“We know it, sis,” Ann agreed softly.
“And we’re all praying,” Dean said.
Burns pushed back his chair and rose. “Horse’ll need tending through the night for a while.”
Rex nodded. “We’ll take turns.”
Stark Burns shook his dark head. “Nope. The possibility of pneumonia is too great when a horse has been down. I’ll be staying nights.”
“Let us know if you need anything,” Callie said as Burns’s long legs carried him toward the hallway flanking the back staircase.
“I’m used to this,” he assured her. “I’ll just run back to my place for some gear. See y’all in the morning.”
Meri narrowed her eyes as he disappeared from view. She would be keeping a very close watch on him. Maybe he hadn’t put down Soldier. Yet. But neither would he—if she could help it—let her father’s horse die. The others trusted Dr. Burns implicitly, but they had no medical training. She knew enough to assess the quality of his treatment, and she would do so whether he liked it or not.
* * *
Shoving a package of clean paper coveralls into his kit, Stark glanced around the Spartan interior of the small room where he slept most nights, trying to think if he’d forgotten anything. Exhaustion tugged at him, but when did it not? Pushing it aside, he ticked off supplies in his head, listing medications and equipment bundles, his hands gliding over each as he recalled them. The air mattress and sleeping bag were kept in the truck. Deciding that he could use a clean pair of socks, he reached into a drawer. His hand struck the small framed photo that he could not bear to display or resist looking at once he’d touched it.
The smiles always shocked him, especially his own, but there he was, tossing his daughter over his shoulder like a sack of grain, while she squealed and her mother laughed. Belinda’s ninth birthday. Such a happy day. He could almost hear her giggles.
Don’t drop me, Daddy! Don’t drop me!
Hold still then, Belindaworm. Mommy, give her that birthday spanking, and be sure she gets one to grow on.
Except there had been no spanking, and she hadn’t grown. It had been a joke, and less than five months later, they’d both been dead.
Words he couldn’t forget rang through his mind.
I just want to watch this football game. Then we’ll go.
Whatever you think best, sweetheart. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.
Ten minutes earlier. If they’d just left ten minutes earlier. The grief, nearly four years old now, swamped him, guilt digging its claws deep.
He swiped his thumb over his daughter’s face. He’d studied genetics in college. Dark eyes and hair were supposed to be dominant, but Bel had inherited his dark hair and her mother’s sky-blue eyes. His blonde, blue-eyed wife had been all things lovely, but his daughter’s combination of light and dark had fascinated him.
He shoved the picture back into the drawer and closed it, snagging his kit from the narrow bed as he whirled away and left the room.
Exhaustion pulled at him, so he took three cans of energy drink from the refrigerator in the dispensary. He wouldn’t get much sleep tonight, but he rarely slept well even when he worked himself to the point of exhaustion. On the other hand, only work and slumber let him escape the emptiness, grief and guilt.
He drove from his place on the edge of War Bonnet back to Straight Arrow Ranch. The Billings place was by far the biggest concern in the area. Two square miles in size and well run, the ranch apparently turned a good profit. Though the comfortable, sprawling old house couldn’t hold a candle to the home near Ponca City that Stark had walked away from after the deaths of his family, he couldn’t have gone back. He and his wife, Catherine, had built that place, pouring their hearts into every brick, board and stone. He never wanted to see it again.
Parking the truck to the side of the red-dirt road that separated the Straight Arrow home from the outbuildings, Stark shouldered his kit and automatically reached for his hat. Thinking better of that, he left the wide-brimmed black felt on the seat and got out.
Cool autumn air washed over him as he reached into the back for his bedroll. He hoisted it onto his shoulder, curling his arm around it, and trudged toward the stables, choosing the lit path on the backside of the building. Coming to the welded metal corral fence, he shoved his backpack and bedroll through the lower rungs and onto the ground, then climbed over and dropped down. He shouldered his gear again before going inside the darkened building. The light at the end of the long row outlined the shapely feminine form standing at Soldier’s drooping head.
Meredith Billings was the very last person Stark wanted to see tonight. In fact, she was the last person he wanted to see most days. Those accusatory blue eyes and her obvious disdain pierced him clear through every time. Sighing, he started forward, listening to half-a-dozen horses blow and shift as he walked down the long aisle. She waited, petting the butternut sorrel’s neck and casting glances into the dark as Stark drew closer.
He didn’t say a word, mostly because he knew it needled her, but partly because this was the first time she’d approached him in private. She obviously had something on her mind. He waited for her to come to the point as he carefully stowed his gear, placing the medical kit atop a nearby blue plastic barrel, then unrolling the bedding behind the open gate of the stall. Because the equipment to hoist a downed horse required a minimum of nine feet in clearance, they’d had to rig it from the stable’s central beam, which meant Soldier actually stood, supported by the sling, partially outside his stall. Stark placed the air mattress on the ground under the sleeping bag and attached the foot pump that would inflate the coils. Then he rose and turned to face Meredith, his arms folded.
She lifted her worried blue gaze, and asked, “What happens if he develops pneumonia?”
Stark shoved a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to give you false hope. Pneumonia can be fatal, especially in an older horse, even one that isn’t already seriously ill. Let’s just take it a day at a time.”
Her chin shot up, and she went on the attack. “False hope! Is that your way of saying you’re going to let him die?”
Stark rolled his eyes. “The cat again. And keep your voice down. Animals don’t like shouting.”
She glanced in the direction of the horses. “Admit it! Your solution for every seriously ill or injured animal is a swift death sentence,” she hissed.
He sighed and grated out, “How many times do I have to say it? Your cat was gravely injured. There was nothing I could do.”
“You forget,” she reminded him tartly, “that I’m a nurse, and I know something about medical matters.”
“For humans,” he retorted. “Animals are not people. I suggest that you not assign human attributes to them.”
She stepped back as if stung. “I do no such thing!”
“Of course you don’t. Which is why your family calls you the crazy cat lady.”
“They do not.”
“No?” he shot back. “Then why did Ann forbid me to tell you that Donovan’s cat had kittens?”
Meredith’s eyes lit. “Kittens?”
“And I just told you,” Stark moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, suddenly aware of the horses grunting and knocking about in their stalls. “Look, Meredith, I’m sorry about your cat. I’d have saved it if it could have been saved. You can trust me to do all that can be done for every one of my patients.”
Meredith adopted a lofty tone, saying, “My concern here is my father’s well-being. He’s ill, and he loves his horse. I don’t want him to suffer any unnecessary losses, not with these tests coming up to determine the