Tennessee Vet Read online

  “Indeed I did not. It hit me. I wasn’t driving fast, not on these roads, when I’ve barely moved in to The Hovel after driving up here this morning, then back to Memphis to pick up my stuff and right back here. I thought some kind of pterodactyl was about to yank me out of the car. One minute nothing, the next this thing appears in front of me and whomp!”

  “Take off the grille,” Barbara said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “These cars carry fancy toolkits, don’t they? Let’s see if we can keep him alive long enough to get him out of there.” She stood and walked back toward the barn.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some towels and heavy gloves. If we do get him loose, we’ll have to wrap him up tight. He’s going to come out of there fighting like a dragon, no matter how badly he’s hurt. You have any heavy driving gloves?”

  “In the glove compartment.”

  “Get ’em.” She pointed at the car. “Unscrew that grille, please. Carefully. Stay out of talon or beak range. He’ll take your head off as soon as he looks at you. He’s certain this is your fault. Eagles aren’t noted for forgiveness. They prefer punishment, preferably death by devouring.”

  Wearing leather gauntlets, Barbara returned with an armload of heavy towels. “Whoa!” she snapped as the eagle screamed again. “Calm down, you. We’re trying to help.”

  The eagle stared at her with insane black eyes, but stopped thrashing momentarily, almost as though it understood. Barbara knew it did not. More likely, it was gathering itself to try to break free and savage the people who were attempting to save it.

  “I think the left wing is broken—see how twisted it is hanging between the struts on the grille?” she asked.

  “There is no way I can unscrew this grille. The grille has not been off since it came from the showroom years ago. This car is a genuine antique. It’s as rusted as I am.”

  “Can you actually cut those struts? Ease it off him?” She expected horror. In the lights, she could tell the car was a classic, beautifully maintained.

  That grille would cost a fortune and probably take weeks to replace.

  Instead, the man said, “Do you have some heavy-duty bolt cutters?”

  “Be right back.”

  Not one howl of complaint from him. Hmm. Even if he did drive a silly car and hit birds with it. She handed him her largest bolt cutters.

  “Show me where to cut,” he said.

  “I’m not altogether certain. Need to get him loose but keep hold of him so he doesn’t flap himself to death.” For a long minute vet and eagle stared one another in the eye, then Barbara nodded. “Yeah. I’m going to try something that should work for the short haul.” She took a small towel and tossed it over the eagle’s head, covering its eyes. Instantly it stopped fighting. “Now, cut here and here. Fast. It’ll take him less than a minute to realize he isn’t actually hooded. Can you manage alone?”

  The man actually growled at her, as if she’d impugned his masculinity. “Hang in there, big guy,” he whispered. “We’re trying to help you.” He grunted with the effort of snapping the grille. “We’re not about to let you die on us.”

  The grille snapped and snapped again. Possibly all to the good that it was old.

  Man’s got muscles, I’ll say that for him. And it almost sounded as though he was commanding the bird to survive. “Hold the feet, avoid the talons,” Barbara said. “I don’t want to have to sew you up, too. With luck I’ll get him out fast and swaddle him tight.”

  Getting him actually loose didn’t prove to be as difficult as Barbara had thought. “I wish I had a real raptors’ hood,” she said as she held the bird, snugly, under one arm, while she kept the towel taut over the eagle’s head. “If I can keep his head covered until we get him on the table, I can give him a little gas. Then we’ll see what’s going on. Come on. We need to move fast.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  STEPHEN MACDONALD GLANCED at the pieces of his grille lying on the tarmac of the parking lot. Small price to pay to save this living creature. He now understood what an eagle eye was. The bird had glared at him as though to say, “This is your fault. Fix it!” He was already too involved, as though his life had become intertwined with the eagle’s. He’d been helpless to save Nina, watching her fade away. And he hadn’t been able to heal his own injuries, either. Somehow, he had to help this wounded creature. That was nuts, but it was the way he felt.

