Tennessee Reunion Page 11

  “How about the stallion? What’s his name, anyway? I don’t think you said.”

  Anne chortled. “His royal littleness is registered as Martin’s Born for Glory.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Anne shook her head. “Known as Glory.”

  “Who’s boss mare?”

  “Guess,” Anne said.

  “Molly. Got to be.”

  Anne nodded. “I’m not telling, but you’d be surprised.”

  “When can we take Tom to the grocery store?”

  “The next time you come up to Victoria’s, if he goes on the way he’s been going. I don’t think I’d start with the grocery store. Imagine Tom with a whole table full of lettuce just his height? When are you coming back?”

  Becca shrugged. “I’d just stay if I could, but Daddy says I have to come home during the week. He’s scared if I spend too much time up here I’ll get on a horse like Trusty and break my neck. He does not trust me.”

  Should he? Anne wondered. Becca wanted what she wanted. And more than anything that was to set her foot back into a stirrup.

  “He’ll only let me come if you act as my jailor.” She looked up from under her eyelashes to check out Anne’s response.

  “It’s a country club prison with a swimming pool, not Devil’s Island. Be grateful.”

  “Hey, lookie who’s here,” boomed a voice by the front door. “Good evenin’, Miss Anne, and who might this sweet thing be? I don’t think I know you, honey.”

  Anne stood quickly and reached out both hands. If she was avoiding a hug from the honeydew-shaped middle-aged man heading for their table, the ploy didn’t work. He flung his arms in their Egyptian cotton shirt around her and nearly broke her ribs. He smelled of warm starch and some expensive French cologne for men. Anne couldn’t identify it, but she knew it cost a fortune.

  “Good evening, Mr. Mayor. Becca, this is Williamston’s mayor, Sonny Prather. Sonny, this is Becca Stout. She’s up here from Memphis to spend a weekend learning to drive minis.”

  “Well, good evenin’ to you, too, Miss Becca. I do believe I have seen you a time or two showing hunter horses over fences at the Williamston horse show, am I right?”

  Anne saw Becca’s shoulders stiffen, but her Southern training held true. She was charm personified, although only when the mayor moved away to the next table to schmooze, did her shoulders relax.

  “At least he didn’t remember I tried to get myself killed,” Becca whispered. “Oh my gosh, he looks like Tweedledee.”

  “He ought to put that on his campaign posters. ‘Vote for Tweedledee for Mayor of Williamston.’” Anne spread her hands the width of a banner. “He’d win. He never has anybody running against him. Are you about ready to go? We should get to bed early and go to work first thing tomorrow.”

  “Might as well. What else do you do for fun in this burg? Watch the grass grow?”

  Both began to slide out of their booth when another voice from the door called to them, this time a soprano. “Yoo-hoo, Anne. You can’t leave yet.”

  Becca’s head came up, and she swiveled to check behind her. Her lips split in a broad grin and she ran her hands over her shining hair. “It’s Vince with somebody.” She wriggled like a puppy waiting to be patted.

  Oh, man. Actually, it wasn’t only Vince, but Barbara Carew MacDonald with Anne’s father, Stephen. Barbara had been the one calling out to them.

  Anne introduced Becca to her father and stepmother and nodded to Vince. He gave sort of a deer-caught-in-headlights glance at Becca and pulled up a chair so that he could sit at the end of the booth where he did not have to slide in beside either Anne or Becca. Becca’s pout increased when Barbara sat beside her, forcing her to the inside away from Vince, and Stephen slid in beside his daughter on the other side.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?” Stephen said with a smile for Becca. “Anne told me you were in town, but I assumed you’d be eating with Edward and Victoria.”

  “We decided to give them a break,” Anne said. She glanced at Vince. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this. My husband’s getting suspicious.”

  Becca said, “You don’t have a husband.”

  “Old joke,” said Stephen. Then, with a smirk at Anne, he said, “Very, very old joke. Pay no attention.”

