Hard-Headed Texan. Candace Camp

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