Hard-Headed Texan

His brother Quinn, then his father, had come by to talk about Antonia. All that was missing was a call from Cater or Cory. Or Beth.

That would come, he assured himself—as soon as one of them talked to Quinn. But Daniel knew he didn’t really mind. His family’s concern was warming. Besides, he rather liked everyone knowing he was seeing Antonia Campbell.

He smiled again, taking a swig of beer. Talk about feeling like a teenager again. He realized that he was grinning at the wall like an idiot, but the fact only made him grin harder. He hadn’t felt this good in years. And he intended to make damn sure he continued feeling that way.

Hard-Headed Texan

Candace Camp

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CANDACE CAMP,

a USA Today bestselling author and former attorney, is married to a Texan, and they have a daughter who has been bitten by the acting bug. Candace’s family and her writing keep her busy, but when she does have free time, she loves to read. In addition to her contemporary romances, she has written a number of historicals, which are currently being published by MIRA Books.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 1

The phone rang, startling Antonia awake. She sat bolt upright, heart pounding. Beside her the cat stood up, looking at her balefully for disturbing her nap, then stalked off. Antonia blinked, her sleep-fogged mind adjusting to her surroundings. It was the clinic, she told herself. There was an emergency at the clinic. The telephone shrilled again, and she picked up the receiver.

“Dr. Campbell,” she answered, relieved that she had managed to make her voice come out calm and cool. She didn’t want anyone here to know that the least thing could make her panic.

There was no sound on the other end of the line, and she repeated her words, more loudly. Still there was no answer, even though the phone had the sound of a live connection.

“Hello?” she said, fighting down the upsurge of panic-nerves in her chest. “Who is this? Can I help you?”

Still there was no reply, and Antonia slammed down the receiver. Her hands were shaking, and there was a tight, cold knot in the center of her chest.

It wasn’t him, she reminded herself. It was probably just a wrong number or one of those strange connections that went awry—it happened with some regularity when the caller was using a cell phone. The silence on the end of the line did not mean that it was Alan. Alan did not know where she was; there was no reason to think that he did. This was just blind, unreasoning, atavistic fear, and she refused to give in to it.

Antonia took a deep, calming breath and went over all the reasons why she was safe now. Alan was in Virginia, and she was here; he did not know where she lived. It had been years since their divorce. He had not bothered her since she moved to Texas.

Still, she got out of bed and went to the front door, checking to make sure that it was locked and the chain was on. The little red light of the security monitor was blinking, showing that the security system was in effect. She went to the front room window of her small house and lifted the edge of the drapes to peer outside. It was dark outside, though beginning to lighten into a predawn grayness. She could make out the shapes of the trees in the front yard and her SUV parked in the narrow, old-fashioned driveway beside her house.

She would have preferred a house with an attached garage, but the charm of the 1920s-style bungalow had outweighed other considerations, and the passage of years had lessened her bunker mentality. A security system, an old neighborhood imbued with small-town friendliness and nosiness, her own hard-won vigilance—these were enough, she’d decided. She could not let her entire life be ruled by the fear that Alan might find her; if she did, she was letting him control her still.

Antonia walked around the small house, checking each of the windows and the back door to make sure that they were all locked. Reassured, she turned on the coffeemaker, already prepared the night before for ease in getting ready in the morning, and sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

It was pointless trying to go back to bed, she knew. Even though she had calmed down and was reassured that she was safe, it would take her a long time to go back to sleep, and her alarm was set to go off in thirty minutes. A veterinarian in a small ranching community kept early hours, just like the owners of the animals to which she tended. Antonia was usually in the office by seven and often on the road to one ranch or another soon after that.

That morning she arrived even earlier, before the receptionist or either of the technicians. Dr. Carmichael, the other veterinarian, never came in before ten o’clock. It was the reason he had brought in another vet, he had told her—the heavy workload and the early mornings were getting to be too much for him, and at seventy-two years old, he had decided to take life a little easier. Only the night watchman, Miguel, was there. A shy young man who loved to read, he was a perfect person to be on night duty with the animals. He was intelligent; only the fact that he came from a large, poor family had kept him from attending college. He knew as much as most of the techs, and he also had a rapport with the animals that was invaluable. A self-proclaimed insomniac, he had no trouble staying awake all night, and the long hours alone and doing nothing except making hourly rounds did not bore him as they would have most people. He was quite happy to read one of his books.

“Good morning, Dr. Campbell,” he said, coming out of the kennel door when she drove up.

“Hi, Miguel. How’s it going?” Antonia stepped out of her SUV, not bothering to lock it, another habit she had gotten into since moving to Angel Eye three months ago. Because their offices contained drugs, as well as for the safety of the animals, the clinic had a state-of-the-art security system, but there had never been a break-in—or even an attempted one. Everyone who parked in the clinic lot was more interested in finding a shady spot to protect their vehicle from the broiling Texas sun than in locking their doors.

