor had the bird free. He gave thanks for his fancy driving gloves. The thing’s talons looked as long as a grizzly bear’s and twice as sharp.

      The motion-sensor lights stayed on, so they could see where they were walking.

      “Hey,” Dr. Carew called, “I need a hand here. Open the back door of the clinic, turn on the lights on the left, open the door to exam room one and help me get this sucker on the table. Now! Before he kills me.”

      And he thought his daughters were bossy. He hobbled as fast as he could and opened the back door of the clinic, then realized he’d left his cane in the car. He felt for the light switch, found himself in a hall with doors on either side, opened the first one, turned on that light and got out of the vet’s way.

      “I had no idea they were this big,” Stephen said. The eagle wasn’t fighting at the moment. It was, however, dripping blood from a gash in one of its legs—what would have been the drumstick in a turkey.

      “Here,