Max reacted to the word the way bulls were reputed
to react to cattle prods. He dove between Royal Rossiter's
legs and out the front door. Quill let fly a four-letter word, regretted it immediately, and ran after him. Royal and the cowboy followed. Quill refused to acknowledge the grins on their faces.
Outside, Main Street lay peaceful under the morning sun. The red geraniums in the black flower boxes (courtesy of the Women's Firemen's Auxiliary) glowed bright against the warm cobblestone storefronts. And Max was
three blocks away, running toward Peterson Park, droopy
ears flapping in the breeze.
The cowboy let out a piercing whistle.
Max stopped, turned, and cocked his head inquiringly.
Quill held her breath. The cowboy whistled again, and
Max trotted a few steps in their direction, stopped, hung
his head, and walked slowly back. The cowboy bent and
fondled his ears. "Good old son, aren't you."
Quill grabbed the dog's collar. "Thank you so much, Mr . . . ah, um. I don't know why he hates the . . ." She stopped just in time.
Royal said, "This is Jack Brady, Quill. He's my cattle handler. And a Texan, too."
"Ma'am." Jack Brady took off his hat and held out
his hand. Quill hated sappy romance movies and had ab
solutely refused to see either
The Bridges of Madison County
or
The Horse Whisperer.
But she was a sucker for broad-shouldered outdoorsmen with a lot of sable hair. His hand was more muscular than Leonid's and had
the leathery texture of a saddle. His eyes were blue. Quill was beginning to wonder about blue-eyed Texans. Some
thing in the state must affect the gene pool.
"Thank you very much for getting Max, Mr. Brady. You have a real gift with animals."
"Cattle, dogs, horses, and women," Royal added with satisfaction. "Brady here's the real thing, Quill. Now, the fella Calhoun has working for him? Dex Fairweather? Guy's straight out of Long-uh Island. Puts on the walk and puts on the talk."
"You certainly showed that with Max. Could I offer both of you a little more breakfast, as a thank-you? Or perhaps you'd like to come in for a lunch."
"No, ma'am," Royal said, "we had a bang-up breakfast in there. Little light on the potatoes, but real good. What you could do for us, if you don't mind, is maybe introduce us to his vet."
Max barked. Brady gave him a look. Max sat at Quill's
feet and panted apologetically.
"Dr. Crest? I'd be happy to."
"Thing is, we got a couple of calves running out on their nine months vaccines. And Class Clown's got a cough I don't like, no, I don't like it at all. And Brady needs somewhere to keep his horse."
"His horse?"
"Scooter. Best roping mare this side of . . ."
The Pecos, Quill thought.
"The Mississippi. Got her up in what used to be that asparagus bed for now."
Quill hoped she didn't look as if she were baring her teeth.
"Thing is, the local vets usually have an extra stall or two," Brady offered. His voice was easy and direct. "I don't like keepin' her in the open if I don't have to."
"Sun burns her coat," Royal said. "She's a buckskin, nice creamy color lessen the sun gets to it. Turns it into straw."
"We certainly wouldn't want that," Quill said. Was fresh horse manure good for asparagus? She doubted it. "I'm going up there right now, if you'd like to ride along."
"Be glad to take you in the dually." Royal jerked a thumb at his pickup, which was large, chrome-trimmed, and royal blue. The door read
ROSSITER RANCH The Finest in Longhorn Cattle.
"Just hop right in. Got one of them extended cabs, so there's plenty of room."
Quill nodded, a bit reluctantly. On the other hand, the faster they got Brady's horse out of the asparagus bed, the better off next year's asparagus would be. And she
was going to get the Inn back, dammit, so she had a right
to be concerned about the asparagus.
Max loved the dually. Quill had no idea where Max had been before he'd rocketed into her life two months before, but it was clear he'd had good experiences with
trucks. He curled up happily in the back, his head on her
lap, and Quill directed Brady down Main Street and onto
Route 15, where Laura Crest ran the Paradise Veterinary
Practice.
