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“Good. I’ll back him up.” Rick pointed to a tall man with a gray buzz cut who stood over a coffee urn at the back of the room. “That’s Dr. Mac Thorn, the other senior partner. Mac, I introduced you yesterday, remember?”
“I don’t remember anything while I’m operating,” he said grumpily.
Sarah raised her eyebrows. So Dr. Thorn had an attitude.
“Jack Renfro says you’ll assist me if I need help in surgery,” she said.
He nodded and took a sip of coffee.
“This is Bill Chumney, our exotics man. He’s about to get us a very lucrative contract with the local animal refuge, to do all their vet work.”
“Actually,” Chumney said, “I’m a raptor man by preference, but I can handle everything from armadillos to iguanas if I have to.”
“What are the laws about exotics in Tennessee? Can people keep them as pets?”
“The state is extremely strict about issuing permits to people who want to keep local fauna, or zoo animals—big cats, elephants, that sort of thing. Iguanas, reptiles, ferrets, hedgehogs, even sugar gliders—small creatures bred and sold to be pets—are okay. Sometimes Rick and Mac handle them in the small animal section, sometimes I do. And then somebody has to look after the raccoon whose mother got hit by a truck, or a possum with his tail bitten off. That’s why we’re anxious to get the contract with the animal refuge people signed. We’ll handle all the hurt animals the public brings in. And the zoo, too, of course. They have their own staff, but it’s pretty limited.”
“Are you busy?”
“Not yet, but we will be when that contract goes through. That’s my flight cage they’re building outside by Dr. Sol’s research lab.” He glowered at Rick. “It was supposed to be finished, and a damn sight larger, as well. I’ve got an eagle about ready to try his wings. Eagles need space to get lift.”
“Okay, okay. After the lights are up. I promise I’ll check it out.”
Rick turned back to Sarah. “Dr. Sol Weincroft isn’t in today. He’s actually more of a silent partner for the next few months. We’re building him a wing out back for his research in return for financial support from him and the pharmaceutical companies funding his research. He’ll be available in emergencies, but he’s concentrating on research as much as he can. I think you may have met him in Kansas City, Sarah?”
Sarah nodded. “Heard him give a paper on his research on an equine infectious anemia vaccine.”
“And he’s very, very close to success. That’ll be one hell of a feather in our caps.” Rick sighed. “Eleanor Grayson isn’t in, either. She’s part-time and your backup after hours. She was here pretty late last night with a flipped gut.”
Sarah knew Rick meant that one of Dr. Grayson’s charges had a flipped gut—not an unusual occurrence in large breeds of dog. It was a deadly emergency requiring instant surgery—and there was only a fair chance of saving the animal’s life.
“Yeah, and I’ve got a hip dysplasia in twenty minutes,” Mac said. He put down his coffee cup and left.
“Now that the Grinch has departed,” a small blond woman said, “I’m Liz Carlyle. I just graduated from Mississippi State last year. I’m on small animals, but I kind of swing where I’m needed. I really want to go into ophthalmology eventually, but I can’t go back to school until I make some serious money, or until and unless my husband gets one heck of a promotion.” She shrugged and turned pink with embarrassment.
Sarah thought she was very young indeed.
“That’s the current veterinary staff,” Rick said. “We’re piecing out for the first few months with a roster of part-timers from midnight to eight. So far, there hasn’t been much call that late. You’ve met Alva Jean, who handles the desk during the day, does the billing and such. Mabel Halliburton comes in at four, so you’ll mostly be working with her. She kind of mothers us all, and she’s a wonder with the paperwork. Does our ordering, backs up Alva Jean. We’re still hiring kennel and cleanup staff. People keep quitting on us after a week or so. Nobody seems to want to work so hard for minimum wage.”
“Go figure,” Liz whispered.
Rick glared at her. “We’re going to need at least three more vet techs once we’re fully up and running, but at the moment we’re making do with Jack for large and Nancy here for small, and part-timers from other clinics hired on an hourly basis.”
Sarah took the sure, brown hand of the woman who offered it. “Nancy Mayfield. I do anything and everything. At the moment I’ve got to go get Dr. Mac ready for his hip dysplasia.”
“You’re assisting?”
“Yep. I’m better at surgery than Jack. He’s better at post-op. We complement each other.”
