Whitehorse.

by Katherine Sutcliffe.

ONE.

"d.a.m.n cows. d.a.m.n Manord Krups for owning owning cows. Why couldn't he breed dogs or cats, or budgies for that matter? cows. Why couldn't he breed dogs or cats, or budgies for that matter? Anything Anything that doesn't require a large-animal vet. When is the last time you saw a small-animal vet make a house call for a budgie? I must have been out of my mind to think this is what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I could be asleep right now in a warm bed, dreaming of pouring coffee for some s.e.xist b.a.s.t.a.r.d who thinks copy toner smells like Chanel. Instead, I'm up to my b.u.t.t in mud, covered in blood, and with a temperature of one hundred and two." that doesn't require a large-animal vet. When is the last time you saw a small-animal vet make a house call for a budgie? I must have been out of my mind to think this is what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I could be asleep right now in a warm bed, dreaming of pouring coffee for some s.e.xist b.a.s.t.a.r.d who thinks copy toner smells like Chanel. Instead, I'm up to my b.u.t.t in mud, covered in blood, and with a temperature of one hundred and two."

The cell phone crackled with static. Leah Starr, D.V.M., shook it angrily before screaming into the receiver again. "h.e.l.lo? Can you hear me? Speak up, Shamika. I'm losing you."

"I said, you have a message from Roy Moon at Whitehorse Farm ... a colicky horse or something."

"Do you know what time it is? It's after midnight-"

"Sorry. I guess the horse forgot to check the clock before getting his gut in a twist."

"Tell them to call Dean Crabbet. I've had enough for tonight. Crabbet is a perfectly reliable vet-"

"Come on, Leah, you knew it was inevitable that they would eventually call. Why shouldn't they, for Pete's sake? You live in their backyard. You lease this farm from them-"

"Forget it!" She punched the End b.u.t.ton, cutting off the call, and threw the cell phone onto the truck seat, which was cluttered with a stethoscope, syringes, and shoulder-length rubber gloves. She refused to look at the b.l.o.o.d.y fetotome on the floorboard. The nausea in her stomach was enough reminder of the fetotomy she had been forced to perform on one of Manord Krups's prized Holsteins. Cutting up a calf in utero that refused to be born was not something she cared to dwell on at the moment. Not when the worst storm to hit Ruidoso, New Mexico, in fifty years was bombarding her truck with with hailstones the size of golf b.a.l.l.s, turning the already pitiful back road into an ice-skating rink. This was all El Nino's fault. hailstones the size of golf b.a.l.l.s, turning the already pitiful back road into an ice-skating rink. This was all El Nino's fault. Again. Again. This was late May, for G.o.d's sake. She should be basking in sunshine and complaining about the heat by now. This was late May, for G.o.d's sake. She should be basking in sunshine and complaining about the heat by now.

G.o.d, her throat hurt. She felt as if someone had doused her in kerosene and set her on fire. The fact that she was soaked to the bone wasn't going to help matters one little bit. Neither was the fact that the truck heater was on the blink for the third time this year and there was no longer money in the budget to get it fixed-again. Judging by the way she had begun to shake, she suspected her temperature had just climbed another notch. Thank heavens for Shamika. She would have a honey-laced cup of hot tea waiting for Leah, a warmed blanket to wrap around her shoulders, and a friendly and tolerant ear to listen to Leah's ranting about the pitfalls of being the only woman vet in the area.

Reaching over the steering wheel, Leah scrubbed the condensation from the inside of the windshield and squinted to see through the downpour. With only one good headlight that barely illuminated the way, the dark road might have been an abyss straight to h.e.l.l. Why she had chosen this route was beyond her-must have been the fever. FM Road 67 was perilous in the best of weather. It twisted and turned like a sidewinder-it had virtually no shoulders and flooded when the skies so much as spit rain. Even now water sucked at her hubcaps. Any deeper and she would stall for certain, and then what? She imagined rescue workers discovering her emaciated, fever-ravaged body somewhere down the river. Good d.a.m.n deal. At least she would get a decent night's rest for the first time since she'd set foot in the veterinary college at Texas A&M University six years ago.

The hail turned to rain as her headlight reflected off the stop sign at the junction of Highways 249 and 67. Leah took a deep breath and mopped her brow with her shirt sleeve. Almost home. Another fifteen, twenty minutes max and she would climb into a steaming tub of water and then bed. She would not so much as stick her head out of the covers for three days. She might even down a few sedatives to a.s.sure that she slept undisturbed. Not wise, certainly, but occasionally necessary when the world became more than she could tolerate. Trouble was, the world was becoming much too intolerable of late.