"You think much of this doc?" Brady called over his shoulder as they rolled past the swelling green of Tompkins County. Quill, her attention drawn to the play of colors in the summer light, said nervously, "I've never met her, actually. I hope she's nice to Max."
"Never met the vet?" Royal was as bemused as if she'd admitted not knowing where the post office was in her own hometown. Max whined. Quill patted his head soothingly. "I just got the dog. Two months ago. Meg and Doreen took him to get rid of his fleas and to give him vaccines. But he's due for this second rabies shot. I think."
"First one they give in two parts," Royal said. "Got much problem with rabies around here?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know about rabies?"
"Gentlemen," Quill said firmly, "I don't know anything about cattle, about dogs, about horses or ranching. Dr. Crest handles most of the dairymen's work around here as far as I know, and I'm sure she's qualified to give the cattle whatever."
The dually purred along for a moment. Brady reached
down and turned on a country music station. Over lyrics having to do with trains, prisoners, mothers, and bars, Royal said, "Any other vets around here?"
"Syracuse has quite a few, I think. It's the next left turn, Brady. At the Sunoco station. And, of course, Cornell University is about twenty minutes away, and they have one of the best vet schools in the United States."
The Paradise Veterinary Practice consisted of three
workmanlike buildings set close to one another, an office, a large barn, and a big lean-to shed with perhaps a dozen
fenced runs attached. Quill could see one horse, two cows, and a large wolfish dog in separate runs.
The gravel drive was clean and neatly raked. Three cars were parked in front of the building marked OF
FICE: a van with three kids quarreling in the backseat, a
Toyota, and a dirty Range Rover with metal boxes strapped to the hood and the tailgate.
"Rig looks okay," Royal said. Brady nodded. Quill, who wasn't sure whether they were referring to the Range Rover or the facilities, took a firmer grasp on Max's collar and dragged him out of the truck. Max sat in the gravel, splayed his legs out, and refused to move. Brady reached into the truck and took out a leash which didn't look like a leash. There was a clip attached to one
end, but it looked more utilitarian than the length of lime-
green acrylic Quill had bought for Max. Brady fixed the leash to Max's collar and walked him into the office.
"You've got to show me how to do that," Quill said as they sat down.
"It's in the handling," Royal said importantly.
"I'm sure it is," said Quill. Then, a little nervous of what lay ahead of poor Max, she said chattily, "Why do you suppose every vet's office in the known universe smells like pine tar and has little plastic bucket seats?"
"Easier to keep clean," said Royal.
"I know that. It was more of a . . ."
"Rhetorical question?" Brady smiled. "You know, you bein' nervous makes the dog nervous. See that?" He nudged Max with his toe. Max, who had been gazing pitifully into Quill's face, snapped his head around and grinned at Brady. "It's not bein' here that bothers him. It's you bein' bothered by him bein' bothered by bein' here. Got it?"
"Got it." Quill patted her dog. "So how do I stop— um—'bein' bothered'?"
"Just relax," said a cheerful matter-of-fact voice. "Miss Quilliam? Laura Crest."
The vet emerged from an examining room in back of the reception desk. She was short, thin, with sandy-colored hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head. She had a fresh, athletic bounce to her step and was carrying a syringe. A medium-sized black and tan dog walked at her side. Max jerked to attention and made a rush for the black and tan.
"Down, Tye," Dr. Crest said in a quiet voice.
The dog dropped to the floor in a perfect sit. "Now, that's a dog," Brady said in a voice of approval. "Australian kelpie?" Laura Crest smiled and nodded. Brady shook his head in admiration. "Breed's a challenge to manage. I can see why you keep so fit."
Quill immediately felt under-exercised and that Max was overindulged. She gave Max a guilty pat and said, "My dog's a bit excitable, I'm afraid. Should I take him somewhere?"