The telephone on the wall beside the door rang. Liz jumped. Rick answered it and listened for a moment. “Yeah, yeah, Mac. She’s on her way.”
Nancy Mayfield grinned at Sarah and stood up slowly. Sarah saw her catch her breath. The woman stood for a moment with her eyes closed.
She’s in pain, Sarah thought.
Nancy caught her eye. “Jack and I are a lot alike. He raced, I rode hunters and jumpers in the show ring. We’re both too stiff to do it any longer.” She glanced at her own strong hands. “Nothing wrong with these. It’s my neck that gives me fits. Ah, well, I’d better head on out before Dr. Mac explodes.”
“We’d better all head on out,” Rick said. “Sorry you couldn’t meet everybody at one time, Sarah.”
“That’s okay. If I see anybody in greens with an animal under his arm, I’ll assume he’s a staff member.”
“Nice to have met you,” Bill Chumney said. “Now I’m off to exercise Marvin’s wings for him. This time I think he’s really going to fly.”
The telephone rang again, and Nancy answered it. “I’m coming!” She listened a moment, then turned to the room. “Scratch the dysplasia. We’ve got a couple of bull terriers who’ve just been hit by a car.”
“Damn!” Rick said.
Chairs scraped. Bill Chumney reached the door first. The moment it opened, Sarah heard the howls from the waiting room.
“Oh, God,” Liz whispered. And ran to help.
Sarah ran, as well. She noticed on her way by that Mark Scott stood in the door of his office. “Come on,” she said. “We may need another pair of hands.”
A broad, gray-haired woman, in a pair of disreputable shorts and a shirt that said Kiss the Gardener, sat on her knees on the floor just inside the door cradling the body of a dog wrapped in a blanket. She sobbed, the dog whined pitiably. The blanket in which it was wrapped was bloodstained.
“George is still in the car, I couldn’t carry him. Please, please, they’re badly hurt.” She grabbed Sarah’s hand. “Don’t let them die!”
Sarah dropped to her knees and pulled the dog’s lips back. The dog made no attempt to bite at her, which in itself showed how close to shock she was. The gums were too pale. “Nancy! Ringer’s stat—push. And get out a couple of surgery packs and some Ketamine, in case we have to immobilize fast. Call Jack. Tell him to bring a couple of gurneys.”
The dog whined again. Mark said over her shoulder, “I can carry him to OR.”
Sarah shook her head. “Could do more harm than good. Go help get the other one in.” She began to touch the dog gently, expecting the terrier to turn on her. “What happened?”
“They’re never out of the yard! Never!” the woman sobbed. “This morning we had a new meter reader. He must have left the gate ajar.” She caressed the white fur beneath her hand. “I was planting azaleas, and then I heard these brakes screech and…” She broke down completely.
“Here you go, Doc,” Jack Renfro said.
Half an hour later, both dogs lay on surgical tables on either side of the small-animal operating theater. Mac Thorn worked on the large male dog, while Sarah worked on the female.
“She got a crack on the head,” Sarah said to Jack. “But the X rays say she doesn’t have any broken bones or skull fracture. Both her eyes look normal—pupils are the same size and responding. Not sure about internal bleeding, but if there was any, it seems to have stopped. We need to clean her up, stitch her up and watch her.” She worked steadily, confidently, and in silence except for an occasional instruction to Jack.
Mac Thorn, on the other hand, kept up a running stream of curses, demands and snarls, which didn’t seem to bother Nancy Mayfield a bit, but which occasionally made Sarah lift her head in astonishment. Sarah finished with her dog, left it to Jack to bed down in the ICU, and moved over to Mac while she pulled off her gloves. “Need a hand?”
“No, dammit! Blasted idiots! Let dogs run loose! Broken pelvis—have to pin it, blast it. People!”
Sarah was certain Nancy was grinning, but that was impossible to tell with her mask on. Sarah grinned back and got out of the way. She went to find the dogs’ owner.
Not in the waiting room. Odd. She walked back down the hall, and heard voices from Mark’s office. She pushed open the door. The owner of the dogs pushed herself out of the chair across from Mark’s desk.
“Are they going to be all right?” She clutched a cup of what appeared to be coffee.
“Mrs. Jepson needed someplace quiet to sit,” Mark said. “And something hot to drink.”
Sarah looked at him with new eyes. So he wasn’t a total dolt.
