Leah crossed her legs and smiled.

His gaze took a slow trip up and down her person. "So how's your daddy? I ain't seen him since, oh, last Fourth of July."

"That makes two of us," she said.

"Stays busy, does he?"

"Very."

"Been a lot of controversy lately about his dealin's with the gambling issue and Formation Media."

"Such is life for politicians, I guess."

"I thought of runnin' for office once. Major brain fart." He laughed and scratched his beer belly. "One thing I ain't is stupid. Besides that, I got too d.a.m.n many skeletons in the closet. Know what I mean?"

She nodded and shifted the briefcase on her lap.

"I don't get it. These dudes in office go around breakin' the law, screwin' interns, et cetera and think they ain't gonna get caught? Major brain fart. h.e.l.l, the G.o.dd.a.m.n press is like a buncha vultures circlin'. If you show a smidgen of weakness they'll swoop down on you and pick your bones clean as toothpicks before you can squawk ouch."

"Silly, isn't it?"

Hunnicutt sat forward, elbows on the desk, his face losing its almost comical animation as he fixed Leah with an intensity that made hot color creep up her neck. "I suppose you've got resumes and references in that briefcase, Dr. Starr. That's all well and good. But I've been in this business a long time, and I'm here to tell you that all the resumes and references in the world won't stop a dirty doctor from shootin' up a horse if the price is right, or puttin' an animal down if a portion of insurance money is dangled like the proverbial carrot in front of his nose."

"I suppose that depends on whether the doctor is in this business for the money, or for the love of the animal, Mr. Hunnicutt."

"Doctors have bills to pay just like everybody else, especially when they're strugglin' to get started."

"If you believe I'm dirty, Mr. Hunnicutt, why did you ask me here?"

"I don't believe anything of the sort. I'm just offerin' you fair warnin'. I don't tolerate shenanigans on my track. We run a clean operation here. If I ever got wind that some a.s.shole owner or trainer has got a vet of mine under his thumb I'd stop at nothing to see his or her license jerked, not just in this state, but in this entire friggin' country."

The phone rang. Hunnicutt grabbed it. A woman's voice buzzed in the silence as he nodded and grunted in response, his sharp gray eyes still focused on Leah. Then he hung up without so much as a goodbye, sat back in his chair and absently adjusted the tie cutting into his fleshy throat. "Tell me somethin', Doc. You married?"

"Divorced."

"How long?"

"Four years."

"Do you like men?"

Leah frowned, then nodded, not certain about his meaning.

"Do you cry easily?"

"That's a very s.e.xist remark, Mr. Hunnicutt. Would you ask that if I were a man?"

He grinned. "Let me rephrase the question. Are you easily hurt or offended by rough language directed at you by an irate trainer or owner? 'Cause sure as you and I are sittin' here right now, there's gonna be some d.i.c.k-head who is gonna get in your face because he doesn't like the way his million-dollar baby is recoupin' from the sniffles."

"I would expect any caring owner or trainer to question me if his horse isn't responding adequately to treatment."

"What will you do when some good old boy pinches you on the a.s.s? Or calls you Doc t.i.ts? Or worse. 'Cause I'm here to tell you right now, most men out there think a woman is good for two things. Exercisin' or jockeyin' a horse, or spreadin' her legs so he can jockey her. If you ain't got a hide like an armadillo you won't last a month."

"If I could make it through vet school, Mr. Hunnicutt, I can make it through just about anything."

"Right. You up to a little tete-a-tete with the folks who'll ultimately decide whether we hire you or not?"

Leah uncrossed her legs and sat forward. "I was under the impression that you-"

"This track is run by a board of trustees, of which I am a member. You have to pa.s.s muster with every one of them before we can put you on the payroll."

"They vote?"

"Yep." He chuckled. "Don't look so puny. They pretty much rely on my opinion. For most of them their place on the board is a pastime. They enjoy the horses but do other things to pay the bills. Let's face it, you can count on one hand the number of horse owners out there who can actually make a livin' at this-not since the eighties bust. d.a.m.ned IRS 'bout buried us all. Sooner we bury them the better." Leaving his chair, he moved to the door behind Leah. "Now is as good a time as any to take the plunge, Doc. They're waitin'."