“It’s okay.” Miguel knew that her question was more than rhetorical. “All the animals got through the night, even Dingo.” Dingo was a mixed-breed dog with liver problems, and it had been touch-and-go with him all day yesterday. Owned and much loved by a family with two little girls, Dingo had captured most of the clinic staff’s hearts, as well.

“Good. Well, let me get into my lab coat, and we’ll make the rounds.”

“Sure, Dr. Campbell.” Miguel grinned shyly, not quite meeting Antonia’s eyes.

Antonia was aware that she intimidated the young man. He was shy to begin with, but the fact that she was a towering six feet tall, with the cool, blond good looks of an East Coast society princess, had turned the poor kid nearly speechless when she first came to the clinic. Antonia often had that effect on people, so she was not surprised. She didn’t try to be distant or icy; in fact, her basic nature was warm. But she was by nature and experience somewhat reserved, and the years of training in the proper demeanor expected of a young lady that she had received from her mother—“a lady does not cry in public,” “a lady doesn’t show a vulgar display of excitement,” “a lady does not display unseemly curiosity”—had given her a vaguely aloof air that she did not know how to shake. Even in the casual shirt and jeans that she typically wore on and off the job, she still looked like someone who should be on her way to a Junior League meeting. Today, for instance, she wore jeans and a plain blue shirt, with her hair pulled back and arranged in a practical French braid and only the barest hint of makeup on her face, yet she was somehow elegant.

Antonia usually dealt with her looks by ignoring them. Once she was ready to go in the morning, she rarely glanced in a mirror the rest of the day. Her clothes were invariably practical. Her skin care regimen consisted of little beyond simple cleaning, moisturizing and frequent applications of sunscreen to keep her fair skin from burning. Her technician and friend Rita Delgado, whose devotion to skin care and makeup was profound, was frequently appalled by Antonia’s blasé attitude.

“What is sickening,” she would say, shaking her head, “is that you do almost nothing and still look the way you do!”

Antonia went to her office and pulled on a clean lab coat from the closet, then walked down the hall to the locked door that led to the back part of the clinic, where the sick animals were kept. Miguel was waiting for her there, and they started on their rounds, beginning with Dingo, who was miraculously hanging on.

She had checked over only three animals, approving one for dismissal that day, when the door from the main office burst open and Lilian, the receptionist, bustled in. Lilian, a middle-aged widow of very precise habits, was often the first person to reach the clinic. She liked to have the coffee made and her book work done before the clinic opened at seven-thirty. Lilian had a rather militaristic bent, Antonia thought, and she wanted to have her supplies lined up and her plans in order before she did battle with their clients.

“Dr. Campbell!” Lilian’s soft-featured face, so at odds with her crisp, no-nonsense personality, was creased with concern. “Daniel Sutton just called. He’s having trouble with one of his mares. He said to come right away. She’s been in labor for a while, and she’s losing ground.”

“Daniel Sutton?” Antonia asked, already unbuttoning her lab coat and starting back toward the front of the clinic. “The ranch I went to last week?”

“No, that’s Marshall. His father. Daniel’s on the same road, though, about ten minutes further west. Marshall Sutton’s a cattleman, but Daniel raises horses. He’s knowledgeable. If he says there’s something wrong, then there is.”

“Okay. I’ll take the mobile.” Antonia hung her lab coat on a hook beside the back door, listening as Lilian gave her detailed directions to Daniel Sutton’s horse farm. She took the key to the clinic’s mobile vet truck from another hook. It was the task of whoever drove the truck last to make sure that it was filled with gas and stocked with supplies so that it was always ready to go the next day.

She ran lightly down the steps and crunched across the gravel lot to where the mobile truck sat parked beneath a shade tree. Dr. Carmichael had told her many tales of his early days in the area, when he had driven around to the nearby ranches in his old International Harvester truck, a forerunner of the modern SUVs, with a stock of supplies in the back that he would need for his large animal practice. Today, of course, like most vets who practiced in rural areas, he had a modern mobile, a truck equipped with a shell, looking much like one of the smaller motor homes, in which there were sinks, refrigeration for some of the medicines and samples, and nearly every kind of instrument or medicine needed for working on animals in the field. It was generally far more practical for the vet to go to the horse or cow than for the animal to be loaded into a trailer and brought to the veterinarian.

Time, of course, was of the essence when a mare was having problems foaling, and the long distances between farms and ranches here ate up that precious time, so Antonia stepped on the gas when she left the outskirts of Angel Eye, bringing the truck up to eighty. She doubted that any sheriff’s deputy in this ranching community would interfere with a speeding vet on her way to save a horse.