“Mrs. Jepson,” she said, “I’m Sarah Marsdon. What are the dogs’ names?”
“George and Marian.” Mrs. Jepson began to cry again.
“They’re beautiful bull terriers. And they’re tough little critters, you know.”
“Otherwise, General George Patton would never have kept one with him,” Mark said.
“Oh, you know that? That’s why my husband insisted we get one. George and Marian are our fourth and fifth.” She sniffed. “They’re the last pups my husband and I bought before he died.”
“Marian may have some internal trauma that hasn’t shown up yet, Mrs. Jepson, so we’ll be watching her very carefully. But I cleaned her cuts and stitched her up. I doubt she’ll even have scars, once the hair grows back.”
“And George? She’s never been without him. They were litter mates.”
“Dr. Thorn is the best surgeon there is,” Sarah said, although she had no way of knowing whether that was true. “He’ll talk to you himself…”
She stopped. That would not be a good idea. Dr. Mac Thorn’s bedside manner would probably involve blasting Mrs. Jepson for something that was only marginally her fault. “Tell you what, Mrs. Jepson. When I left, Dr. Thorn was saying that he could pin George’s hip and that there was every reason to believe he’d be all right.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Jepson began to cry again.
Mark stared at her helplessly, then handed her a pristine handkerchief.
“It’s going to be a long haul, probably physical therapy. You’re going to have your work cut out for you.”
“I don’t care! As long as I have George and Marian back safe and sound.”
She raised her head as a knock sounded on the door, and Nancy Mayfield stuck her head in. “Mrs. Jepson? Didn’t know where you were. We’re taking the male dog to Recovery now. If you’d like to see them for just a moment—”
“Oh, please!” Mrs. Jepson followed Nancy out, and Sarah sank into the chair that was still warm from her body.
“Hell of an introduction,” Mark said. “You want a cup of coffee, too?”
“In a minute. At the moment I simply want to sit.”
“Are they really going to be all right?”
“I have no idea. Looks good, but there’s always something that can go wrong.” She glared at Mark. “Now, about my equipment…”
“Whoa! Can we put this off until later? I’m late for a meeting downtown at Buchanan.”
“Are you avoiding me?”
“No. I’ll be here this evening after work. I promise we’ll talk then.” He went out the door before she could call him back.
“Fine,” Sarah said. “Tonight it is, Mr. Mark Scott. You can’t avoid me forever.”
MARK SPENT THE AFTERNOON at Buchanan Enterprises, putting out more fires. When he walked into the clinic late that afternoon he found the waiting room filled with sick pets whose owners had obviously held off until after work to bring them in for treatment. Despite the heavy-duty sound-deadening tiles on the ceiling and the upper third of the walls, Mark felt an instant kinship with Noah, who must have wished constantly for earplugs during that forty days and forty nights in the ark.
Alva Jean motioned to him while continuing to make ‘uh-huh’ noises to whoever was on the phone, which seemed to grow out of her ear. He pulled his electronic notebook from his breast pocket, keyed in “headset fr desk” and slid the device back into his pocket. That was the sort of simple change that wouldn’t cost more than a little petty cash and should make the receptionist’s job both easier and more efficient.
Alva Jean covered the mouthpiece and hissed, “Dr. Marsdon is looking for you.” She rolled her eyes to leave Mark in no doubt that Dr. Marsdon was not a happy camper.
He hadn’t expected her to be. Apparently, Mark was going to be dealing with Margot and Dr. Marsdon. He sighed. At least the good doctor was single, beautiful and sexy. He rather enjoyed the thought of mixing it up with her again.
He looked into the room next to his and found that the walls had been finished and painted. The paint odor still lingered, but otherwise the place was ready for storage shelving and file cabinets. Tomorrow morning he’d call and have the stuff delivered. He sighed with satisfaction.
Maybe things were coming together, after all. Lately he’d about given up hope.
He ducked into his office and shut the door. Then he shucked his jacket and hung it on the nail somebody had driven into the woodwork. An accident waiting to happen. He made another note: “hammer nails into walls.” And prayed that when he got around to checking his notes at midnight he’d have some inkling of what he’d meant.
