Read Online Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series) by Laura Crum - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Crum
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didn't seem to be in any distress.
Steve walked in the stall with her and began unwrapping the leg, his fingers deft and competent. Bending down next to him, I caught the tang of his aftershave and was briefly conscious of a sense of intimacy. I put it out of my mind automatically; many of my veterinary calls involved moments like this one with overtones of linked physical closeness. The quiet barn, the gentle sigh of the mare's breath, Steve's soothing voice as he murmured to her-these were the ingredients of an awareness I'd learned to thrust away as inappropriate.
I could feel Steve's eyes on me, his face close to mine as we both crouched in the shavings, but I kept my own attention firmly on the mare's leg as I ran my hand up and down her tendon. There was swelling all right, quite a bit of it, but through the puffiness I could feel the tendon itself, and it felt smooth and firm, uninjured.
"I'm not one hundred percent sure," I said slowly, "but I think she's just nicked the tendon sheath. Is she lame?"
"No, not at all."
"Just keep icing it on and off, maybe three times a day for the next couple of days. If she stays sound, you ought to be able to use her this weekend, even if it's swollen. I'd ice her right before and after I showed her, and keep her wrapped."
Steve smiled in relief. "That's great." He seemed about to say something else when we both heard footsteps in the barn aisle. Abruptly his face tightened up. "That must be Amber. This mare belongs to her."
Oh shit, I thought but didn't say. Amber St. Claire had the dubious honor of being my least-favorite c1ient-a prize example of that type who calls the vet out to look at every little scratch and complains constantly at the size of her bill. The whole office down at Santa Cruz Equine Practice regarded her as a royal pain in the ass, and even Jim, my boss, capitalistic money grubber that he was, would probably have dispensed with her business if it wasn't for the fact that she was so incredibly rich.
Amber was the daughter of Reg St. Claire, a legendary figure in Santa Cruz County, one of our earliest millionaire transplants from the San Francisco Bay Area. He'd moved to the Santa Cruz Mountains to retire and raise Quarter Horses; Amber, his only daughter, had grown up on his glamorous Rancho Robles, inheriting it when he died. She was in her forties now, had never lifted a finger to do any sort of work, at least none that I knew of, had been married and divorced three times, and continued to raise horses-from a distance.
Reg St. Claire had been an avid horseman; Amber, so far as I could tell, had no particular liking for the equine species; she even seemed a little afraid of them. But she continued to breed Quarter Horses, employing a crew of at least half a dozen to do all the actual work, and she usually kept a couple of show horses in training. Currently with Steve Shaw. Rumor had it that she was angling to make him husband number four.
Banishing all traces of the oh-shit I felt as her footsteps approached, I schooled my face to a noncommittal expression of polite civility and glanced at Steve. His own face was as casually bland as mine, concealing what emotions I had no idea.
Amber walked into the stall with us as confidently as a queen making a royal entrance, preceded by a wave of perfume strong enough to overcome the rich, horsey smell of the barn. I felt like wrinkling my nose but refrained; it wouldn't have been politically smart. Amber was our single biggest account.
"Hi there." The smile she gave Steve was full wattage; she turned a much milder version on me. "Hello, Gail." Back to Steve immediately. "So, how is she?"
He explained what the mare had done, how he'd treated her and what I'd said; Amber listened with her head cocked to one side, drinking in every word that came from his mouth. Her expertly tinted auburn hair, worn in a smooth, shining wedge, somehow failed to clash with her vivid red lipstick and fingernails, or the suede coat
Steve walked in the stall with her and began unwrapping the leg, his fingers deft and competent. Bending down next to him, I caught the tang of his aftershave and was briefly conscious of a sense of intimacy. I put it out of my mind automatically; many of my veterinary calls involved moments like this one with overtones of linked physical closeness. The quiet barn, the gentle sigh of the mare's breath, Steve's soothing voice as he murmured to her-these were the ingredients of an awareness I'd learned to thrust away as inappropriate.
I could feel Steve's eyes on me, his face close to mine as we both crouched in the shavings, but I kept my own attention firmly on the mare's leg as I ran my hand up and down her tendon. There was swelling all right, quite a bit of it, but through the puffiness I could feel the tendon itself, and it felt smooth and firm, uninjured.
"I'm not one hundred percent sure," I said slowly, "but I think she's just nicked the tendon sheath. Is she lame?"
"No, not at all."
"Just keep icing it on and off, maybe three times a day for the next couple of days. If she stays sound, you ought to be able to use her this weekend, even if it's swollen. I'd ice her right before and after I showed her, and keep her wrapped."
Steve smiled in relief. "That's great." He seemed about to say something else when we both heard footsteps in the barn aisle. Abruptly his face tightened up. "That must be Amber. This mare belongs to her."
Oh shit, I thought but didn't say. Amber St. Claire had the dubious honor of being my least-favorite c1ient-a prize example of that type who calls the vet out to look at every little scratch and complains constantly at the size of her bill. The whole office down at Santa Cruz Equine Practice regarded her as a royal pain in the ass, and even Jim, my boss, capitalistic money grubber that he was, would probably have dispensed with her business if it wasn't for the fact that she was so incredibly rich.
Amber was the daughter of Reg St. Claire, a legendary figure in Santa Cruz County, one of our earliest millionaire transplants from the San Francisco Bay Area. He'd moved to the Santa Cruz Mountains to retire and raise Quarter Horses; Amber, his only daughter, had grown up on his glamorous Rancho Robles, inheriting it when he died. She was in her forties now, had never lifted a finger to do any sort of work, at least none that I knew of, had been married and divorced three times, and continued to raise horses-from a distance.
Reg St. Claire had been an avid horseman; Amber, so far as I could tell, had no particular liking for the equine species; she even seemed a little afraid of them. But she continued to breed Quarter Horses, employing a crew of at least half a dozen to do all the actual work, and she usually kept a couple of show horses in training. Currently with Steve Shaw. Rumor had it that she was angling to make him husband number four.
Banishing all traces of the oh-shit I felt as her footsteps approached, I schooled my face to a noncommittal expression of polite civility and glanced at Steve. His own face was as casually bland as mine, concealing what emotions I had no idea.
Amber walked into the stall with us as confidently as a queen making a royal entrance, preceded by a wave of perfume strong enough to overcome the rich, horsey smell of the barn. I felt like wrinkling my nose but refrained; it wouldn't have been politically smart. Amber was our single biggest account.
"Hi there." The smile she gave Steve was full wattage; she turned a much milder version on me. "Hello, Gail." Back to Steve immediately. "So, how is she?"
He explained what the mare had done, how he'd treated her and what I'd said; Amber listened with her head cocked to one side, drinking in every word that came from his mouth. Her expertly tinted auburn hair, worn in a smooth, shining wedge, somehow failed to clash with her vivid red lipstick and fingernails, or the suede coat
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