A few nights ago she had watched a special on Dateline Dateline about the last moments of a convict on death row. How, just hours before strapping the accused to a table and inserting a lethal dose of knockout into his arm, prison officials moved the doomed from one wing of the prison to another. The cameras had followed the prisoner down long, stark, sterile corridors, focusing luridly on each pitiful drag of the prisoner's foot, the trembling and shaking of his body as the realization set in that there would be no last-minute reprieve from the inevitable. about the last moments of a convict on death row. How, just hours before strapping the accused to a table and inserting a lethal dose of knockout into his arm, prison officials moved the doomed from one wing of the prison to another. The cameras had followed the prisoner down long, stark, sterile corridors, focusing luridly on each pitiful drag of the prisoner's foot, the trembling and shaking of his body as the realization set in that there would be no last-minute reprieve from the inevitable.

Leah could relate. As she walked in silence at Hunnicutt's side down long corridors of closed office doors and conference rooms, she thought back on the childish excitement she'd felt when getting his call earlier that day. In her mind as she'd dashed to shower and dress, she'd fantasized over the salary, experience, and connections that working at the track would offer. She'd tallied up said salary and imagined how nice it would be to catch up on her delinquent bills. There might even be enough to put aside each month to eventually buy Val the new wheelchair he so desperately needed. Then there were the Botox shots Val's doctor had recently told her about that were proving vastly successful at limbering tight muscles. But eighteen hundred dollars every six weeks would prove to be impossible for her unless she could count on a decent salary.

Yet, as she and Hunnicutt turned down the last corridor and headed toward the open double doors of the Finish Line conference room, she reasoned that she was as likely to win the approval of twelve men as she was to leap over the Grand Canyon in a single bound. Like the foot-dragging convict headed for his deathbed, she saw her future disperse like an ice cube on a hot plate.

Smoke hung over the conference room like gray smog. The long marble-topped table surrounded by conversing men dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts depicting a horse streaking across a finish line was scattered with remnants of lunch: deli meats, squeeze bottles of mustard and ketchup, empty tea gla.s.ses, and discarded napkins. As Hunnicutt introduced Leah, each man stood and offered his hand, smiled broadly, and welcomed her to their "monthly excuse to cut out of the office early." They offered her iced tea, which she gladly accepted. Her throat felt dry as the track she could see through the window.

It did not take long for Leah to relax. Greg Hunnicutt supplied the men with pertinent information regarding her background. The fact that she had graduated from Texas A&M veterinary school brought impressed nods. They spoke in future tense. Vetting at their track would be a tough but satisfying experience for her. She would learn a great deal-sharpen her skills. She would meet some great people. Make lifelong friends. They had great New Year's Eve parties as well, and by the way, the vets were allowed to keep all tips, which could prove to be substantial if the owners and trainers were particularly pleased by her work. Occasionally, Hunnicutt glanced her way and winked, as if to say, No problem. You're in like Flynn.

Giddiness once again settled in the pit of her stomach, infusing her imagination with visions of a nicely padded bank account. Tonight she would take Shamika and Val out to dinner. They would celebrate with a bottle of cheap champagne. She would present Shamika with a money draft for two months' salary with the understanding that she wasn't to deposit it until Leah received her first week's paycheck.

"...Of course we can't affirm the position until you've been approved by all of us. And considering we're one short today, you might have to meet with our missing member one on one."

She counted heads. Eleven. d.a.m.n.

Greg checked his watch. "He should've been here by now. Normally he's on time."

"Such is the life of the rich and famous," someone said, and everyone chuckled.

Johnny Whitehorse walked into the room in that moment. The gathering welcomed him boisterously. "h.e.l.lo!"

"What time do you call this, buddy? We were about to give up on you."

Leah sank in her chair and closed her eyes.

Johnny moved to the chair at the opposite end of the table. "Sorry 'bout that. My flight was late leaving Boulder."

"You been hara.s.sing the government again, Whitehorse?" someone asked.

He grinned, his only response.

Forcing open her eyes, Leah managed to take a deep breath before looking at Johnny directly. His dark eyes were emotionless as he regarded her, as were his features.

"This is Doctor Starr, Johnny," said Greg. "We're considering her to fill one of the positions-"

"I know who she is," Johnny interrupted. "Senator Foster's daughter."

Silence filled up the room.