He kneaded the muscles along the tops of his shoulders and slumped into the ratty desk chair. A normal day at Buchanan. Endless conference calls, endless meetings, a Chamber of Commerce luncheon with Coy, more meetings, work with engineers on HVAC bids for a bank headquarters in Charlotte that had come in high, a surprise visit from the INS about forged green cards on a job they were subcontracting in Little Rock. More telephone calls chasing down the general contractor in Little Rock. Protestations of innocence followed by arguments that the only decent drywall workers in the entire southeast were illegal Mexican laborers.
Mark believed him—and so, for that matter, did the INS. But that didn’t matter. He pulled out his notebook. “Check grncds subcon vet.” What were the chances he could decipher that tomorrow?
His left temple throbbed, and he longed to go home to his quiet house, put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, pop a cold beer, and watch mindless television until he fell asleep. What a life for a man who was supposed to be in his prime.
Anyone meeting him would think he had the world by the tail—a great job with a boss he not only respected but liked, more money than he’d ever dreamed of and an excellent reputation among his colleagues and friends.
Right. Friends. Acquaintances, more like. There simply hadn’t been time to develop a life away from work, much less create anything resembling a family. He was like the new Silicon Valley computer kids who ate, slept and lived their jobs.
A far cry from the life he’d envisioned when he was eighteen, before his father’s death had brought the world crashing down around his head.
At the knock on his door, he glanced up.
It opened immediately. Dr. Sarah Marsdon came in— no, marched in—and shut it a little too forcefully behind her. Mark didn’t bother to stand up.
She sat down. “I’d about decided you weren’t coming, Mr. Scott.”
He sighed. “Mark—please. I thought we’d settled that.”
“That’s the only thing we seem to have settled. Now, let’s talk about my equipment.”
CHAPTER THREE
MARK SIGHED. “Okay. Hit me.”
“Believe me, I wish I could. But let’s get to my list. Bear in mind this is the basic equipment we need. We already have a portable ultrasound. It’s a thousand years old, but it will do for the moment.”
“Oh, goodie.”
“However, we are missing the mobile fluoroscopy machine and the portable X ray…”
“To the tune of eighty thousand bucks or more.”
“And the endoscope and laser. Shouldn’t run more than about twenty-five each for the bare bones. I can share the X-ray developer with the dogs and cats for the moment, but I’ll really need it to stay in my area. The small-animal technicians can come to me to develop their plates rather than the other way around. Of course, a second developer would solve that problem.”
“Another twenty-five thou, if we’re lucky.”
“Be lucky.” Sarah ticked off on her fingers. “I was promised an anesthesia machine. You may be able to find one of those from a ‘human’ medical supply house for about forty-five or fifty thousand.”
“Oh, you’re too kind.”
“That leaves a portable laser, which you can probably pick up for around ten thousand dollars used, and a blood chemistry analyzer. We have an autoclave. I won’t ask for a nuclear cytography machine yet, but I do need a laptop computer with Internet and fax capability that I can carry in my car so I can fax ultrasounds and fluoroscopes either back here to the office or to the vet school at Mississippi State. Oh, and the vet cabinet in my truck is too small. Jack said he’d stock the one I have, but I don’t have enough room for all the equipment and medication I’ll need to take with me on off-site calls. And I need keys to the Schedule 2 drug storage cabinet—both keys, please.”
“Is that all?”
“For the moment. Eventually, we really will need an MRI. And that will involve training at least one employee to use it. Oh, one more thing—a really good pair of surgical clippers for large animals. I can have one sent overnight for four or five hundred dollars. And I’ll have a list of additional medications and supplies I’ll need, as soon as I check what you already have.” Sarah started to get up. “That’s it for now.”
“Whoa, there, Doctor. You’ve just given me a list that runs over two hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s what I was promised.”
“I’m not a miracle worker. I can’t pull two hundred thousand bucks out of the air.”
Sarah took a deep breath. “Look, I know I sound peremptory. But surely Rick had a budget for the things he promised me.”
This time Mark sank back in his chair. “I haven’t looked at the original equipment list lately. Frankly, I’ve been too damn busy putting out fires. The truth is that Coy Buchanan gave Rick and Margot this piece of land. He could have put up several more mansions on it and made a great deal more money. He’s been in on the plans for the building from the beginning, and we’ve given this place every break on construction we could give.”
“But?”
“You’ve met Margot.”
“And?”