  He followed Barbara toward the back door of the clinic.

  He’d managed to hold the eagle’s feet until the doctor had the bird free. He gave thanks for his fancy driving gloves. The thing’s talons looked as long as a grizzly bear’s and twice as sharp.

  The motion-sensor lights stayed on, so they could see where they were walking.

  “Hey,” Dr. Carew called, “I need a hand here. Open the back door of the clinic, turn on the lights on the left, open the door to exam room one and help me get this sucker on the table. Now! Before he kills me.”

  And he thought his daughters were bossy. He hobbled as fast as he could and opened the back door of the clinic, then realized he’d left his cane in the car. He felt for the light switch, found himself in a hall with doors on either side, opened the first one, turned on that light and got out of the vet’s way.

  “I had no idea they were this big,” Stephen said. The eagle wasn’t fighting at the moment. It was, however, dripping blood from a gash in one of its legs—what would have been the drumstick in a turkey.

  “Here, hold him still.” Barbara brought up some sort of plastic mask and stuck the eagle’s beak into it. Amazingly enough, it had not dislodged the towel covering its eyes, so it was lying quietly.

  “These guys are not as tough as you’d think,” Barbara said. “When people talk about bird bones, they aren’t kidding. We need to x-ray that wing and see if anything else is busted. Internal injuries, fractured skull. I’m amazed he made it this long. Come on. Help me carry him to the X-ray room. He’s heavier than he looks.”

  Together, they managed to get the bird situated on the X-ray table. Barbara pulled an X-ray shield over her shoulders and handed one to him.

  “Do we have to wait while you develop the pictures?” Stephen asked as he settled the shield in front of his chest.

  “Comes up on the screen right here. Animals don’t wait while you develop anything. Want to see what you did?”

  “I keep telling you it hit me.”

  “I know. You’re the innocent victim. Hold him down. I have to stretch that wing out far enough to see the bones. We don’t dare let him go. See that?” she said and pointed to the screen. “Looks like a clean break to that left wing. I’m not seeing any other breaks, but that cut on the thigh needs to be cleaned and stitched. He needs antibiotics. Too soon to talk about internal injuries, but I don’t see anything obvious. Maybe a concussion, but apparently not a fractured skull. You, sir—” she nodded to the eagle “—are one lucky bird.”

  “How do you fix the wing?”

  “I’ll straighten it as much as I dare, try to line the bones up, fold it correctly and tape it tight to his body for tonight. Then tomorrow, if he makes it, we’ll see whether he can get by with a splint or whether we’ll need to pin it. Come on, he’s waking up. We need a trifle more happy gas, then we stitch, give him antibiotics, strap that wing in place, put him down in a nice tight cage so he doesn’t flail and worry about him all night.”

  “Isn’t there anything else you can do to stabilize the wing right now? You have the X-rays. Can’t you at least splint it?”

  She glanced at him from under her eyebrows. “Ever hear of swelling, doctor? Birds are notorious for going into shock and dying on you. I’m not about to put more pressure on him until we’re sure he’s going to survive the night. How many eagles have you worked on?”

  “None. But...”

  Barbar
a turned to him. “I would suggest you say a few earnest prayers he survives, because, if we lose this eagle, you owe the United States a big fat fine for hitting him.” He started to speak, but she held up her hands to forestall him. “Who are you, anyway? And how do you know Emma?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I’M STEPHEN MACDONALD,” he said. “Emma and Seth’s new tenant. And why should I owe the government anything? It hit me.”

  “It’s a bird. And you’re a human being—the one with the big brain and the opposable thumbs. Heck of an introduction to the neighborhood.”

  Stephen watched Barbara clean and close the eagle’s cut with small, neat stitches. He’d never been fond of the sight of blood, but then usually it came from a scrape or a bloody nose on one of his daughters. This was different. This woman was obviously good at what she did. His own blood hadn’t bothered him after the accident that had nearly cost him a leg, but then, he’d been in shock and unconscious for the worst part—the part when the surgeons had worked to keep him alive and with both legs attached to his body.