It would be smooth sailing from here. The road was good. No danger of flooding. She checked the truck clock. It showed ten-ten. "Liar," she said, and thumped the plastic cover over the clock with her finger, as if the action would miraculously remedy the clock's problem.

Pumping the brakes, Leah eased the truck to a stop where FM 67 teed into Highway 249. The light from her headlamp illuminated the hodgepodge of billboards directly ahead. Visit Ruidoso, Land of the Mescalero Apache! Ski the slopes at Sierra Blanca. Relax at the Inn of the Mountain G.o.ds.

Whitehorse Farm. Two miles south on Highway 249.

The truck idled and the window fogged over as Leah focused on the sign pointing toward Whitehorse Farm.

"Forget it," she said. "I won't do it. The last thing I need right now is to deal with a colicky horse-among other things." She slammed her fist against the steering wheel and listened to the rain drum harder on the car roof. Left would take her south, to the imposing entrance of Whitehorse Farm. Right meant home. A hot bath. Hot tea. Warm blankets. And sleep. Oh G.o.d, for a mere hour's worth of uninterrupted sleep...

She turned left.

The rain drove in spears and the truck shuddered under the impact of the winds. Tree branches somersaulted across the road. Lightning zigzagged across the sky, briefly outlining the mountains in the distance. Visibility dwindled, forcing Leah to slow the truck to a crawl, to lean partially over the steering wheel to search out the yellow no-pa.s.sing lines dividing the narrow highway. Her hands began to sweat, as did her scalp.

She reached for the volume control on the radio-ca.s.sette player, regretting her action even as the first melodious strains drowned out the rhythmic thump of the wipers and the drone of the rain. Tonight of all all nights was nights was not not the night for memories. Her obsession with old Neil Diamond tunes and all the history each song stirred up in her mind, not to mention her heart, was just short of m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic. the night for memories. Her obsession with old Neil Diamond tunes and all the history each song stirred up in her mind, not to mention her heart, was just short of m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic.

Taking a deep breath, Leah relaxed back against the truck seat and did her best to hum along with the tune, despite the rawness of her throat and the sleep that was beginning to tug at her eyelids.

At first there was nothing before her but road and rain. Then the horse leaped out of the dark and into the small halo of light from her headlamp, its hooves skidding on the asphalt and its terrified eyes reflecting the white beam like mirrors.

Leah slammed on the brakes and wrenched the wheel to the right. The impact and subsequent spin threw her against the door. The world whirred by in slow motion as the truck slid sideways, b.u.mped over the narrow shoulder, then bounced down the embankment before coming to a sudden stop, all four wheels bogged up to their axles in mud.

Someplace in the foggy and confused blankness of her mind, Neil Diamond continued to croon about love, loss, and loneliness amid the pounding rain and thunder.

Leah opened her eyes and stared through the cracked windshield at the stream of light from her headlamp pooling on the black surface of the water-filled ditch. Odd that the only thought to rouse in that moment was the realization that she had not eaten in twenty-four hours.

From the corner of her eye she saw a movement. Carefully lifting her head, she peered through the driver's window, which was criss-crossed with tiny cracks like mullioned gla.s.s. A face materialized that was somehow familiar, with black eyes and a wide, masculine brow shielded from the rain by the limp brim of an old cowboy hat.

"Don't move," the face said.

The man grabbed the door handle and wrenched open the door, leaned over Leah, and popped the seatbelt loose. His shirt was soaked and rain streamed from his hat, down the front of her sweater.

"Dr. Starr?" he asked with the slightest hint of Native American accent, gently touching her face. "Are you all right?"

"What happened?" she finally managed.

"The horse-"

"Oh G.o.d. I hit it, didn't I?" She shoved the man back and slid from the truck. Her legs buckled. She grabbed the truck door, vaguely aware that she was bogged to her ankles in mud and the rain was fast drenching her hair and clothes. The cold and wet slammed her back to reality as she looked up into Roy Moon's concerned eyes. "Is it dead?"

He shook his head and his jaw clenched. She had seen that look a hundred times in men's faces when they were too d.a.m.ned macho to allow their emotions to show over an animal. "Where is it?" she shouted through the rain.

Roy pointed to the opposite side of the road where a group of men had collected, some with flashlights trained on the ground. She struggled up the embankment, ran toward the gathering, and elbowed the silent onlookers aside. With rain pounding her head and shoulders, she looked down on the injured horse-a gray Arabian mare on her side, lips drawn back in shock, her breath rising in steamy spurts from her contracted nostrils. No matter how many times she had witnessed a downed horse the last years, she still could not get over the sick feeling the sight gave her. But this was worse than she had first imagined. By the looks of the mare she was very much in foal.

