A Chance for the Rancher
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Brenda Harlen
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16,1K
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18
Chapter One
Watching for the arrival of the veterinarian, Patrick Stafford exhaled a relieved breath when he finally spotted a vehicle coming down the long driveway. He didn’t recognize either the mud-splattered pickup that parked beside the barn or the woman who exited the vehicle, and the rancher felt a brief twinge of disappointment that his injured horse would have to wait a while longer to be tended. But as a man who appreciated women, his interest was immediately piqued.
She was tall and slender, wearing a sheepskin-lined leather jacket unzipped over a plaid flannel shirt tucked into slim-fitting jeans with a wide brown belt around her waist and well-worn cowboy boots on her feet. Which only meant she was dressed like most of the other women who lived on the ranches that dotted the countryside of Haven, Nevada, and didn’t begin to explain why he found himself so drawn to her.
He continued his perusal anyway: long brown hair that was tied away from her face in a neat braid that fell to the middle of her back. As she drew nearer, he realized that her hair wasn’t actually brown but auburn, and that it shone with hints of bronze and copper in the afternoon sun. Her eyes were the color of dark chocolate and fringed by long lashes. Her mouth was unsmiling but temptingly shaped. And as his gaze lingered on her lips for just a moment, Patrick realized it had been a long time since he’d kissed a woman—or even wanted to.
He pushed the wayward thought aside to focus on his visitor. “Can I help you?”
“Actually, I’m here to help you.” Now her lips curved into a smile and she proffered a hand. “Dr. Langley.”
He shook it automatically, noting the long, slender (and ringless!) fingers, neatly trimmed, unpainted nails and firm grip. “Patrick Stafford,” he replied automatically. Then her words registered, and he frowned. “You’re not Dr. Langley.”
“Well, I don’t carry a copy of my diploma with me, but I can show you my driver’s license,” she offered, shifting the backpack he hadn’t noticed was on her shoulder so that he could now see the patch bearing the letter V superimposed on the staff of Asclepius—the immediately recognizable symbol of her profession.
Apparently she was a vet, but he still felt confident in asserting, “I remember Dr. Langley from his visits to Crooked Creek Ranch when I was a kid, and you’re definitely not him.”
“That would have been my father,” she said. “Dr. Bruce Langley. I’m Dr. Brooke Langley.”
Which made sense, as the other Dr. Langley had been older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a stocky build that promised he was capable of handling the ranch animals that were the foundation of his rural practice.
“Where’s Ranger?” she asked.
“I might not have been clear when I called,” he said now. “But Ranger is a twelve-hundred-pound stallion and rather ornery right now.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” she assured him. “It’s also not the first time I’ve been out here to tend to one of Gus Sterling’s animals.”
“They aren’t his animals anymore,” he pointed out. “They’re mine.”
“Right now, I’m more interested in Ranger’s injury than in who’s paying the bill, but if you want to wait for my father—who’s currently tied up out at Whispering Pines helping to birth a breech foal—that’s entirely up to you.”
Her response didn’t eliminate all his doubts, but he decided that if Gus had trusted her with his horses then Patrick could, too. He slid open the barn door and gestured for her to enter.
The heels of her boots clicked on concrete as she made her way down the center aisle to the stallion’s stall, but it was the subtle sway of her hips and sweet curve of her derriere that held Patrick’s attention. And though he regretted the circumstances that had required him to contact the veterinarian office, he wasn’t sorry that Dr. Brooke Langley had answered his call.
Haven wasn’t so small that everyone knew everyone else, but there were usually only two or three degrees of separation between one person and the next. As he’d already mentioned to Brooke, he remembered her father from his visits to Crooked Creek Ranch, but he had no memory of her. And though she must have attended the same high school he did—because there was only one in Haven—he drew a blank there, too.
But Ranger seemed to know her, and Patrick was reassured by the animal’s acknowledgment of her presence. The stallion’s long nose appeared over the door of his enclosure as she approached and actually seemed to nod, as if in greeting.
Brooke lifted a hand to rub the horse’s cheek, and Ranger whinnied softly.
Patrick stood back, both mesmerized by the wordless interaction and a little terrified for the woman who boldly opened the gate and stepped inside the stall. He’d guess that she was about five feet eight inches tall, but next to the horse, she looked small.
And breakable.
Of course, anyone who’d spent any amount of time around horses had to respect the powerful strength of an animal whose muscular legs and flashing hooves could do serious damage, even inadvertently. But Brooke didn’t hesitate to enter the enclosure, and Ranger didn’t shy away from her presence. And somehow, her quiet confidence only added to her allure.
“How are you doing, Ranger?”
Her tone was quiet, soothing, but the hands stroking the animal were steady and sure. Everything she said and did seemed to reassure the animal that she was in charge. Her quiet murmuring trailed off when she crouched down far enough to examine the wound. After a moment’s hesitation, she resumed her monologue and continued her study.