Lilian’s directions were as precise as she was, and Antonia had no trouble finding the Sutton horse farm. She turned off the highway onto a graveled road, blocked by a mechanized steel gate. She pushed the button on the small raised platform, and almost immediately the gate began to swing open.

“I’m in the foaling pens, Doc,” a deep male voice, tight with worry, said over the intercom. “Better step on it. She’s in a bad way.”

Antonia stepped on the accelerator and started up the long drive. Automatically she noted the details of the farm as she drove toward the house and barn in the distance. It was obviously a working farm—there were none of the expensive decorative touches that marked the rich hobbyist horse farms. Everything was plain and serviceable, from the front gate to the black metal fences to the old farmhouse at the end of the drive. However, there was nothing shabby or ill-kempt about it, either. The fences, the road, the barn, the paddocks, even the two horse trailers sitting beside the barn—all were in good repair and of good quality. It was a neatly kept place, and the horses in the pasture beside the road looked equally well taken care of.

She pulled to a stop between the barn and the lower-roofed stables and hopped out of the truck. Grabbing her doctor’s bag, she hurried toward the stables, presuming that the foaling pens were there. As she did so, a tall man came out of the building, squinting in the sun. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, stared for a moment without moving, then came toward her at a lope.

He was long-legged, with a lean, muscled build that came from years of hard work rather than an intimate acquaintance with weight-training machines. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore boots, worn blue jeans and a white short-sleeved T-shirt, and he looked so unutterably male that Antonia’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped where she was, a little taken aback by her own reaction. Tight jeans and a wide chest didn’t usually make her stomach flutter anymore, and she had seen plenty of cowboys since moving to Texas. None of them, however, had sent this jolt of pure, instinctive lust shooting straight down through her.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his dark brows drawn together in a deep frown, as he stopped a few feet from her. “Where’s Doc?”

He glanced toward the veterinary truck, then back at her. He was a big man, taller by several inches than Antonia, who was accustomed to looming over most men. He wore no hat, and his hair was thick and black and a trifle shaggy. His skin was tanned from years of exposure to the sun, and there were deep sun lines at the corners of his dark eyes. He was handsome and just as intensely masculine up close as he had appeared at a distance.

Much to Antonia’s astonished dismay, she simply looked at him, unable to speak.

“Damn it!” the man went on. “I told her I needed Dr. Carmichael. Didn’t she understand? The foal’s in the wrong position. I gotta have a vet, not some tech fresh out of school!”

Antonia stiffened at his words, a quick rush of anger coming to her rescue. “I am the vet,” she told him crisply and extended her hand, pleased to see that it didn’t shake despite the bizarre inner turmoil that afflicted her.

The man stared at her, his jaw dropping comically. “What?”

“I’m the vet. Dr. Carmichael’s new associate. I am Dr. Campbell.” She dropped her hand, unsure whether shock or simple rudeness had kept him from shaking her hand. “Now, where’s your mare?”

“But you can’t be—” he said, a stunned look on his face. “You’re a girl.”

“I will take that as a compliment to my youthful appearance rather than a male chauvinist remark,” Antonia said coolly. “However, I am the vet. Dr. Carmichael needed someone younger to help with his practice. I take the early morning calls.”

The man let out a brief, vivid curse. “We’re talking about a horse here, not a cat or dog. You can’t—”

“In fact, horses are my specialty, so you’re in luck,” Antonia went on, struggling to keep a hold on her temper.

“Damn it, I’m not losing my best mare because Carmichael decided to go all politically correct and hire a woman vet!”

“You won’t lose that horse because of me!” Antonia shot back, fury shooting up in her. “I am fully qualified to—”

“A woman doesn’t have the strength to doctor a horse. I’ve seen big men who couldn’t—”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Antonia bit out, “I am scarcely delicate. I am six feet tall and I work out. I can handle a horse. Usually I use my brains to overcome the difference in strength, and if brains won’t do it, I could turn it over to you. How’s that?”

A light flared in his eyes, and he came a long step closer, looming over her. Antonia was not about to be intimidated, and she, too, stepped forward, so that they were now so close she could see the thick dark lashes that ringed his eyes, making their dark brown color appear almost black.

She looked him straight in the eyes, putting her hands on her hips pugnaciously, and said, “Dr. Carmichael is not here. I am. Now, I can leave and you can wait until Dr. Carmichael comes into the clinic and can drive out here, by which time your stubbornness will probably have cost you a mare and a foal. Or you can show me your mare and let me try to save them. Which do you want to do?”

A vein pulsed at his temple, and for a moment Antonia thought that Sutton was going to explode, but then he stepped back. “This way,” he said shortly, and turned and walked back into the stables. Antonia followed him.