  He realized that he didn’t even know what this vet looked like. At first, she’d been behind her flashlight, then he’d been paying so much attention to the eagle he hadn’t even glanced at her, and now she was wearing a surgical mask.

  She finished her stitching, and between them they moved the eagle—already stirring—into a cage. “I have to clean up the mess,” she said. She pulled off her mask and tossed it into the trash receptacle, then turned to look at him.

  He felt a jolt go through his solar plexus. She was probably five foot five and not model-thin. He guessed in her thirties. Chestnut-brown hair was pulled back in a scrunchie, but escaping in tendrils around her face.

  Those eyes. Extraordinary. The color of Barbados rum with flecks of what looked like 24-carat gold in them. They were wide eyes, as though she could take in the whole world without turning her head the way that eagle could. Wise, aware eyes, as though she’d seen it all and knew she could handle it. He had a feeling that she didn’t simply look, she saw. Not a beautiful face, exactly, but he didn’t think he’d forget those high cheekbones or that broad forehead. His first impression was that she was a person of value. Worth knowing. He also noted that she had great legs.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m spitting cotton and hungry as a coyote,” she said. “You do with some sweet tea and a pimento cheese sandwich? It’s homemade.”

  “I could probably eat the coyote. I was headed to the overnight gas station to get some snacks when I hit our friend in there. I didn’t have sense enough to go to the grocery before I drove back up here from Memphis this afternoon. I’m not used to having to think about those things ahead of time. In town I’m five minutes away from a supermarket. Here, the closest place is eight miles away.”

  “You get used to planning ahead.” As she chatted, she straightened, cleaned, put instruments into the sterilizer, scrubbed down the table and tossed her trash. “I can go over all this again and scrub the floors tomorrow morning. Come on.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay with him tonight?” Stephen asked.

  Barbara shook her head. “We’ve done all we can do before morning. He needs to rest.” She turned out the lights, locked the clinic and flashed her light on Stephen’s mauled grill. “Sorry about your car. I think you can drive it, though. He doesn’t seem to have punctured the radiator or slashed any hoses. After I feed us, I’ll follow you home to be sure you get there.”

  “You don’t...”

  “All part of the service. Sorry, my apartment’s off the back of the barn.”

  He followed her out of the clinic, across the parking lot, through the barn and to a door at the end. With all but a couple of lights off, he couldn’t see much of the animals in the stalls, but he heard a couple of horses snoring. “I’ll be glad to stay with him and let you get some sleep. I can call you if—”

  “If what? You don’t know what you’re looking at. I promise you there is nothing more I can do tonight. It’s up to him. He’s alive, which is amazing. ’Course, he may never be able to be released back into the wild...”

  “After you fix his wing and he convalesces, of course you can release him.”

  “Not necessarily. Come in.” She turned on lights in her apartment. He followed her in.

  “Bathroom’s down that hall past the bedroom,” she said and pointed. “Look, I have no idea at this point whether I can fix his wing or not. It may not knit properly or at all. It may have to be amputated.”

  He was halfway down the hall, but he spun to look at her. “No! You can’t do that. He has to fly again. Be whole again.”

  “Don’t freak, Mr. MacDonald. Even if he can’t fly, he’ll live a comfortable life in one of the zoo’s animal training programs. He’ll be well fed and possibly even find another mate.”

  “Another mate?”

  “Bird his age will almost certainly have a mate. I assume he belongs up at Reelfoot Lake. No idea how he got down here. He and his family are probably nesting in the same nest they’ve used for fifty years or longer.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not at all. Eagles keep their nests. There’s a nest on a river in the Grand Tetons that they think has been there a couple of hundred years.”

