Gage’s family had been small town cattle ranchers. Their home was situated in the middle of a neighborhood street on the edge of Harmony Valley, one without sidewalks or streetlights. Their backyard led out to twenty acres of grazing land. Doc’s family had been their next door neighbors and were always bringing home stray animals in need of care. Gage had gravitated toward Doc and his patients. He’d set broken legs and viewed medical procedures before he’d earned his driver’s license.
Minutes later, Gage had ditched the messy smock he’d been wearing and grabbed the office phone. Today was one helluva good day. He couldn’t wait to share the news of the healthy foal with Dr. Wentworth. “What can I do for you?”
“Turn on your cell phone, for one.” The gruff voice, loaded with the attitude of a seasoned hound dog, brought back fond memories of the things Gage liked best about Harmony Valley—its people. “Whoever heard of a doctor nowadays without a phone or a beeper strapped to his waist?”
“I’ll turn on my cell as soon as we hang up.” His phone was in his backpack in the corner of the sparsely furnished office beneath a picture of Secretariat draped in red roses.
The old vet wasted no time on pleasantries. “I wanted to be the first to offer you a chance to buy into a practice—mine. Here in Harmony Valley.”
“Wow.” Gage’s knees buckled and his butt dropped onto the metal desktop. Practice back home? That wasn’t happening. Harmony Valley was filled with bittersweet memories. Not to mention it was wine country now. No racing thoroughbreds or horse breeding farms in the entire off-the-beaten-path valley. “Uh, thanks—”
“The folks in Harmony Valley sure do have a lot of respect for you. We need a vet.”
“But—”
“Don’t interrupt. Did leaving town wipe away all your manners?”
“No, sir.” It had just reinforced the view that life outside Harmony Valley had more to offer and less heartache.
“Now. Where was I?”
“You were talking about good manners,” Gage suggested helpfully.
“My father—” Doc began in a sweeping tone “—would have said you’re being impertinent. I called to talk business, Doctor Jamero. It’s true, I’ve had to let much of my practice go in recent years, although I do still treat Bea Larkin’s milk goats.”
Gage’s shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the old man’s expectations. “Well, you see—”
“There you go again.” There was a snap in his voice that indicated the cantankerous old dog was about to bite. “Just because an old man takes a breath doesn’t mean he’s finished speaking.”
Gage wisely refrained from any jokes about Dr. Wentworth’s age, old dogs and new tricks.
“What I’m trying to say is that we’d make a good team. I can mentor you, like I used to.” The old man drew an audible breath, as if he’d spoken too quickly. “Young people are slowly moving back here. They’ll be having kids, adopting dogs and getting hamsters and all kinds of creatures who’ll need a vet. Don’t tell me you can’t come back. Why, Shelby moved in with me yesterday. I’m sure she called you along with the other volunteers they’ve rounded up to help harvest grapes this Friday night.”
This was news to Gage. Shelby hadn’t called. She’d stopped calling over a year ago.
Secretariat stared down on him with a gaze that had never backed away from a challenge. Of course, Secretariat had his choice of women.
If Gage’s career decision was racehorses versus some old woman’s shaggy milk goats; the excitement of the training yard, breeding stables and track versus the slow paced life in small town Harmony Valley; or a life where no one knew his past versus a life where everyone knew why he had a scar on his right temple...
It didn’t matter how many pros and cons Gage thought of, the life of a racehorse veterinarian was the one he desired. It was the one he’d choose every time he was asked.
So it made no sense that he didn’t reject Dr. Wentworth’s offer outright, other than to show his respect and spare the old man’s feelings.
Because Gage refused to acknowledge that Shelby Hawkley—Doc’s granddaughter—had anything to do with his return to Harmony Valley.
THE WHOLE TOWN came out to support Harmony Valley Vineyard’s first grape harvest. At least, that’s what it felt like to Shelby as she stood on the winery’s patio Friday night waiting for their volunteer harvesters to arrive. And it felt wonderful. She’d come home. Home to friendly greetings and shared histories, to warm welcomes and “how’ve you beens,” to people who looked you in the eyes when they asked how your day was going and then listened to your answer.
The sun was receding and Shelby turned on the tall propane heaters one by one. During night harvest, the crew would need a warm place to take breaks.
“Shelby, I heard you were back in town. You’ll be registering to vote, of course.” Mayor Larry claimed one of her hands with both of his and gave it a vigorous shake. The unlikely politician—a former hippy who still sported a waist-length ponytail, albeit gray—had been in office for decades. He also ran a profitable online T-shirt business. The mayor reached into a cloth bag on his shoulder and shook out a purple and yellow tie-dyed T-shirt. “How about a shirt? It has the Harmony Valley Vineyard’s logo silk-screened on it.” A black running horse on a weather vane.
“Don’t make it sound as though she has to buy one, Larry. It’s free.” Christine Jennings, Shelby’s boss and head winemaker, plucked the shirt from the mayor’s fingers and gave it to Shelby. “We bought enough for all our workers and volunteers. And you made a tidy profit, Larry.” Christine softened her words with a kiss to Larry’s cheek.
Before Shelby could do more than thank them both for the shirt, another Harmony Valley resident appeared before her.
“I was wondering when I’d get to see you.” Agnes Villanova had been a friend of Shelby’s grandmother. Her big heart came in a petite package. She was barely five feet tall, and one of the town’s most active citizens. She wore a red stocking cap and a bright green sweatshirt. At first glance, she looked like a beardless garden gnome.
Shelby leaned over to receive her hug. “I’ve been meaning to come by.”
“You young people are always so busy.” Agnes moved closer to Christine and slid her arm around her granddaughter’s waist. “First you move home and we think we’ll see you more often, and then you work just as hard as you did before you moved here and so we still never see you.”
“The grapes wait for no one,” Christine said.
“Nor the wine,” Shelby added, exchanging a smile with her boss.
“There’s Ryan. Yoo-hoo!” Agnes waved to the young assistant winemaker. “You ladies go easy on him tonight.”
“Grown man. Paid employee.” Christine’s words were clipped as if this argument was oft repeated. “Don’t baby him.”
“Ah, but he’s so sweet.” Agnes’s expression turned sly. “Until I have great-grandchildren, who can I dote on?”
Christine rolled her eyes.
Just then, Shelby noticed someone shuffling in her direction. It was Hiro Takata, or Old Man Takata as everyone in her generation called him, the town’s retired undertaker. The nip in the air