  Some casual remark. Anne knew she was blushing. The café was shadowy, so chances were Vince wouldn’t catch her, but it had been a stupid thing to say. She turned to him. “Are you coming back Monday morning to work on Molly’s hooves? She’s still a little lame. I’m not sure you got the hoof abscess completely cleaned out. She may need you to do some more digging.”

  “If I can fit it in, it will have to be late afternoon. I’ve got to drive to Memphis Monday morning to pick up my new portable X-ray machine from the shipper. They refuse to take responsibility for carrying it from the airport to Williamston.”

  “Monday?” Becca said. “This Monday morning?” Her senses were on high alert like a bloodhound that had spotted a possum in a sycamore tree.

  “Yeah.” He sounded suspicious.

  “Wonderful. Anne, Vince can drive me back home to Memphis Monday morning. You won’t have to.” She turned a glowing face toward Vince. “We can have lunch before you leave to drive back to Williamston. I know this wonderful new barbecue place down on Mud Island I’ve been dying to try...” She stopped midsentence. “What?”

  “Sorry, Becca, I can’t drive you. I have to take the van, and there isn’t room for you, Anne, and all my equipment, plus the new X-ray machine.”

  “Anne? No, you don’t understand. If you take me, Anne can stay here and work horses. You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you, Anne? See, Vince, if she doesn’t go, you’ll have plenty of room for me.”

  Anne caught the look on Vince’s face. Becca was glaring at her. Good thing she wasn’t watching Vince, since his face said, Rescue me.

  She kept her own features composed. “I’m afraid I have some things to pick up at the tack store in Germantown before I drive back to the farm,” Anne said. “If Vince is going anyway, it would be a help to ride along with him into Memphis. Vince, we can fit Becca into the back seat of your van, can’t we?”

  She heard rather than saw his sigh. “Yeah, okay. I can shift some stuff. But no time for lunch, Becca. Sorry. Won’t be too comfortable in the back seat, but you won’t have to make the return trip with the machine and whatever Anne picks up.”

  Becca looked at Vince as though he had just canceled Christmas, and at Anne as though she were a water moccasin.

  Anne had a feeling the argument wasn’t over. She was surprised at Vince’s reaction to Becca’s suggestion. Knowing the teenager’s crush, however, Anne could see his point. He did not want to be trapped in a car with Becca. Did that mean he wanted to be trapped in a car with Anne? When she glanced at him, he looked away from her. She could feel her face flush and turned away from him as well.

  Velma laid Anne and Becca’s bill on the table, greeted the newcomers, handed out menus and proffered ice tea. Anne picked up the bill without looking at it and slid it to her father with a grin. “Thank you for our dinner, Daddy.”

  “Oh, Mr. MacDonald,” Becca said, “I can’t...”

  “Yes, you can. That’s what fathers are for,” he said as he reached for his credit card. “Here you go, Velma.” He walked Anne and Becca to the car and saw them both safely inside. “Good night, ladies, drive carefully,” he called as he headed back to the restaurant.

  * * *

  WHEN STEPHEN MACDONALD gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek as she bent over him to say goodbye, Vince recognized the easy affection between them. Stephen had said, “That’s what fathers are for.” An alien concept to his own father, for whom the smallest kindness demanded payment in guilt. Vince couldn’t take the chance that he would evolve to be like the old man. It was the only frame of reference h
e’d had growing up. No wife, no child deserved to have to pay for affection, but each generation learned from the ones that came before. He’d been secure in his decision to stay alone until now, but watching Anne’s taillights as she drove out of the parking lot, he felt empty.

  Anne had been raised by loving parents. Now her father had found another love. Anne deserved nothing less. For the first time in his life, he wished he were capable of that kind of love.

  * * *

  ANNE LAY IN BED, thinking how lucky Barbara and her father had been to find one another. Her parents had a wonderful marriage until her mother died of cancer much too young.