"I think her leg is broke," someone said.

Dropping to her knees, Leah checked the mare's pulse and respiration, talking softly, comfortingly as the horse raised her head and made a sound like a groan in her throat.

"Mr. Whitehorse ain't gonna like this," a man said.

Roy bent down beside Leah. "She was colicky. Ramon was walking her until you arrived. She spooked at the thunder and bolted. Went right through the fence before we could stop her."

Leah noted the cuts and abrasions on the mare's chest and forelegs-nothing that could not be remedied with a few st.i.tches. Blood was nominal. Scarring would be minimal.

"She's in foal," Roy said, his brown face distorting in despair. "This one was going to be special."

"When is she due?"

"Any time."

Leah sat down in the mud, legs crossed, elbows on her knees. She watched steam rise from the mare's trembling body and did her best to think. "We'll need to address the shock first. Then the leg. There are IVs in the back of my truck. We'll get her stabilized, then try to get her to my lab."

"Are you sure you're all right, Doc?" Roy asked. "You're shakin' awful bad."

Was she?

Blinking rain from her eyes, Leah stared down at her hands, which were trembling badly-too badly to attempt inserting a needle into the mare's vein.

A dually truck approached, its diesel engine roaring more loudly than the rain. It pulled off the road and onto the shoulder, its headlights blinding Leah so she was forced to shield her eyes with her hand.

"Here comes trouble," someone whispered.

"I'm outta here," said another.

The truck door opened.

Johnny Whitehorse stepped out, his long legs clad in tight denim. He wore a fringed buckskin jacket and a sweat-stained cowboy hat. He had allowed his black hair to grow long again-Leah remembered the first time he'd cut it those years ago, thinking he would better blend in with the white boys on the football team. The idea seemed as ridiculous now as it had then. A Mescalero Apache standing six foot three at sixteen years old, Johnny Whitehorse had stood as much chance of blending in with the Anglo crowd of Ruidoso High as the Trump Tower would if it were set smack in the middle of the Mescalero reservation.

Roy put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it rea.s.suringly. "You sure you're up to this?" he asked softly.

"It was going to happen eventually," she snapped more curtly than she intended, then shakily smiled her apology. "Will you help me up? I'm not certain my legs will hold me."

Roy offered his hand. She clung to it almost desperately as she attempted to stand, telling herself that her reasons for this ridiculous light-headedness had more to do with her near-disaster, not to mention her exhaustion, than it did with the fact that after twelve years she was about to come face to face with the only man she had ever really loved-and here she stood in the mud after running down one of his prized mares. Knowing Johnny's reputation for confrontation, she suspected this wasn't going to be pleasant.

Adjusting his hat over his brow, Johnny stepped down the embankment with the same ease of movement that had fascinated her those years ago. He walked to the horse, regarding the mare a silent moment before raising his gaze to Leah.

She held her breath.

Johnny's eyes narrowed. One corner of his mouth turned under ever so slightly as he regarded her up and down.

Roy cleared his throat. "You remember Doc Starr, Johnny. Used to be Leah Foster."

"I know who the h.e.l.l she is," Johnny drawled, looking back at the horse. "Can she be saved?" he asked in a monotone.

Leah opened and closed her mouth as her mind scattered over a thousand things she thought he might might have said in that moment: Gee, long time no see; I've thought of you often; Glad you've come back to Ruidoso. Then again, Johnny had never been one to show have said in that moment: Gee, long time no see; I've thought of you often; Glad you've come back to Ruidoso. Then again, Johnny had never been one to show any any feeling other than anger. Her face burned and she was forced to remind herself that it was the fever making her feel as if she were flushed with heat. Not the fact that his brazen snub had in any way embarra.s.sed her. feeling other than anger. Her face burned and she was forced to remind herself that it was the fever making her feel as if she were flushed with heat. Not the fact that his brazen snub had in any way embarra.s.sed her.

"I don't know," she finally replied in a tone as emotionally removed as his. "I'll need to examine her more closely for broken bones. The fact that she's in foal doesn't help. Ultimately you may have a choice to make. Her or the foal."

Looking at her again from beneath the brim of his hat, he said, "My choices have always left a lot to be desired."

Leah turned away. She struggled up the embankment and headed for her truck. "Self righteous, egotistical b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she muttered. "You haven't changed a bit."

Leah stepped into her kitchen at a quarter after five. The room was warm and dim and smelled of the chili Shamika had cooked for supper.

Shamika sat at the kitchen table, arms crossed over her stomach, head slightly tilted to one side as she regarded Leah through the shadows, her full brown lips pressed in agitation, her foot tapping the floor. "Lord, girl, look at you," she said. "You're a mess and dead on your feet."

