Taken By A Texan. Lass Small

others to find where the horse had been, who the man could be and why the hell he’d been out there alone.

      Rip got into the plane and flew back to the ranch. On the plane’s communication radio, he told Joe what all had taken place. Then he told about the dog. He was coming in with the dog. Rip asked Joe, “Could you see if one of the vets is available?”

      So when Rip landed, there was an interesting number of people available. The dog shivered. They took the dog and put him on a stretcher and, still wrapped in the blanket, they carried him into the vet’s bailiwick.

      People can be very kind to humans who are in distress, but they are doubly so with animals. Animals aren’t as informed nor is there the communication between the human and the animal.

      In his house, Rip slept next to the dog that night. He wakened every couple of hours to give the dog water and made sure the dog was all right. This man was a loner. He had no real use for the rest of the population.

      Well, he had gone out to help find a lost person more than that one time. But he never had much compassion for any of them. They’d been stupid. If they’d paid attention to just the basics of logical thinking, they would have never gotten in the binds in which they’d managed to trap themselves.

      Rip called the hospital the next morning and said, “Tell what’s his name, that the Keepers’ crew found out on the plain, that his dog’s doing fine.”

      And the snippy nurse asked, “Is this Rip Morris?”

      “Yeah.”

      “The person’s name is Andrew Parsons. He is doing as well as can be expected. He’s still rather fragile right now—”

      “Just tell ’im his dog’s okay.”

      “—and his sister’s here. She’s really grateful to you for finding him. She wants to thank you.”

      “Tell her she’s welcome to the damned fool. The dog is smarter and worth more than the dumb nut you’ve got to save.”

      The nurse sassed, “You tend to be somewhat prejudiced and opinionated.”

      “Knowing that, saves you.”

      And the snippy nurse said in a very prissy manner, “If we could get through the quagmire of lurid magazines and reach what is left of the core of your altered brain, we might make some headway in civilizing you.”

      “I don’t read something as mild as that.”

      “You need help.”

      “Naw. Tell the pilgrim his dog’s okay. That’ll give him something to think about. Don’t mention the horse is dead as yet. He killed it, taking it out there. It looked like a good horse, too. The dumb bastard.”

      And the snippy nurse retorted, “You need therapy.”

      “What kind?”

      “Not what you’re thinking.” And she hung up.

      That didn’t bother Rip one bit. He was used to women hanging up on him...after they’d called him all sweet and honey. But he didn’t want a female who was all sweetness and honey. He wanted a woman. He wanted a woman who was different from what he’d known. He wanted a partner.

      He hated gigglers. He hated tart and snippy women. Why couldn’t women be more like men? Not that he could be lured by any man. He just wanted a female who had the logic and straightforwardness of the male thinking. A woman who could handle a surprise mouse without shrieking and carrying on from the top of the table. Was that asking too much?

      Rip simply could not tolerate a vapid woman whose mind was lost in materials and colors and clever food bits. A woman like that, irritated him.

      

      So it was about three days later, and he still hadn’t shaved. Rip had an okay from the vet, so he took the dog to the humans’ hospital. He did that so the man, Andrew Parsons, might understand the dog was okay. However, it was mostly so that the anxious dog could see the man. A fly head, like that man, was a heavy responsibility for any dog.

      Rip took a silent, patient breath when he realized the stupid nurse was there. But then she said, “His sister would like to see you.”

      Hell.

      He’d thought, at that time of the morning, visitors wouldn’t be underfoot. It was for the dog that he was there. The dog was superior. But he was restless and anxious.

      Why on earth had the dog gotten tangled up with an owner who was so stupid? Poor dog. Just maybe, the man would allow Rip to take the dog off his hands. If not permanently, at least getting away for a while from the pilgrim would be a respite for the dog.

      There was the snippy nurse saying, “—and this is Rip Morris” to a woman who had just approached them.

      Rip looked at the pilgrim’s sister with naked eyes of shock. The sun-squint lines beside his eyes disappeared and there were the white lines that had been hidden by the sun squint. His lips parted, and he looked vulnerable. He was.

      Rip had not heard her name.

      The woman held out her hand and her handshake was a good firm one that didn’t tickle or rub or flirt. Her hand was small but her grip was just right. So were her eyes.

      The irises were blue and she wore a hell of a lot of mascara or she’d had those false eyelashes planted. If she blinked the wind from those lashes might knock him back a step. He said, “How do you do.” No question. She needn’t reply.

      Then he realized she wasn’t interested in him. Thank God for that. Women tended to be pushy.

      She was saying, “—first there. Thank you.”

      He nodded. She wasn’t moving her body to call attention to herself. She was just talking about her brother.

      Because it had baffled them all, Rip asked the sister, “Why was he out there?”

      “I haven’t heard.” That’s what she replied. She did not expand on it. She wasn’t particularly interested in visiting. She just wanted to thank the first person there who had helped her stupid brother.

      Of course, she didn’t call her brother stupid. That was only Rip’s I.D. for him. Rip asked again, “Why the hell was he out there all alone, on that plain? The grass was too low even for grazing. Who the hell would be out that way if he got in trouble?”

      “You were.”

      “That’s only because the dog came limping in, and Tom Keeper called me.”

      And she said in a level manner, “Oh. Then it’s Tom Keeper whom I must thank.”

      Somehow that stuck in Rip’s craw. “I’ll pass the word along.”

      “How nice.”

      Rip frowned at her. Snippy. Who cared what she was? Not him. He took the dog over to the hospital bed and told the nurse, “He’s had a bath and been defleaed.”

      She grinned.

      Now that’s how women were supposed to react. But his face didn’t smile nor did he look at the nurse. He looked at the man on the bed. Andrew Parsons. He looked like a parson from olden times. Probably was a descendant of one. He told the silent man, “Your dog is here to see to you. Open your eyes and look at him so’s he’ll know you’re okay.”

      The nurse protested, “He’s drug—”

      But with some effort, Andrew opened his eyes and his head turned very, very slowly. The dog put his paws on the side of the bed and he made an anxious throat sound.

      Andrew’s hand came slowly, slowly up and sideways until it touched the dog’s neck.

      The dog licked Andrew’s hand, the nurse gasped and reached, but Rip’s hands stopped her and he wouldn’t let her go.

      She was furious, but she looked up at Rip who was simply