  Now her father had found Barbara Carew and married her. He’d lucked out a second time, when Anne couldn’t seem to catch a break even once. He and her stepmother Barbara—boy, did that sound weird—were supportive, loving and working toward the same goals. They had their separate lives, but they had one another’s backs, too. Her father respected Barbara—her career, what she had accomplished and would continue to accomplish. She respected him in return.

  For Anne, that she wanted to love and be loved was a given. She had seen the love her parents shared, and the love that her dad and Barbara had found. She wanted nothing less than to feel that connection, that intimacy. Surely it was out there waiting for her somewhere. Happy marriage was possible. She’d seen it. Two people who wanted success and happiness for their partner even more than for themselves. Someone with whom you shared memory. Someone you could trust to keep your counsel. To respect you.

  How come she couldn’t seem to find someone who respected her? Oh, the few guys with whom she’d been serious started out acting as though they did. But they quickly slid her into second or third place or even lower in their lives.

  Maybe she asked for too much.

  Heck, no, she didn’t.

  Most of all, she wanted someone who listened to her and understood what she was talking about. They might not agree, but they should at least value her opinion.

  Boy, did that respect part leave Vince Peterson out. Every time she thought he was starting to treat her as a colleague, he snapped at her.

  Not that he could ever be more than a colleague, of course. He heard one voice in his head, and it was his own.

  But what about that almost-kiss in the kitchen? How would they deal with one another after a kiss? The relationship would change, but from what to what?

  Her cell phone on the bedside table blurped its nasty blurp. She really ought to change the ring tone to one she didn’t loathe. It was nearly midnight. Something was wrong.

  “Hello? What’s up?” she said.

  “Whoa. It is late. I apologize,” Vince said. “Nothing’s wrong. I wanted to thank you for tonight.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “You picked up on my signal back at the café. I’d rather not drive to Memphis alone with Becca. I’m glad you’re coming with us. And don’t forget to sit in the front seat of the van.”

  “Sure.”

  “And thanks.” He hung up.

  Anne lay back on her pillows. For some reason she felt hot all over. Residual embarrassment, no doubt.

  * * *

  VINCE HUNG UP the phone and laid his head back against his recliner. He ought to be falling asleep on his feet, but he couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Maybe a beer would help him relax. No. The effect of even that small amount of alcohol at this time of night would slow down his responses. When seconds could mean life or death for an animal, he couldn’t risk being less than on top of his game.

  He really shouldn’t have called Anne MacDonald at midnight. He’d been taught better than that. Of course, she would assume that something was wrong. Now that he knew her better, he had revised his opinion of her from down to up. He still considered her what his father would have called “uppity,” but she was conscientious and capable, if prickly. He did know how to dig an abscess out of a hoof, and he was darned sure he’d gotten all the infection from Molly’s without her input. He chortled at the memory of their skirmish with the hose—both times. The pair of them must have looked pretty funny all wet.

  She was definitely beautiful. Whoa! Where had that come from?

  He sure didn’t need any nonprofessional contacts with any female at the moment. Becca was going to be trouble enough, and she was only a kid.

  Anne was already a woman, not in any sense a kid. She was—he tried to think of a suitable word—luscious. Like a shining, sleek mare certain of her position as leader of the herd.

  He’d watched her tonight with her father. She trusted his love. Vince could never let down his guard around his own father. He never knew what would set his vicious temper off, but the old man invariably knew the buttons to push to make his family cringe. He drove his wives away one after another, and each time, he’d blame them for leaving him.

  Every time he let his temper loose, Vince could hear the echo of his father’s voice. He fought it, but he could never trust his control. He would not treat any woman as his father treated his wives. Certainly not Anne. She deserved a darned sight better than a man with “issues.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MONDAY MORNING VINCE arrived at the farm early. Becca was already packed, and both she and Anne were waiting for him. Apparently, none of the three was a morning person. Victoria came to the van to deliver three cups of coffee. She barely got a thank-you in return.

