He tottered backward. “I don’t need a cane.”
“You don’t need to fall.” She extended a hand again, but he swatted her away.
“Give a man some room.”
“I would, but look what you did with the living room,” she said drily, giving up for now. “My question is, why?”
“I’m writing a paper on the non-invasive assessment of equine musculature recovery post-delivery.” Since he’d retired, he’d written many papers. As titles went, this one was almost decipherable. Almost. After a moment, he obliged her questioning look. “How a mare’s muscles regain their tone after delivering a foal.”
“And you need all those books and magazines for that?” Shelby knew her expression was incredulous. It was the face Gage Jamero, her former best friend, used to take one look at and say, “Barnacles.” He claimed her features twisted up as firmly as her resolve, and were just as reluctant to let go. Not that he’d ever given in to her. On the other hand, Nick used to recognize that expression, raise his hands in surrender, and say, “Babe.”
Her grandfather wasn’t looking at her. He’d turned in his chair to see through the archway back toward the living room. “No, no, no. The stacks by the piano were for the paper I did on canine word retention. The stacks by the fireplace were for the paper I did on bovine stimulus-response. The stacks—”
“Hold up.” Shelby raised a hand. “There are stacks in there from papers you’ve already written?”
He nodded.
“Submitted for publication?”
Another nod.
“Been published?”
He shrugged. “Mostly.”
“So we can get rid of those.”
“No, no, no. What if someone challenges my findings? I may need to write a rebuttal or be asked to write a companion piece.” He drew himself up in bony regalness. “I have a system. Don’t touch a thing.”
“You do remember I’m here to stay with you through harvest?” She’d landed a job as the cellar master at the local winery. Grape harvest at Harmony Valley Vineyards started soon. She’d be working ten hours or more a day from now until the holidays, managing the various containers and equipment where the grapes would ferment, plus making clean transfers as the wine moved from crusher to tank to barrel to bottle. Once this was under way, as well as launching construction of a wine cellar, she’d have time to find a place of her own. And she’d know if Harmony Valley would live up to its name and her memories of it being a close-knit town. “You do remember I’m not that graceful.”
“Of course I remember.” Grandpa tapped his temple with a thin, age-spotted finger. “I’m not senile.”
“We need to find a place to put your inactive research, so I won’t—” and her grandfather wouldn’t “—come in late at night when my reflexes are shot, and knock everything down.” Given how he walked, it was a miracle the stacks hadn’t toppled already.
“I like my library where it is. You can come in the kitchen door.” Her grandfather had a barnacle expression of his own, reminding her why his nickname was War.
Shelby realized she’d have to raise the stakes. “You know, Grandma Ruby wouldn’t approve.”
“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But she’d understand. You’ll come through the kitchen door.”
* * *
“ACCEPT MY APOLOGY, Sugar Lips?” Gage Jamero was up to his elbows in trouble with his latest lady love.
Well, at least one elbow.
Sugar Lips’s contraction built like a blood pressure cuff around Gage’s right biceps. His face heated, his fingers numbed, his body felt as if it was wrapped in a too-tight ace bandage.
“Breathe easy, honey.” Gage tried to follow his own advice. During his internship and residency, he’d gained quite a reputation as a horse whisperer when it came to peevish, pregnant horses. Since then, he’d soothed countless mares and saved many foals trapped in utero by breach positions, like this one was. But this foal, sired by a Kentucky Derby winner, was the equivalent of a million dollar baby.
On the floor of a hay-lined stall, sprawled on his back, his legs half across Sugar Lips’s chestnut flanks, Gage sweated through the mare’s next contraction. He hadn’t been this nervous about his performance since he choked while asking his lab partner out in the twelfth grade. Saving this foal would make or break his fledgling career.
He’d graduated. He’d passed his licensing exam, both in California and Kentucky. He had a job offer in Lexington. All he was waiting for was his predecessor’s retirement. Until then, he was working for lucrative per-delivery fees from the Thomason Equine Hospital, a facility in Davis which was also an open classroom to local university vet students. They received notification when a procedure or delivery was imminent at Thomason and were able to observe through specially installed viewing windows. Today they were witnessing Gage, one of their own a year ago, on the main stage. He’d never been requested to deliver such a valuable foal before. If he screwed this up—and there were many ways to fail here—it would be a blow to his young career. He might even lose the job in Kentucky.
As if sensing what was at stake, the student onlookers and support staff in the hallway of the birthing center fell into a hushed silence, much like the gallery at a golf tournament before a pro-golfer shot for birdie and the win. And just like that pro-golfer, Gage knew he had supporters and detractors. No one wanted anything bad to happen to the mare and her foal, but everyone was hungry for the spotlight he’d recently claimed.
The contraction faded and Gage regained use of his fingers, pressing them harder against the flat of the foal’s forehead, pushing it farther back into the mare’s uterus. He shifted more weight onto his shoulders and the mare’s haunches. Extending his arm, he found the foal’s front leg and eased it forward without snagging the umbilical cord until he had two delicate hooves in his grasp.
“Here we go, Sugar Lips,” he crooned, much too aware that his back was at the mare’s mercy should she kick.
The mare’s wet flanks heaved as if this breath would be her last. She was young and this was her first pregnancy. She’d spent much of her prelabor huffing, glaring and kicking at Gage, blaming him for her condition. So far he’d been extremely lucky in avoiding injury, but luck only lasted so long when idiots were present.
“Dr. Jamero?” The question echoed through the birthing stall.
Sugar Lips coldcocked Gage in the kidney with one powerful hoof. Pain sucked his legs and torso into a stiff ball. Gage almost lost his grip on the foal. It was a sign of how spent the mare was that she didn’t kick him repeatedly. It was a sign of good fortune that this position allowed him greater mobility to shift when delivery was at hand. He’d have to remember that.
Sugar Lips’s uterus tensed once more. It was go-time.
Moments later, he lay panting in the hay cradling the trembling key to his dreams. Sugar Lips lifted her head to see what all the fuss was about, whinnying when she saw her newborn.
Gage’s chest swelled with pride. This was what he loved about being a veterinarian—facing difficult challenges, saving a life, making a connection with a beautiful creature that communicated primarily with body language.
Some boneheads started clapping. Gage curled protectively around the foal being careful not to tear the umbilical cord. He glared at the lone student who was still applauding until the onlooker stopped. Steady hands transferred the newborn to the ground, and checked the vitals of both mare and foal.
Dr. Leo Faraji, a colleague and the man Gage had beaten out for the Kentucky job, helped him to his feet. “Need a