Cowboy Vet. Pamela Britton

which meant trouble in a vet clinic, where seconds might count. Frankly, he probably would have fired her if he wasn’t so short-staffed. He’d have to talk to her about that. Again.

      “Lead her up,” he told Brandy, signaling for the mare’s owner to step back.

      Brandy tried, but the tired mare didn’t want to move.

      “G’yup there,” Jessie said before he could. “Go on.” She slapped the horse on the rump and clucked.

      That did the trick. Rand quickly administered the valium. Within seconds the big chestnut’s knees buckled, then she went down. It took both Jessie and Rand to hook the unconscious mare to the hoist that would move her into position on the padded operating table.

      “That’s it,” he said, the tricky procedure accomplished in a matter of minutes. Precious minutes.

      Damn.

      “Brandy, get the—”

      But Jessie was already one step ahead of him, searching through drawers and finding the mouth tube.

      “Can I do anything?” Brandy asked, fiddling nervously with the end of her brown ponytail. He’d had her assist with other surgeries, but she was still so new that she approached each procedure with trepidation.

      “Just stand there for now.” He inserted a catheter in the mare’s vein as Jessie handed him the ends of the IV set. When he was done with that, she hooked the mare to the respirator and vital-signs monitor near the horse’s head.

      Impressive.

      It was all he had time to think before he was busy getting instruments ready for the next step.

      “You might want to go outside,” he told Valerie.

      The young girl didn’t need to be told twice. She knew what was coming and knew it wouldn’t be pretty. The question was, how would Jessie take it?

      “What about me?” Brandy asked.

      “Stay here. I might need you.”

      The sound of the hair trimmer buzzed through the air again, Jessie prepping the surgical area without glancing up. His estimation of her skills rose with each swipe of the clippers. She didn’t need to be told where he’d be cutting. She obviously knew. And she knew how big an area to clip, too.

      “You’ve done this before,” he said.

      “Once or twice,” she offered, grabbing the Betadine she’d pulled off the counter, liberally swathing the area.

      The breeding farm, he surmised. So she really had worked for one.

      “Ready?” Jessie said, stepping out of the way, the latex gloves he hadn’t even seen her pull on covered with the yellow-brown solution.

      “Ready,” he said, removing his cowboy hat and slipping on his own gloves.

      He made the first incision, then looked sideways at Jessie. She didn’t flinch.

      Good.

      He took the next instrument from her hand. In a matter of minutes he’d reached the foal, the mare’s steady vital signs a rhythmic beep-beep-beep in his ears.

      “Almost there,” he said, reaching his gloved hand into the quarter horse’s distended abdomen.

      “Ooh, gross,” Brandy said.

      Rand ignored her. “Damn breeders are growing them bigger and bigger,” he said, feeling around for a leg. “The mares just aren’t equipped for a baby bred from a sixteen-two-hand stallion. Seems like I’m doing more and more of these of late.”

      “Sixteen-two?” Jessie asked.

      He nodded, tongue between his teeth as he reached farther inside. “And that’s on the smaller end of the scale. I’m seeing seventeen-hand stallions advertised in the Quarter Horse Journal.”

      “Jeez.”

      And then he had it, his hand closing around a miniature hoof. After a tug that seemed almost too infinitesimal to do much, the foal slipped from the mare’s abdomen.

      “There we go.”

      “Oh, wow,” Brandy gasped, reflecting how Rand felt every single time he welcomed a foal into the world. But it was far too soon to know if this little guy would be sticking around.

      “Here,” Jessie said, handing him a scalpel, which he used to rip open the placenta.

      “Not breathing,” he said. “Damn it.”

      He stuck his finger up the tiny foal’s nostril, cleaning it out and then blowing into it in the hopes that he could jump-start the baby’s lungs.

      One breath.

      Two.

      The foal’s chest suddenly twitched.

      “Holy cow,” Brandy said when the newborn’s eyes opened.

      “Here,” Jessie said, handing him a stethoscope. Rand checked the foal’s gum color. Within seconds they’d turned a healthy shade of pink.

      “So far so good,” he said, clearing more of the placenta from around the animal and then grabbing the stethoscope.

      He checked the baby’s heart, then the lungs. Clear of liquid. The foal tried to sit up, its unused neck muscles straining.

      “Well?” Jessie said, and for the first time he heard emotion in her voice.

      “I think he’ll be all right,” Rand murmured. “Brandy, come on over here and wipe the little guy down while Jessie and I close up.”

      Chapter Three

      She’d impressed him.

      Jessie wanted to punch the air as she exited the post-op stall ahead of Dr. Sheppard. She didn’t, but it was damn hard not to smile.

      The smell of fresh pine shavings filled the air, the horizontal aluminum bars that allowed people to see into the stalls gleaming in the late-morning light. It was a state-of-the-art barn, complete with closed-circuit cameras, heaters and even giant fans for those days when the Los Molinos mercury rose too high.

      “So,” she said, leaning against the bars and staring at the mare and foal. The foal was trying hard to stay balanced on his new legs. “When do you want me to start?”

      No answer.

      “Well?” she asked, glancing at him, her euphoria at a job well done making her bold.

      “Jessie,” he said, lifting his hat and running a hand through his hair. “I appreciate your help today, but I’m still not going to hire you.”

      “You’re kidding me,” she said in disbelief. “For goodness’ sake, Rand, you couldn’t have done that surgery without me.”

      “That’s not true,” he said, crossing his arms. He stared down at her in that serious way of his. The expression always made her uncomfortable. “Brandy could have helped.”

      “And lost you valuable time. That girl doesn’t know OB pullers from a lead rope.”

      “She doesn’t need to know,” he said. “I could have told her what was needed.”

      Jessie stared up at him. “Look,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. His eyes darted downward.

      She stiffened.

      Had he just—?

      Nah, she told herself. He hadn’t just looked at her breasts. No way. Dr. Rand Sheppard wouldn’t give her a second glance.

      She pulled her shoulders back nonetheless, under the pretext of hooking her thumbs in her belt loops, her elbows bent so that her breasts strained against the white T-shirt she’d worn beneath her beat-up jacket.

      He