Bittersweet. Laura Browning

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СКАЧАТЬ stallion flicked his ears and stared at them. Anna scowled, but waited as Chris led the big horse to the crossties and snapped them on each side of his halter.

      She should have been used to the overprotective male syndrome. For some reason it seemed to follow diminutive women throughout life, but it hadn’t her, at least not until recently. Bart fidgeted, no doubt as irritated for his own reasons as she was. Anna once again approached him from the front and let him smell her. As he lowered his head and relaxed, she stroked along his body and back to the hip she’d stitched.

      “Would you bring me the mounting block, so I can get a closer look?”

      Chris’s hands bracketed her waist and she stiffened with outrage. Part of her reaction stemmed from the instantaneous response she felt at even this simple touch. Her breasts throbbed, and heat coiled through her core. As he lifted her off the floor, outrage turned to genuine anger. All her life, people had treated her like a kid because she was short. This was different than trying to be courteous. She’d had to prove herself over and over again, especially in a family of athletic amazons where misfit didn’t even begin to describe how different she was.

      “Put. Me. Down,” Anna snapped. “I am not a child.”

      The stallion skittered at her sharp tone.

      “Don’t get bent out of shape. I was trying to help.” He dropped her to her feet. “By all means, let me back off.”

      Anna glared at him. How dare he look as if he’d been the one wounded? “You would never do such a thing for a male veterinarian.”

      He arched a brow. “I wouldn’t need to. A male veterinarian would be tall enough to do his damn job,” Chris retorted.

      Anna thought she would burst a blood vessel. “I can do my job fine. Now, are you going to bring the mounting block or do I need to get a stool from my truck?”

      Chris’s eyes narrowed. So she had roused his anger as well. “That’s an interesting tone to take with a client, don’t you think, Dr. Barlow?” He spun on his heel and stepped around the corner to the wash stall. After setting the mounting block next to the stallion, he leaned against the wall, arms folded across his broad, muscular chest.

      That’s right. Keep away. Distance was a good thing.

      Anna ignored his slouching form and stepped up to look at the wound. Everything else faded as she entered her world, her element, the place where she felt at ease. The animals and the science possessed her. She pressed on the area around the wound with as much gentleness as she could. The stitches appeared to be holding and there was no sign of heat or swelling.

      She climbed down and turned to Stevenson, who still looked at her with narrowed, icy gray eyes. She would not be intimidated, but he was right about one thing–he was one of the clinic’s most important clients. Arrogant man! And she’d pissed him off. She would have to deal with the consequences.

      “Everything looks fine. If you want to turn him out, that might be better than keeping him hemmed up. Make sure someone checks him twice a day. If there are any problems with the stitches, call the clinic. Otherwise, I’ll be back in a week to see if he’s ready to have them removed. Do you have any questions?”

      “No, ma’am,” he drawled in a rich southern accent as dripping in sarcasm as honeyed sweetness.

      “I need to be on my way.” She paused. “Do you need a ride?”

      He studied her in a way designed to make her bristle. “No, I have plenty of riding to do right here.”

      Anna hurried from the barn and jumped into the truck. She wanted to get Becca and go home. Maybe if she spoke to Jim Douglas, he’d arrange things in such a way she wouldn’t have to handle any calls at Fincastle Farm. But as one of their largest equine clients, she knew that idea wouldn’t fly. Even so, she would still have to speak with him. There was no telling what Chris might say to him, and she couldn’t afford to lose her job.

      She had calmed by the time she reached the big white house. After changing out of her barn clogs, she climbed the steps. Liz was seated in a rocking chair in the sitting room, cradling a sleeping Becca in her arms. Anna nibbled on her lower lip as she walked inside the room. Allowing her daughter to spend time with the older woman might not have been the best idea for most of the same reasons she needed to avoid Chris.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Stevenson, for breakfast and for watching Becca.” Anna refused an invitation to join them for dinner the following weekend, inventing chores as an excuse. As she collected the baby’s paraphernalia, Anna smiled at the older woman. “You’ve been very kind. Thank you.”

      “It was no trouble, dear.” Liz returned her smile. “You’re welcome here anytime.”

      Anna ducked her head. “Thank you.”

      As she drove past the barn area, she saw someone schooling a horse in the ring off to the side. Chris. She would have recognized his riding style anywhere. The wall of her bedroom had been plastered with photos of him and other riders when she was a teenager. Anna turned her face away. That was a lifetime ago. She had other priorities that put a riding superstar like Chris Stevenson way, way out of her orbit. And it needed to stay that way.

      She stopped at the clinic on the way home, glad to get her mind on business as she completed the paperwork on Chris’s stud and the colic case from the previous night. Becca grew fussy, and by the time they reached Anna’s rented house, the baby had launched into an angry, colicky wail. For a moment, Anna allowed herself the luxury of feeling sorry for herself. There were some times when it would have been nice to have someone around to help, even just to tell her everything would be okay.

      Right. Time to suck it up and move on. She’d spent her entire life doing that, so this should be no different.

      She had two appointments scheduled Monday with potential daycare providers, but she wasn’t sure how that was going to work. Becca had yet to accept a bottle. As the baby slept in the swing, Anna pumped milk. If she hadn’t felt like a dairy bar before, she thought, the breast-pumping machine drove the point home with its rhythmic whirring.

      Anna tried the bottle again when Becca awoke, but the baby refused to take it, instead turning her head toward Anna’s covered breasts and making irritated smacking sounds. Anna slumped her shoulders and gave in. Tears of frustration and fatigue trickled down her cheeks as she leaned her head back in the overstuffed chair. She loved Becca so much, but sometimes the baby left her drained.

      The first daycare she visited the following day was out of the question. Toys and books were scattered over the floor, and while some untidiness might be expected with small children around, Anna was not convinced about its cleanliness. The second place she pulled up to was an in-home facility in a quiet area not too far from the clinic. An older woman answered the door and invited her in. Anna liked what she saw. There were only a handful of children and a quiet young woman helped with the toddlers.

      The older woman gave her a tour and explained how she structured things and what she provided. She was licensed by the state and had been for ten years. Her credentials sounded good to Anna, and Becca even seemed content to look around.

      “There is one problem,” Anna admitted toward the end of the interview. “Becca is breastfed, and I have not been able to get her to take a bottle.”

      The older woman smiled at her. “I’ve run into that before. Have you tried getting someone else to feed her?”

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