“There’s no ice in August,” Clay said. “What happened to the pastor?”
“Deer,” Noah said. “I came around the curve and there she was. I hardly swerved, but all you have to do is get a little too close to the edge and you’re toast. Ohhhh, my poor truck,” he said as the vehicle made it to the road.
“Doesn’t look any worse than it did, Noah,” Jack said.
“Seriously,” Preacher said, hands on his hips.
“What are you talking about?” Noah returned indignantly. “It’s got several new dents!”
“How can you tell?” Jack asked. “That old truck is one big dent!” Then he turned to Clay and said, “Go easy around these curves and tell Doc Jensen I said hello.”
Clay Tahoma drove his diesel truck up to the Jensen Veterinary Clinic and Stables. His truck pulled a large horse trailer that he’d filled with his personal belongings. Shutting off the engine, Clay jumped out of the truck and looked around. The clinic consisted of the veterinary office attached to a big barn, a nice-sized covered round pen for exams, several large pastures for the horses to exercise, the horses’ turnout and a couple of small paddocks for controlled, individual turnout. Horses can’t be turned out together unless they’re acquainted; they can get aggressive with each other.
Opposite the clinic, across what functioned as a parking area large enough for trucks and trailers, was a house built for a big family. The whole lot was surrounded by trees, full with their summer green, barely swaying in the early-August breeze.
He sniffed the air; he smelled hay, horses, dirt, flowers, contentment. There was honeysuckle nearby; his nose caught it. He got close to the ground, sitting on one boot heel, touching the dirt with his long, tan fingers. He was filled with a feeling of inner peace. This was a good place. A place with promise.
“Is that some old Navajo thing you’re doing there?”
Before he could rise Dr. Nathaniel Jensen was walking out of his veterinary office door, wiping his hands on a small blue towel.
Clay laughed and stood up. “Listening for cavalry,” he said.
“How was the drive?” Nate asked Clay, stuffing the towel in his pocket and stretching out a hand.
Clay took Nate’s hand in a hearty shake. “Long. Boring until I got closer—some guys from Virgin River were hauling a truck up a hill. The town minister slid off the road avoiding a deer. No injuries, just a lot of grumbling. How’s the building coming?”
“Excellent. I’ll get you something to drink, then take you on a tour.” Still shaking Clay’s hand, Nate clapped his other hand on his friend’s shoulder and said, “I’m really sorry about Isabel, Clay.”
Clay smiled with melancholy. “If we hadn’t divorced, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, not much has really changed between us, except that I moved out of L.A.”
“A divorce that hasn’t changed much?” Nate asked, tilting his head in question. “Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me. It might be more than I want to know.”
Clay laughed in good humor, though he wasn’t sure it was funny. He and Isabel weren’t right for each other, but that hadn’t stopped them from falling in love. They were nothing alike and had little in common beyond the equine industry—and even then they were on completely opposite ends of it. She was a rich horsewoman, a breeder and equestrienne of Swedish descent—a ravishing, delicious blonde who had grown up privileged—while he was a Navajo farrier and veterinary technician who had been raised on a reservation. They had been impossibly attracted to each other, had gotten married, and then encountered predictable problems with communication and lifestyle choices. There was also the resistance from her family, who probably thought he was marrying her money. When Isabel had suggested they divorce, Clay had known it was coming and didn’t argue. Divorce was for the best and he’d agreed to her terms, but they hadn’t stopped caring about each other. They hadn’t stopped sleeping together, either. But Isabel’s father probably slept better at night knowing his beautiful, wealthy daughter was no longer legally attached to a Navajo of simple means and some old tribal notions. And he hadn’t exactly been thrilled that Clay had a son prior to marrying Isabel. Gabe lived back on Navajo Nation with Clay’s parents and extended family, but he was still very much a part of Clay’s life and he knew Isabel’s family wasn’t too happy about that history.
Nate Jensen worked with Clay years ago in Los Angeles, long before Nate took over his father’s veterinary practice near Virgin River. It made sense that Nate would have called Clay to ask if he could recommend a good vet tech; Nate’s tech had retired after working first for Nate’s father and then himself.
“I can think of a number of excellent people,” Clay had replied. “But I’m looking for a change and I have family up that way. Any chance you’d consider me?”
Nate jumped on that; Clay was a much-sought-after tech and could function as a farrier, as well. And so here they were.
“I have tea and lemonade in the house,” Nate said. “Can I help you unload anything?”
“I think I’ll leave everything in the trailer for now,” Clay said. “You’re sure you don’t mind if I just use the tech’s overnight quarters?”
“It’s yours for as long as you want it. There are other options, of course. You’re welcome to share the house with me and Annie—it’s just the two of us and there’s lots of room. If you want something larger for yourself, we can help you find a house. It’s all up to you, my friend. I’m just so damn glad you’re here.”
Clay smiled warmly. “Thank you, Nathaniel. The tech’s quarters will be fine. Let’s test that lemonade and look around.”
“Dinner with us tonight, Clay?” he asked.
“It would be a privilege. I can’t imagine a woman who would be willing to marry you—I look forward to meeting her.”
“Annie will blow you away. She’s amazing.”
Clay was thirty-four and had been reared by Navajo men of legend; there was a long history of chiefs, elders, World War II Code Talkers, mystics and warriors. They were naturalists and spiritualists. His father and uncles had been a lot to take with all their tales and teachings while he was growing up, but eventually he came to appreciate the value of some of their lessons. More than once they’d come to his rescue, banding together to help him turn his life around, and for that alone Clay owed them his respect and gratitude.
He grew up in the mountains and canyons around Flagstaff, on a large family ranch on the Navajo Nation. There was plenty of poverty around the reservation, but some families did well. The Navajos didn’t erect casinos but they were rich in magnificent land. The Tahoma family was well-off by comparison to most. They lived simply, then saved, invested, expanded, built and increased the value of what they had. They were not considered wealthy but Clay and his sister grew up in a fine, comfortable home in a family compound that included aunts, uncles and cousins.
When Clay was sixteen, he had a girlfriend. She was a young girl he met at a football game and they fell in love, but under pressure from her parents, she broke up with him. He made a desperate attempt to get her back some months later and found her pregnant. Though she denied it, he knew he was the father, and he was nothing but a boy.
He had no choice but to go to his parents and uncles with the embarrassing news. They, of course, went to the girl’s family. The family claimed Clay had nothing to do with their daughter’s situation; they had arranged an adoption to a very comfortable Arizona family who had no ties to the Native community.
Legal help was readily available to the Tahoma family through the tribe, and there was no tribe on earth that easily lets go of one of their own. When it became clear how far the Tahomas would go to keep