“And Margot has continued to make the building more and more elaborate. The changes have cost much more than originally budgeted. Then the weather, the damage we’ve had—it all adds up. We’re at least a month away from a grand opening, when it should have taken place in February. I think Rick—no, make that everybody—I’m as guilty as he is—has been robbing Peter to pay Paul, and now Peter is presenting his bill. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is—at least for the next six months, maybe longer.”
“You do think you’ll eventually be able to pull things together?”
“I’m dancing as fast as I can. Will you work with me?”
Sarah stood. “I understand your problems, and I’ll try to be as patient as I can. But remember, this is lives we’re talking about, here.”
“Animal lives. Animals can be replaced.” The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He’d done something he seldom did—speak first and think second. She’d gotten to him.
From the look on her face, Sarah wasn’t about to let him get away with it.
“Tell that to the teenage girl who loses her very first pony because we have to take it four and a half hours away to Mississippi State for colic surgery. You might as well say you should avoid an expensive procedure to save your grandmother because she’s old and ill.”
“A grandmother is a human being, and most people don’t have but two. You can’t put a price on human life.”
“You certainly can put a price on animal lives, Mr. Scott. Farmer A knows precisely what his prize Angus bull is worth. If we screw up through negligence, or because we don’t have the right diagnostic and operating equipment, we’ll have to pay that price. You might add that to your two hundred thousand.”
“That’s what we have liability insurance for.”
“Liability insurance won’t cover that teenage girl’s heartbreak. Do you think Mrs. Jepson would prefer to have the value of George and Marian so she could buy a pair of puppies to take their place?”
“No, but she would replace them.”
“Not replace them. She’d bring other dogs into her life, but she’d never forget them or stop grieving for them. And that’s not one bit different from the way you feel about your grandmother.”
“Both my grandmothers are alive and very well, thank you.”
“Dammit!” Sarah snapped. “Don’t play games with me. So long as you don’t see the value of animal lives, you and I will never be able to communicate.” She walked out of his office.
“Hey…” he said, “I didn’t mean…”
The woman always put him on the defensive, made him say stupid things he would never say to anyone else. The problem was, he liked her. He wished he could give her everything she wanted. But there was no way—not if the clinic was to survive. Drat Margot Buchanan, anyway. If she hadn’t been able to wrap Coy around her little finger, if she hadn’t been able to con Rick…Hell, if Mark hadn’t been in Texas building a mall for three months last year, he could have headed her off. Now his job was doubly difficult.
Because Sarah Marsdon stirred his blood.
Even in the loose scrubs he could see the outlines of her body. He liked the way she moved with an easy swing that was more than a little cocky. He grinned. She might have been put on this earth to complicate his life, but at least the complications made him feel more alive than he had for years. Now, if he could only figure out some way to accommodate everybody’s needs without either bankrupting the clinic or giving himself an ulcer, he’d be fine.
Maybe for some lonely people animals did fill an unfillable gap in their lives, but that still didn’t compare with the loss of a grandmother, say, or a father.
Or did it?
Suddenly, his mind flashed back to the only animal he’d ever owned. Okay, so Mickey had been different. But when Mark and his mother had been forced to move into the apartment after his father’s death, he’d done what everyone had told him was the best thing for Mickey—he’d given his dog to Uncle Greg, who had a farm and young children for Mickey to play with. Uncle Greg had told Mark he’d always be welcome to visit the big black Labrador when he was home from school.
He’d only visited once. Seeing Mickey, playing with him, then driving away had been too painful to endure a second time. Mickey—now long dead and buried under the wild dogwoods at Uncle Greg’s farm.
He hadn’t allowed himself to think about the dog for years. Hadn’t trusted himself to think about Mickey. How come he still felt as deep an ache of emptiness as he did when he thought about his father’s wreck? That was stupid. They weren’t the same thing at all. Were they?
Obviously the point was that he must never allow himself to care that deeply about anyone or anything again, whether it was a Mickey or a father. Building the walls to keep out the pain of inevitable loss took too much effort.
He took out his notebook and reached for the spike impaling a half-dozen telephone messages. Both his temples throbbed. How could such a beautiful woman have such a devastating effect on him?
SARAH POPPED the top of a diet soda with so much force that it spewed all down her front. Obviously Mark was one of those people who simply didn’t recognize the relevance of animals in people’s lives. The kind of person she used to despise. Now she simply felt sorry for them. She’d long since learned that animals gave their humans far more than they took.