Leaning back against the door, Leah covered her face with her hands. "I ran over one of Johnny's prized mares."

"I can think of better ways of getting reacquainted."

Leah feigned a smile. "I'm in no mood for anything remotely resembling humor, especially where Johnny Whitehorse is concerned."

"Did you kill her?"

"That remains to be seen. Fortunately, nothing was broken. A miracle in itself. There was a great deal of muscle injury. Could eventually lead to fibrotic myopathy. She's in foal and due at any time. If we can get her through the delivery I'd say she'll make it."

"Yes, but will you? Aside from looking like a drowned mouse, your forehead looks as if someone clubbed you with a bat."

She shrugged and cautiously touched the lump above her left eyebrow. It was going to hurt like h.e.l.l later. "Tell me again why I do this, Shamika. I could have been a doctor, you know. I could have sat in my sterile office with my degrees plastered over the wall while people grew roots waiting for their appointments. My father would have approved. We might even be friends."

"It would take a whole lot more than your being an M.D. for you and Senator Foster to be friends." Shamika stood and walked to the stove, where a kettle simmered on a burner. She poured hot water into a cup of powdered chocolate and tiny dry marshmallows that looked like pebbles. She stirred it until it was frothy, then carried it to the table and pointed to a chair. "Sit, girl, and drink. I'll get you a dry sweater before you catch pneumonia-if you haven't already."

Leah waited until Shamika left the room before removing her muddy boots, then she dragged off her soggy jacket, and leaving it all in a heap by the door, moved to the table. She wrapped her hands around the cup as she sank into the chair and allowed the steam to p.r.i.c.kle her cheeks and eyelids, and she thought of Johnny Whitehorse.

Nope, he had not changed a bit. Not since the first time she'd ever set eyes on him-back when his father trained her family's horses. Even then Johnny thumbed his nose at propriety. Shirtless, in fringed buckskin breeches, his black hair in braids, he rode her father's horses bareback around the ranch, and occasionally down Ruidoso's main street, flaunting his Mescalero heritage with an arrogance that belied his poverty. He had carved out a reputation for himself as a rebel, not only with the whites who looked on his antics as an insult and a threat, but also with those of his tribe who considered his actions an open invitation to further trouble with the white man. Had his grandfather not been the tribe's most revered medicine man, things might have gotten ugly.

Shamika returned and wrapped a sweater around Leah's shoulders. With her hands that were as rich brown as the chocolate Leah drank, Shamika ma.s.saged the back of Leah's neck, along the tops of her shoulders, and down her spine. Each touch was a glorious agony, and within minutes the tightness that would inevitably leave her feeling as if she had been pummeled by rocks had melted under her friend's adept touch.

"You're burning with fever," Shamika said. "You better get to bed."

"Roy's keeping an eye on the mare for the next few hours. You'll need to wake me by eight."

"Sure. Now get to bed. I'll make you some TheraFlu. That'll help the aches and pains long enough for you to get some sleep." Shamika tapped on her shoulder and said, "Go."

Leah finished off the chocolate and moved toward the door. Looking back, she watched Shamika turn up the burner under the kettle, then reach into the medicine cupboard for the box of flu medicine. "What would I ever do without you?" she asked, and Shamika shrugged.

"You got me," she replied.

"I mean it," Leah said. "If it wasn't for you I would probably be forced to beg help from my father-"

"Leah Starr don't beg help from n.o.body, hon. You'd find a way. You always do. You're the strongest woman I've ever known."

"Strong? I thought the word was stubborn." stubborn."

"That too."

"I'm not feeling too strong or or stubborn right now." stubborn right now."

"'Cause you're sick and tired. After a good night's sleep you'll feel different."

"Everything will be the same when I wake up. I'm just on the verge of bankruptcy. I'm two months behind on my rent, not to mention your salary. The ranchers around here think a woman can't possibly have brains enough to be a vet. My truck is bogged up to its axles in mud, and ... I'm whining. G.o.d, I hate whiners."

"Everyone's got the right to feel a little sorry for themselves now and then, especially at five-thirty in the morning. Go to bed, Dr. Starr."

"Right. Bed."

She moved down the short hallway to the closed bedroom door. Gently, she turned the k.n.o.b and allowed the door to creak open just enough that she could see the sleeping form on the railed bed. Her gaze traveled the room, which was lit by a night-light: a plastic clown with a beam of light shining through its open smiling mouth. In the far corner sat the shadowed hulk of a child's wheelchair. From the ceiling hung a crystal wind chime that would reflect the morning sun into a hundred splashes of light on the wall by the boy's head.