The mare was obviously in trouble. A splendid bay quarterhorse, with a white stripe down the center of her face, she stood with head lowered and feet spread apart. She was shivering, and her body was covered with sweat. Antonia took in the details of the stall automatically as she examined the mother, even as she had noticed the condition of the farm. Here, too, all was in order and prepared. The foaling stall was clean and floored with fresh straw, and several buckets stood at the ready, along with a supply of towels, and a shelf containing various bottles and tubes and a box of latex gloves. A large sink stood a few feet away, between this and another foaling stall, and at it were a nail brush and antiseptic soap. No matter how obnoxious the owner might be, he ran a good farm.

Talking soothingly to the mare, Antonia ran a calming hand down her neck and side, moving around to the back to examine her. “When did she go into labor?”

“During the night,” Sutton said, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead. Antonia saw, now that the anger had subsided from it, that weariness and worry stamped his face. “Five o’clock, maybe,” he told her in a deep, rumbling voice. “She started waxing up yesterday evening, and I knew it would be coming soon. I slept on a cot in the other stall. I checked her right after her water bag broke, and I couldn’t find the foal’s head, so I knew it was turned around. I called the clinic, and I’ve been walking her around.” He paused, then went on. “She’s my best mare, and the sire is Garson’s Evening Star at Mason Farms. It should be a good foal.” He sighed and looked at Antonia. “I don’t want to lose that mare.”

“I’ll do my best to save both of them,” Antonia said, softening a little at the undercurrent of emotion in his voice. This man wasn’t just talking about investments; he obviously loved his animals, and as far as Antonia was concerned, that fact made up for a multitude of sins. “Okay, let’s get to work.”

She went to the sink and began to scrub her hands. It was obvious that Sutton was right. The foal was turned around. It was trying to emerge; one tiny hoof protruded from the mare. But it was a rear hoof, instead of the two front hooves that should come out first in a normal delivery. The poor mare, in obvious pain, was struggling to deliver. The first thing Antonia did was examine the mare, reaching in to locate the foal’s head and forelegs. That in itself was difficult enough to do, but she finally determined that its head was twisted to the side, and the foal was more or less wedged sideways.

“You’re right. I’ll have to turn it,” she said, explaining the position of the foal as she once again scrubbed her hands and arm. “First I’m going to give her a tranquilizer to calm her down, as well as an epidural. This will take a while.”

Once she had administered the drugs, she went to work to turn the foal inside its mother. It was a long, tedious process, for she had to find the head and pull it back, as well as push and pull and twist until the foal was in the correct position, forelegs and head facing forward. Time after time, she tugged on the muzzle to no avail. She could not find one of the forelegs, and when she did, it slipped from her grasp.

Finally, however, she managed to get the leg secured with an obstetrical chain around it, then grasped the muzzle and wiggled and pulled until it slid around to the correct position. “I’ve got it!”

She began to pull, and slowly the foal slid forward until its forelegs and the tip of its muzzle emerged. Behind her Sutton let out a whoop. Antonia dropped her arm; it felt like a lead weight, numb from the strain. She shook it a little to get the feeling back, then began to pull again. The foal stuck at the chest and shoulders. It was large, and the mare was weak and tired, barely able to stand. Antonia was afraid that the mare would go down at any moment, and she was certainly no longer capable of expelling the foal.

Sutton moved up beside Antonia and grasped the muzzle and one foreleg. Antonia glanced up at him. He winked, surprising her, and said, “Looks like this is my specialty, as you pointed out earlier.”

Antonia had to grin, and she reached up to take the other foreleg. They began to pull again. It was a stubborn animal, big and slippery, and the two of them had to pull mightily, but then suddenly the shoulders popped through, and a moment later the foal was out, still wrapped in its amniotic membrane.

“Yes!” Antonia cried, triumph surging through her as Sutton gently laid the little animal down on the ground, close to its mother’s head.

She squatted down beside the man to strip the membrane from around the foal’s face and mouth. The mare would do the rest. Sutton turned to Antonia, a huge smile breaking across his face, and she grinned back at him.

“We did it!” he exclaimed, and as they stood up, he suddenly reached out and swung her up into his arms, whirling her around in a paroxysm of joy. They were both filthy, their shirts and arms covered with blood and amniotic fluid, but neither of them cared. The joy of bringing life into the world filled them. Antonia laughed, exhilarated, curling her arms around his shoulders as he spun her.

In the next moment she became aware of the reality of his body against hers. His hard chest pressed into her breasts; his arms were around her like a lover’s. She could feel the dampness of his sweat against her skin. A sudden, fierce desire slammed through her, almost frightening in its intensity. Antonia wanted to kiss him, to press herself against his muscular body. She wanted to taste the salt of his skin, to rub her face against his hair, to breathe in the healthy masculine smell of him.

Her breath caught in her throat. What in the world was she doing! She stiffened, embarrassment sweeping through her. This was a client! And her behavior was anything but professional.