“Date?” she repeated as if the word were a new one. “With Emerson? He’s ancient.”
“He could have a grandson, named after him and everything. Or maybe you just like ancient.”
Owen really needed to shut up now.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s a cow having trouble calving, so drive this truck like you own it and get me there yesterday.”
“I don’t own it.”
“Pretend.”
For a few seconds the only sounds were the tires on the road and Reggie’s staccato breaths. He could feel the heat coming off her skin. If he touched her hair, would sparks ignite? Maybe she’d just punch him. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“It’s none of your business,” she blurted.
“The cow?”
“Me.” She sat stiff and straight, chin lifted, gaze forward. “Even if I had a date with Emerson, or any other man in this town or the next, you gave up the right to care about it a long time ago.”
“No,” he said.
“No?” Her shrill voice made Reggie inch so close to Owen he was practically driving.
“I might have given up the right to date you, but I never gave up the right to care.”
Watley’s driveway appeared, and Owen took the turn so fast, Reggie was thrown into her side. He yelped.
“Hey.” She set her hand on the dog’s shoulder at the moment Owen did the same.
Their fingers met. They both jerked back; the dog snorted.
“What were his injuries?” Becca asked.
As if he understood, Reggie offered the paw on his injured leg. She smiled and ran her fingers down the appendage. Owen couldn’t believe the dog allowed it. Most MWDs had to be sedated for veterinary care. They weren’t the kind of animals who submitted to anyone other than their handler. But Becca was different.
“Just here?” she asked, palm directly over the inflamed area. Reggie started to pant.
“He’s fine.” Owen negotiated the long, gravel lane then parked next to the brilliantly lit cow barn.
She lifted her hand from Reggie and opened her door, then hesitated, clearly wanting to argue, to examine the dog further, but duty called. “Bring him by the clinic.”
“I’ll do that.”
Her eyes narrowed. Had she heard the lie? She should be getting better at it by now—thanks to him.
“Becca?” Emerson stood in the circle of light just outside the open barn door. The man looked exactly the same as he had the day he’d chased Owen off his land with a rifle.
Was this place caught in a time warp? Owen had yet to run into anyone who had changed as much as he had.
Then again, he was the one who’d left. Which only made the time-warp theory more plausible.
“Thanks for the ride.” She got out of the truck.
“Don’t you need your doctor bag or something?” Owen asked.
“I’m hoping all I have to do is turn the calf, and it’ll come out easy-peasy.”
Owen had been around enough cows to know that if the delivery was going to be easy-peasy, it would have happened already with no need for veterinary assistance. “You’re gonna be up all night, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” Becca rubbed Reggie’s head one last time then slammed the door and went into the barn. The old guy cast a dubious glance in Owen’s direction before following.
Owen rested his hand on the gearshift, but he didn’t throw the truck into reverse. Reggie nudged his arm.
“Gotta go?” Owen opened the door and got out. After a curious glance in his direction, Reggie jumped out too. The dog had just been outside for hours, if he’d had to go, he would have. But Owen wanted to watch Becca work—or maybe just watch Becca. Either way, Reggie was a good excuse.
“Voraus.” Owen pointed to the tall grass at the side of the barn and the dog trotted off, nose to the ground. He’d probably already caught the scent of a field mouse and would be occupied tracking it for the foreseeable future.
Owen crossed the short distance from his truck to the barn. He’d been on his feet so much in the past few hours, his leg both ached from overuse and moved with less of a hitch for the same reason. Nevertheless he was glad the darkness shrouded him. Once he reached the barn door, it was an easy matter to steady himself with a hand on a stall, a stanchion, a pitchfork, a wheelbarrow.
The only people in the barn were Emerson, Becca, and Owen. One cow stood in a well-lit stall, her head confined in a portable gate. The rest lowed from the corral. At this time of year they should be walking free in the pasture, but for some reason they crowded around. Several hung their heads over the half back door. The way they chewed their cud and mooed every so often, dark, limpid gazes on the mother, they seemed to be giving advice.
Owen must have made a sound or a movement because Emerson glanced in his direction. “Whaddya want?”
Becca, elbow deep in the cow, glanced Owen’s way. “I thought you left.”
“I wanted to watch.”
“It’s not a reality show.” She turned her arm so her shoulder spun forward. The cow stomped, narrowly missing her toes.