“As for the blood, that isn’t all that uncommon with a bad case of diarrhea. Keep a close eye on him, make sure he has plenty of fresh water. I’ll call tomorrow to see how he’s doing.”
Samantha was too furious to escort the vet out. She drew the stall gate closed after he left and then leaned against it, her hands knotted into fists at her sides. Shehad been there for several minutes, watching her horse, when Jerome stopped working on the tractor to come in out of the hot sun for a break.
“What did the vet have to say?” he called as he entered the arena by a rear personnel door.
“That horse manure stinks!”
“Say what?”
Samantha turned to rest her folded arms atop the gate rail. “You heard me,” she told the bewildered foreman. “He informed me that horse manure stinks.”
Jerome drew off his hat and smoothed his sweat-dampened hair. “Well, now, there’s a news flash for you.”
“I’m so frustrated I could spit. What an arrogant toad! He refused to do anything more than shove a thermometer up his butt. Washburn always takes a blood sample, and most times more than that.” She lifted her hands. “Maybe it’s unnecessary, and he runs tests only to make me feel better. But at least I always feel that he’s checking out every possibility.”
“A good vet normally does, especially with valuable animals like these. Sounds to me like your father had better find another vet. Washburn is out of town on vacation a lot these days. If he’s not going to arrange for a qualified partner to take over his practice, what other choice is there?”
Samantha recalled the kitchen conversation with her father and brothers yesterday evening, and she knew exactly which veterinarian her dad would try first. She’d hoped not to see Tucker again, but if it came to a choice between that and the well-being of her horses, she’d be the first to pick up the phone.
Jerome checked his watch. “You can still make it to church if you shake a leg. I can keep an eye on Tabasco while you’re gone.”
Samantha shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I want to stay close, just in case. Regardless of what Dr. Black thinks, I don’t believe this is a little intestinal upset. I want to watch the horse to see how he acts.”
“Trust your gut feeling,” the foreman told her. “In my experience, it’s seldom wrong.”
“And you, Jerome? What’s your gut feeling?”
The foreman frowned. “I’m with you. If it’s nothing more than a little upset stomach, it’s the worst I’ve ever seen. Best to watch him, I think.”
After giving Max his nightly knucklebone, Tucker mixed himself a drink and settled at the dining room table with the phone book in hand. Harrigan. He leafed through the white pages until he found the Hs, then ran a finger down the row. Bingo. There were eight Harrigans listed, beginning with Clinton Harrigan and ending with Zachary Harrigan, but Tucker found no Samantha or S. Harrigan in the lineup.
Disappointed, he ran through the first names again—Clinton, Frank, Hugh, Mark, Parker, Paul, Quincy, and Zachary. No matter how long he stared, he could conjure up no Samantha. He had looked forward to calling her all day.
Not a man to give up so easily, he dialed Information, hoping against hope that he might get her number from an operator. Dead end. The woman who took his call saidin a nasal, singsong voice, “I’m sorry, sir. There is no listing for a Samantha Harrigan.”
Tucker broke the connection, sighed, and looked down at Max. “What d’ya think, partner? Should I call her father to get her number?”
The rottweiler stopped gnawing the bone to give Tucker a bewildered look.
“I hear you. Not classy.” He considered the situation for a moment. Then he brightened. “There’s nothing wrong with calling him to see how she’s doing, though. How does that idea strike you?”
Max growled low in his throat and then went, “Woof!” The sound was so deep and vibrant,
Samantha was too furious to escort the vet out. She drew the stall gate closed after he left and then leaned against it, her hands knotted into fists at her sides. Shehad been there for several minutes, watching her horse, when Jerome stopped working on the tractor to come in out of the hot sun for a break.
“What did the vet have to say?” he called as he entered the arena by a rear personnel door.
“That horse manure stinks!”
“Say what?”
Samantha turned to rest her folded arms atop the gate rail. “You heard me,” she told the bewildered foreman. “He informed me that horse manure stinks.”
Jerome drew off his hat and smoothed his sweat-dampened hair. “Well, now, there’s a news flash for you.”
“I’m so frustrated I could spit. What an arrogant toad! He refused to do anything more than shove a thermometer up his butt. Washburn always takes a blood sample, and most times more than that.” She lifted her hands. “Maybe it’s unnecessary, and he runs tests only to make me feel better. But at least I always feel that he’s checking out every possibility.”
“A good vet normally does, especially with valuable animals like these. Sounds to me like your father had better find another vet. Washburn is out of town on vacation a lot these days. If he’s not going to arrange for a qualified partner to take over his practice, what other choice is there?”
Samantha recalled the kitchen conversation with her father and brothers yesterday evening, and she knew exactly which veterinarian her dad would try first. She’d hoped not to see Tucker again, but if it came to a choice between that and the well-being of her horses, she’d be the first to pick up the phone.
Jerome checked his watch. “You can still make it to church if you shake a leg. I can keep an eye on Tabasco while you’re gone.”
Samantha shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I want to stay close, just in case. Regardless of what Dr. Black thinks, I don’t believe this is a little intestinal upset. I want to watch the horse to see how he acts.”
“Trust your gut feeling,” the foreman told her. “In my experience, it’s seldom wrong.”
“And you, Jerome? What’s your gut feeling?”
The foreman frowned. “I’m with you. If it’s nothing more than a little upset stomach, it’s the worst I’ve ever seen. Best to watch him, I think.”
After giving Max his nightly knucklebone, Tucker mixed himself a drink and settled at the dining room table with the phone book in hand. Harrigan. He leafed through the white pages until he found the Hs, then ran a finger down the row. Bingo. There were eight Harrigans listed, beginning with Clinton Harrigan and ending with Zachary Harrigan, but Tucker found no Samantha or S. Harrigan in the lineup.
Disappointed, he ran through the first names again—Clinton, Frank, Hugh, Mark, Parker, Paul, Quincy, and Zachary. No matter how long he stared, he could conjure up no Samantha. He had looked forward to calling her all day.
Not a man to give up so easily, he dialed Information, hoping against hope that he might get her number from an operator. Dead end. The woman who took his call saidin a nasal, singsong voice, “I’m sorry, sir. There is no listing for a Samantha Harrigan.”
Tucker broke the connection, sighed, and looked down at Max. “What d’ya think, partner? Should I call her father to get her number?”
The rottweiler stopped gnawing the bone to give Tucker a bewildered look.
“I hear you. Not classy.” He considered the situation for a moment. Then he brightened. “There’s nothing wrong with calling him to see how she’s doing, though. How does that idea strike you?”
Max growled low in his throat and then went, “Woof!” The sound was so deep and vibrant,
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