Leah gave Johnny a flat smile. "Yes. I am. But I won't hold that against you, Mr. Whitehorse. Everyone is ent.i.tled to his own opinion of a politician-stupid or not. This is a free country, as I recall."

He relaxed against the back of his chair, his lips taking on a smug curl. "What makes you think you're cut out to be a track vet, Doctor Starr?"

"I'm good and I'm bright. I care about horses."

"Ah, but do you care about people, Doctor?"

"Meaning?"

"This is an emotional business. Dreams get crushed. Lives ruined. Do you ever stop to think how your decision can radically alter someone's life?"

Her cheeks began to burn and her throat grew tight. The men lining the table stared down at their food-littered plates and mustard-stained napkins as Leah tried her best to control the surge of emotion rolling over in her chest. Johnny was goading her. He wanted to break her. He might as well have reached across the table and smashed her like a bug with his fist.

"Do you understand exactly what would be expected of you should you get this position?" he asked, his voice sounding as if it were echoing from a well. "You would be on call twenty-four hours a day during the meets. You would be expected to work on weekends. On holidays. Your day begins at six in the morning and doesn't end until midnight, or later. I understand that you're divorced. Have you obligations that would get in the way of your duties?"

"I'm more than capable of making certain that any obligations I have are met to my satisfaction."

His eyes narrowed. "Do you have children, Doctor Starr?"

She opened and closed her mouth, then nodded. "A boy."

He looked down briefly, saying nothing, obviously considering his next words. "Would you care to tell us about him?" he invited her in soft monotone.

"He's ... seven." Leah took a deep breath, glancing the men's pleasant, interested expressions before centering back on Johnny. His eyes looked dark as polished onyx. And his lips ... oh, G.o.d. "His name is ... Val. Short for Valentino."

Valentino. Once he had laughed at the suggestion, as they lay naked under the summer night sky, young arms and legs entangled, their hunger for one another sated, momentarily, planning their future together, the children they would make together. All boys. She would name their first son Valentino because she had always had a pa.s.sion for old Rudolph Valentino movies. So it had been decided that night that they would name their first son Valentino. Once he had laughed at the suggestion, as they lay naked under the summer night sky, young arms and legs entangled, their hunger for one another sated, momentarily, planning their future together, the children they would make together. All boys. She would name their first son Valentino because she had always had a pa.s.sion for old Rudolph Valentino movies. So it had been decided that night that they would name their first son Valentino.

Seven years ago, as she pressed her face against the plastic incubator and gazed down on her son, she'd thought about Johnny, and about that night they'd looked at the stars and planned their future together-of the children they would share. So she'd named her son Valentino, in memory of the love she had let get away. In memory of the heart she had broken. In memory of Johnny Whitehorse.

A man in wire-rimmed gla.s.ses smiled at Leah. "Have you adequate child care for him?"

She returned his smile. "I have live-in help."

Silence. An eternal moment pa.s.sed before Leah raised her gaze back to Johnny's.

How could you? his eyes asked. his eyes asked.

I'm sorry. So sorry.

Greg pushed his chair back. "I think we've covered all the essentials. I've got your resume and references. I'll see that each of the gentlemen here get a copy before they leave today." He offered his hand to Leah. She took it and stood, smiled her thanks to everyone at the table except Johnny, then turned for the door. Greg walked with her into the hall. "We'll vote next Monday. I'll give you a call that evening or first thing Tuesday morning." He patted her shoulder. "Johnny is a good man. Intelligent, despite his flamboyant and sometimes controversial reputation. I doubt his feelings for your father would influence his judgment of you."

She laughed and looked away, wondering if she should inform Greg that Johnny's opinion of her father would have little to do with his voting down her appointment-but because she had broken his heart twelve years ago and he had every right to despise her, which he obviously did. Her tantrum yesterday would not help matters.

She offered her hand and gave Greg as bright a smile as she could manage. "I'll look forward to your call, Mr. Hunnicutt. And thanks for your support."

He returned to the conference room, closing the door in her face.

FIVE.

The emergency call came at just after midnight from Ramona Skunk Cap. At the Mescalero reservation a herd of her goats, spooked by a coyote or wolf, had stampeded through a barbed-wire fence, snapping the nasty strands so they coiled like a hungry constrictor around the terrified animals. Dr. Starr should come quick before the animals bled to death.