When she rose up again and turned to Patrick, her voice was as hard as her gaze. “He’s cut all the way through the coronary band. How did this happen?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I put the horses out in the paddock this morning but somehow Ranger got out and—”
“Somehow?” she interjected.
“I thought I latched the gate, but when I went back to check on the horses, it was swinging free.”
“Is Ranger the only one who got out?”
“No, but he’s the only one who got hurt.”
“I’m going to need more light,” she said, reaching over the door for Ranger’s halter and lead rope.
It was a testament to Ranger’s training—and reassuring to Patrick—that the animal didn’t balk in any way as she secured the halter and led him to the cross-tie area, where textured rubber mats provided stable footing for both the animal and the vet, and additional lighting illuminated the area even in the dark of night.
He watched as she opened her pack and began rifling through the contents. “He was favoring his right foreleg when I found him.”
“No wonder.” She unwrapped a syringe, slid the point of the needle into the vial and measured out the medication.
“This is a tetanus antitoxin,” she told Patrick. “He’s also going to need a shot of penicillin to combat any infection. Then I’m going to flush the wound and pack it with ichthammol ointment.”
“What can I do?” he asked, feeling responsible and guilty and wanting to help.
“You know how to make coffee?” she asked.
He almost breathed a sigh of relief that she’d assigned him a task he could handle. He nodded. “What do you take in it?”
“Black is fine.”
“Coming right up,” he promised.
While Patrick was gone, Brooke took her time tending to Ranger’s injury. She knew the stallion had to be in pain, but at least he seemed to understand that she was there to help. Though initially agitated and skittish—as any wounded creature would be—he stoically endured her ministrations.
In her experience, most animals tolerated necessary treatment if they were given an opportunity to understand that the hands poking and prodding wanted to heal. Sure, she’d endured occasional kicks and nips—and once even a nasty headbutt from a nanny goat that resulted in a concussion—but the veterinarian-patient relationship was generally one of mutual respect and understanding. And if she was ever in doubt, she sedated the animal in the interest of their mutual safety.
She wasn’t worried about Ranger. Though pain could make any man or beast unpredictable, he was a gentle soul. She suspected he was also confused by the change in his circumstances, as evidenced by the departure of the ranch’s former owner and the arrival of Patrick Stafford in his stead, and her heart went out to the animal.
“I can’t believe Gus left you behind,” she lamented aloud. “But maybe there aren’t a lot of places to stable a horse in a retirement community in Arizona. And a horse born and bred in Nevada probably wouldn’t like Arizona much, anyway.”
She’d heard rumors about the old rancher selling, but it was only when she’d turned into the gravel drive and saw the freshly painted barn bearing the new logo of Silver Star Ranch that she realized they were true. A couple of rough years had resulted in the Sterling Ranch teetering on the edge of bankruptcy and one more would have pushed it over, so she could hardly blame Gus for looking for a way out.
But she did blame him for selling to Patrick Stafford—and she definitely blamed the new owner for the horse’s nasty injury. The man obviously knew nothing about ranching and even less about caring for the animals that had apparently been entrusted to him as part of the deal.
A deal that would turn the failing ranch into a tourist attraction.
A dude ranch, for Christ’s sake.
As if she needed any more proof that Patrick Stafford was just a bored rich guy playing at being a cowboy and opening his doors to other bored rich guys who wanted to do the same thing.
It was only too bad he didn’t appear to have the soft, pale body of a man who’d spent his life behind a desk and under artificial light. Instead, he was tall with broad shoulders and lean hips, looking very much like the rancher he was pretending to be.
And if the checkered shirt with the polo pony embroidered on the chest pocket and distressed designer-label jeans detracted a little from the authenticity of the cowboy image, he was handsome enough to compensate, with sun-bleached sandy-brown hair, tanned skin, surprisingly green eyes, a straight nose, thin lips and a strong jaw shadowed with stubble. But aside from his hard body and striking good looks, he possessed an aura of confidence that added to his overall appeal.
Of course, Patrick Stafford had probably been born with swagger. Certainly he’d had it even in high school. Though she hadn’t known him back then, she’d known who he was, because his mother was a Blake and the Blakes were the wealthiest family in Haven, Nevada. And Blake Mining was the town’s single biggest employer—which made her wonder why he’d chosen to leave the family business to embark on this new venture. Not that she was going to ask. After all, his rationale had nothing to do with her reason for being at his ranch.
And though Brooke wasn’t ordinarily the type of woman who got all tongue-tied or weak-kneed in the presence of a handsome man, she’d definitely felt a quiver of something low in her belly when Patrick looked at her. It had been a long time since she’d experienced such an immediate attraction to a man—eight years, in fact—and she was unnerved by her response to this man now. Thankfully, she was a lot older and wiser than she’d been eight years earlier, and she had a much better understanding of what was at stake.
So she pushed her personal observations of the rancher aside to focus on her task. When she was done, Ranger gently bumped her shoulder with his nose, as if to say thank you.
She rubbed her palm over his cheek. “You’re very welcome. But try to remember—as tempting as unlatched gates might be, it’s not safe to wander off on your own.”