"Right here is fine." The vet bent over to pat Max, pinched a fold at the nape of his neck, and the shot was done, This made Quill feel even less of a dog person and more of a wimp. She'd worried a lot about Max crying when he got his shot. She made introductions to Royal and Brady, then drifted away from the conversation, which turned to vaccines, calving procedures, and a cow that hadn't cleansed. She was drawn back when the veterinarian said, "I like your sister, Quill. And Doreen. And I've heard great things about the Palate. I've been meaning to get up to try some of the food, but it's pretty hard to find the time with a solo practice. It seems every time I get a chance to put my feet up and eat, my beeper goes off." She patted her pocket.
"Tell you what," Royal said. "Whyn't we take you on up to the Palate for a bite of lunch after you take a look at my herd."
"Well, I don't have a lot on for this afternoon. And, of course, there's always my beeper. And I'd surely like to take a look at these cattle. I've heard a lot about them."
"I'd almost forgotten," Quill said. "My sister said there's something different about the fat. She wanted to know if you had any information about the chemistry."
"I can find out for you. One of my old professors at Cornell has a buddy at A&M and they've been doing a lot of research there. I do know that they have a very low percentage of back fat, and the quality of the fat is quite different at the microbiological level. I'll make a few phone calls and meet you up at that pretty inn on the hill where you've got your cattle. What's it called? Something really dumb like the Dun Rovin'?"
"The Dew Drop Inn," Quill said. Suddenly, she liked the vet. A lot. And she hadn't hurt Max in the least.
"Ugh. But it's gorgeous, I hear. Didn't they have some famous painter who owned it with her sister and went bankrupt?"
Quill blushed. "We didn't go bankrupt. We just—sold
it. Temporarily. I mean, I thought I would be glad to have
all the hassle off my hands, but I really miss it." Brady and Royal turned to look at her. Quill tugged her hair in exasperation.
"That was you?" Laura said. "Oh, heck. I'm sorry. You know what they say about horse and cattle people, we save our charm for the animals. Look. Lunch sounds terrific. I'll meet you at the corral,—"
"The rose garden, actually."
"Right. And if Brady wants to bring his mare over for a few days, we can do that after lunch."
Quill rode in the back of the dually with Max; head on her knee and her thoughts scattered in six different directions. "Okay. Mental plan. Priority one. Go to the bank and talk to Mark Anthony Jefferson about a loan to
buy the Inn back. For half a million bucks. Number two.
Make another plan, since Mark Anthony Jefferson will laugh in your face."
"Who's gonna laugh in your face?" Royal asked. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. "You want we should take care of him, Texas style?"
"No. No. Sorry. I guess I was thinking aloud."
"I didn't know you were a painter."
"Sure she is," Brady said. He swung the steering wheel easily to the left and back again, avoiding a garbage bag left in the road. "She's Quilliam. You know the painting of the magnolia you liked in Dallas?"
"That big huge thing?" Royal twisted all the way around in his seat so that he could look at her directly. "A little redheaded gal like you" (Quill was five foot seven) "painted that big huge thing?" He thought a moment. "You know, that painting had balls."
"Well said, boss." Brady's tone was wry but his eyes weren't.
Quill said, "Thank you," conscious of being demure.
"And you and your sister ran that Inn."
"Yes. For eight years."
"And you're sorry you sold it?"
"I am."
"Meanin' your sister ain't."
"Practically everyone ain't sorry, Royal. The guy I'm planning to marry isn't. Meg isn't. Doreen isn't. John Raintree, our business manager, wasn't. Just me. They all loved it, but they all wanted to leave it. And I'm finding out it was because of me."
"You think you can ran that little old Inn by yourself?"
"No."
Royal turned away. "Well," he said to the windshield. "Looks like you got a few options, not many. One is, forget it. Two is, you find some other partners. What about finding some other partners?"
"I don't want other partners. I just want things the way they used to be."
"Huh. So, what's stoppin' you?" He tugged at his hat. Quill wondered if he ever took off his hat. "I'm askin' for real now."