Leah made herself a cup of strong instant coffee before climbing into her truck and heading down 249. Earlier she had done a pa.s.sably decent job of shielding the broken window with a square of cardboard, but that did little to stop the wind from whistling in around the masking tape, of sucking at the cardboard so it breathed in and out like some living ent.i.ty.

She popped a ca.s.sette into the player. Diamond's "Beautiful Noise." No memories there. Nothing to stir up the frustration she'd felt earlier in the day when realizing that Johnny Whitehorse held her future, not to mention her livelihood, in the very hands he had once used to drive her mad with desire.

So ... Johnny knew she had a son.

Why had he waited until the interview to question her about it?

Did he know about the CP?

He couldn't know. Few people did, aside from Val's therapists and his teachers at school. There was her father, of course. No way was he going to discuss the issue with anyone-even her.

The truck veered to the right, then the left. The back end fishtailed as if on ice before a loud hum drowned out the trumpets and violins pumping from the stereo speakers. Leah eased the truck to the shoulder of the road and sat with the engine idling before shifting into Park and killing the engine.

Silence. Darkness, but for the streak of dim light from her headlamp that pooled on the bloated carca.s.s of a racc.o.o.n on the road up ahead.

The door creaked and popped as Leah stepped onto the highway. The truck, still covered with crusty mud from two nights before, listed to the left like a sinking boat. The back tire lay in shreds along the asphalt. The wheel appeared bent from her having driven on it G.o.d only knew how long before realizing there was a problem. A new tire would set her back a hundred bucks. A wheel would cost several hundred.

"d.a.m.n it!" She kicked the wheel. Then kicked the fender. She walked around to the back of the truck and kicked the tailgate. Spying a metal rod lying in weeds littered with beer cans and a Burger King drink cup, she picked it up and proceeded to beat the hood, the roof, the already-broken-out headlamp, the door, then the shredded tire and mangled wheel. She beat it until the rod in her hand snapped in two, one end flying back to miss her face by inches.

"I won't cry," she chanted to herself. "Crying won't do me any good. It won't fix my tire. It won't pay for a wheel. It sure as h.e.l.l won't buy me a new truck or get me that job at the track." And it would not turn back the clock eight years ago, to the night she and Richard had rented an X-rated video like two naughty and curious kids and became so turned on while watching it that they had unprotected s.e.x.

As she stood on the shoulder of the road, the stink of the rotting racc.o.o.n beginning to filter through her senses, Leah rocked back and forth, her arms clamped around her waist, her body shivering from the cool mountain air.

Car lights rounded the bend-two pinpoints at first, looking like little round owl eyes reflecting moonlight, growing larger as the vehicle neared. The old Olds 442 roared by, sounding like a freight train. At the last minute the driver hit the brakes and the taillights lit up like red beacons. The car reversed, rumbling like a Caterpillar 'dozer, stones crunching and spitting as it stopped beside her. A man's face peered out at her, his skinny, unshaven features made eerie by the dim green lights from his dashboard.

He grinned, looking like a jack-o'-lantern. "Need some help?"

Leah hugged herself tighter, the image of her cell phone left lying on the kitchen table popping into her brain like a camera bulb. She had laid it down to fix her coffee and forgot to retrieve it before leaving.

Think. It was ten miles back to the house. It was twelve miles to town, and another eight to the reservation where a half-dozen goats were bleeding to death, chewed up by barbed wire. Chances were Ramona Skunk Cap would call the house when Leah did not show up, but Shamika did not normally answer Leah's business phone, not at this hour. business phone, not at this hour.

"Blowout," she finally replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

He grinned again and winked. The car crawled over to the shoulder, headlamps trained on the shredded tire and mangled wheel. The man stepped out, hitching up his too-tight jeans before spitting a stream of tobacco onto the road. Despite the cold, he wore a tank top and a grimy gimme cap that reflected his interest in the World Champion Denver Broncos. Her initial feeling of unease streaked up her back and made her scalp p.r.i.c.kle. She glanced down at the broken rod she still held in one hand, gripped it more tightly and tried to breathe evenly. Once, she had taken a self-defense course-what women should do if they found themselves threatened-but she had always suspected that to be effective in gouging out eyeb.a.l.l.s or cracking t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es with the tip of her boot she would have to be totally in control of her logic. But how did one control logic when fear fogged reasoning beyond comprehension?