  Anne was afraid there would be a battle for the front passenger’s seat, but Vince held the door and handed Anne in before Becca could react. She slid into the rear bench seat behind Anne. Good thing Becca didn’t have laser vision. She’d have bored a hole in Anne’s backbone before they pulled out of the parking lot and headed to Memphis.

  The trip was nearly silent. Becca had her headphones on, probably cranked up to maximum, but her presence deterred conversation between Anne and Vince.

  Vince dropped Becca off at her parents’ big house outside Collierville in the late morning, saw her to the front door and waited until a maid opened it. Becca flounced in without a goodbye.

  As they drove away, Vince said to Anne, “Wasn’t that special?”

  “Cut her some slack, for Pete’s sake. She has every right to the sulks. I don’t know whether you ride horses or simply work on them, but if your whole life was centered on a saddle, you might be pretty miserable too if in one second it got snatched from under you. Okay, example. How would you feel if you were a candidate for the Heisman trophy and a multimillion-dollar contract with a pro team, and then they said you could never play football again because you’d twisted your knee?”

  “Point taken. Actually, I do ride horses at home. Although he’s mostly stuck in a wheelchair, my father still rides his old walking horse mare around the property occasionally. She’s well past twenty, but I’ve kept her sound so far. Then there are quarter horses for me and my brothers and their wives, and a couple of Welsh ponies for my brothers’ kids. They’re not fancy show horses. They wrangle cattle. The only time one of our horses ever took a fence was when some idiot cow got stuck in the barbed wire and had to be rescued before it cut its leg off.”

  “You don’t foxhunt? I know you have two good hunts down there. I read about them in the horse magazines.”

  “Galloping over unfamiliar countryside full of armadillo burrows, following a bunch of nutso hounds over tall obstacles, is not my idea of fun.”

  “What do you do for fun?”

  “Fun? Not a word I am familiar with. Is it English or some strange ancient foreign tongue? Becoming a qualified veterinarian does not leave much time for fun. I’m on call 24/7 to fill in for Barbara when she needs backup. I work every weekday and a half day Saturdays at the clinic. I can’t tell you when I last saw a movie. I don’t dare drink more than the occasional beer, because I may have an emergency to tend to. I spend my days mostly dirty and often bloody. I get stomped by bulls
and butted by goats...”

  Anne held her hands up in front of her. She was laughing. “Whoa, there. Admit it, you flat-out love it, don’t you?”

  He shrugged and grinned back at her. “Darned straight. Why do you do it?”

  “I got bit by the horse bug the first time my father held me on a pony at the zoo. I love the feel of them, the smell of them, the way they respond when I do things right and ignore me when I don’t. I love the big draft horses and the VSEs equally. It is humbling when a whole other species shares the kind of connection with human beings that we do with horses. Is that good enough for you, Doc?”

  “Good enough. Here’s The Tack Stall. Got your list of stuff Victoria needs?”

  “In my purse. You coming in?”

  “Absolutely. Can’t pass up a tack store.”

  The young woman behind the counter looked up from the dressage magazine open in front of her and smiled a welcome. “Hi, Anne. I thought you’d moved to middle Tennessee.”

  “Hey, Dee. Not quite that far. Williamston, up by the Tennessee River.”

  Then the woman’s eyes and smile widened. “Vince! Vince Peterson, as I live and breathe.” She came out from behind the counter, threw her arms round Vince’s neck and kissed him soundly before she let him go.

  Anne leaned back against the counter and chuckled at the blush his tan couldn’t conceal.

  Dee Nash slipped her hand through Vince’s arm and leaned against him. “Haven’t seen you in donkey’s years, sugar. Heard you were up in Williamston too working with Barbara Carew. What brought you down here?”

  “Running errands, picking up an X-ray machine. Anne’s working with Victoria Martin these days.