He blew out a breath, as if to sigh, and she smiled.
“Do you always talk to your patients?” Patrick asked curiously.
Brooke hadn’t heard him return and started now at the sound of his voice, but she responded to the question without missing a beat.
“Always,” she confirmed. “I mean, I’m no Doctor Dolittle, but I believe the animals understand my tone and intent if not the actual words.”
“Ranger certainly seems to,” he acknowledged. Then, offering the mug he carried, he added, “Your coffee.”
“Oh, um, thanks.”
She took the mug and lifted it to her lips. It was strong and hot, just the way she liked it, though she hadn’t wanted the drink so much as she’d wanted him not hovering while she tended to the injured horse.
“I was wondering about something you said earlier,” he commented now.
“I said a lot of things—and held a lot more back,” she admitted.
He smiled, and damn if that smile didn’t do funny things to her insides.
Older and wiser, she reminded herself.
And with so much more to lose.
“You said that you were more interested in Ranger than the man paying the bill,” he said, as if to prod her memory.
“You’re still going to get a bill,” she promised.
“I would expect so,” he said. “But are you at least a little bit interested?”
She frowned as she took another sip of coffee. “What?”
“Being ‘more interested’ in Ranger suggests you’re still interested in me. Doesn’t it?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m definitely interested in being paid,” she told him. “But Larissa—the clinic manager—will send you the bill.”
“You’re sidestepping my question,” he noted.
“Actually, I’m waiting for you to stop talking so I can give you instructions for Ranger’s follow-up care.”
He inclined his head, a silent invitation to her to continue.
“His dressing will need to be changed daily until the wound is healed,” she told him. “Do you have any ichthammol ointment?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“I’ll leave some and add it to the bill,” she decided.
“What about changing the dressing? Will you come back to do that?” he asked.
She shook her head. “That shouldn’t be necessary.”
“Let me rephrase,” he said. “Can you please come back to do that?”
She was surprised by the request. “Do you have any idea what it will cost to have me come back out here to change a bandage?”
“I don’t care what it costs,” he told her.
Of course he didn’t.
And because he didn’t, she shrugged. “In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” His quick smile conveyed relief and gratitude. “And how about tonight?”
“He’ll be fine tonight,” she assured him.
“I wasn’t asking for Ranger,” he said. “I was asking if I could see you tonight.”
“No.”
“Just for a drink,” he cajoled.
Then he smiled again—this time a deliberately slow and sensual curve of his lips that had undoubtedly melted the resistance of many other women. Thankfully, experience had immunized Brooke against such obvious ploys.
She hoped.
“Or dinner, if you prefer,” he said, when she didn’t immediately respond.
“No and no,” she replied, wondering how it was possible that he didn’t already have a date lined up. Because it wasn’t only a Friday—it was Valentine’s Day.
Not that the occasion was a big deal to Brooke. It didn’t matter to her that she wouldn’t get chocolates or flowers, because she would be spending the night with the most important guy in her life.
“Tomorrow, then?” he suggested as an alternative.
She was flattered. And flustered.
But definitely not interested.
She shook her head. “No.”
Still, he wasn’t dissuaded. “Are you seeing someone?”
“How is that any of your business?”
“I’m curious about my competition,” he said.
“There’s no competition,” she told him. “I’m not dating anyone right now and I’m not interested in dating anyone, especially not a pretend cowboy who doesn’t have the sense to latch a paddock gate.”
“Ouch,” he said, feigning hurt.
Or maybe his pride really was wounded.
She didn’t imagine a man as handsome and wealthy as Patrick Stafford heard the word no very often.
And perhaps her response had been a little harsh, not to mention unprofessional.
Yes, it frustrated her that an innocent animal had paid the price for his mistake, and it annoyed her that even now he didn’t seem to realize there could be lasting repercussions for Ranger as a result of the injury. But she knew as well as anyone that busy people sometimes missed little details.
An unlatched gate.
A loose stirrup.
An expired condom.
Each one had repercussions.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for and possibly unfair.”
“If you were really sorry, you’d offer to buy me a drink,” he said, adding a wink for good measure.
She was grateful he’d accepted her apology—and irritated by his inability to take a hint.
“I’m not going to do that,” she said. “But I will give you the ichthammol ointment at cost.”
“Of course, I have no idea what ‘cost’ is,” he acknowledged.
“About thirty percent less than you’d pay at the feed store,” she told him, as she returned her equipment to her pack and zipped it up.
“A bargain,” he decided. “Maybe I could put those savings toward a meal at The Home Station with you.”
“You really don’t understand the word no, do you?”
“I understand the word,” he assured her. “I just thought, since it’s getting close to dinnertime and we both have to eat, we might as well eat together.”
She glanced at her watch. “Actually, it is almost dinnertime, which means that I just might make it home in time to eat with Brendan for a change.”
He frowned at that. “Who’s Brendan?”
“My seven-year-old son.”