  “He’s hurt, broken, possibly disabled, not knowing where his mate is or whether his eaglets are surviving, unable to care for them and he may spend his life in a cage. Being stared at and pitied, unable to fly free. What kind of life is that for him? I should have let him die.” A wave of depression washed over him. He’d learned to fight it most of the time by refusing to feel anything at all, but this depression was for another creature, one whose situation was too close to his own. How did he guard against that?

  “You do know what anthropomorphism means, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Of course I do. It’s giving human characteristics to animals. The more research is done, however, the more we find there is precious little difference between us and them. He has to fly again. Find his way back.”

  “So he can land and say, ‘Honey, I’m home?’ All I can do is my best, Mr. MacDonald. Now, about that sandwich.”

  * * *

  OF ALL THE crazy ways to spend an evening, Barbara thought as she spread mayonnaise on slices of the French baguette she’d picked up at the bakery in Williamston. She was always as ravenous after a difficult surgery as if she’d bicycled twenty miles or run a marathon. Her body had long since used up whatever energy she’d gained from that second-rate diet meat loaf.

  She glanced up from the kitchen island where she was working. MacDonald was pacing around her living room staring at the books on the shelves. Lots of shelves, lots of books. Not in matching leather bindings. Not alphabetized. Her books and John’s were as intermingled as they had been the day he died.

  Barbara had a simple filing system. Total recall.

  When she and John had built the barn and created their apartment, they’d planned to give themselves plenty of room for books. Originally, they’d planned a big deck off the back, but after John had died she’d never gotten around to it. Or to anything else domestic for that matter. Who had the time? Or the interest when there was no one to share it with.

  She saw the room as Stephen saw it. It was squeaky clean, but all it needed was a thick layer of dust and a bunch of hanging cobwebs to turn it into Miss Havisham’s wedding feast in Dickens’s Great Expectations. And she acknowledged the truth—that she hadn’t yet built the deck because finishing a project alone that she and John had planned together seemed like a betrayal. She’d never admit to a soul that she felt that way. Her friends, her clients and even her children talked about how well she had coped with John’s loss, how she had kept growing and changing. She knew better. Emotionally, she was as empty as she had been the day John died. She told herself she was happy being alone with no one to an
swer to except her children and her clients.

  But sometimes in the night, when she reached for the place beside her where once she had felt John’s chest rise and fall, she hated knowing that she’d never love again.

  Her fallback position was physical and mental exhaustion. She considered herself meticulous when it came to keeping the clinic immaculate. But when half the time she fell into bed after working flat out for twelve or more hours, it really didn’t matter when the coffee table had last been dusted. She managed to keep the kitchen and bathroom clean and the papers and magazines at least in separate piles, but that was as far as it went.

  She wasn’t exactly embarrassed to have Stephen MacDonald scrub up in her bathroom, but this MacDonald guy in his vintage Triumph and polo shirt with the proper logo on it did not belong either in Emma’s rental cottage or Barbara’s apartment.

  When he came back from the bathroom, she saw he had run water over his face and hair as well as scrubbed his hands and forearms.

  She took her first good look at him. Oh, boy. Talk about the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood! Grandmother, what big eyes you have. And how bright blue. She didn’t think his eyes were the result of those fake colored contacts, but you never knew.

  Further perpetuating the wolfish image was his short gray hair and what Shakespeare would have called a “lean and hungry” look. Actually, she seemed to recall Shakespeare was talking about an assassin. He stood a bit over six feet tall and had kept his stomach flat. Golf, maybe. Barbara sucked in her own stomach on a big breath, but she couldn’t hold it in for long.

  “Sorry, I made kind of a mess,” he said. “I tried to get the blood out of my khakis. Unsuccessfully.”

  “When you get back to The Hovel, put everything into the washer on cold. If there is anything I know about, it’s how to get blood out of cloth.”

  “Does it ever bother you?” He propped himself up on the wall beside the refrigerator and stuck his hands into his damp pockets.