After giving Max his nightly knucklebone, Tucker mixed himself a drink and settled at the dining room table with the phone book in hand. Harrigan. He leafed through the white pages until he found the Hs, then ran a finger down the row. Bingo. There were eight Harrigans listed, beginning with Clinton Harrigan and ending with Zachary Harrigan, but Tucker found no Samantha or S. Harrigan in the lineup.
Disappointed, he ran through the first names again—Clinton, Frank, Hugh, Mark, Parker, Paul, Quincy, and Zachary. No matter how long he stared, he could conjure up no Samantha. He had looked forward to calling her all day.
Not a man to give up so easily, he dialed Information, hoping against hope that he might get her number from an operator. Dead end. The woman who took his call said in a nasal, singsong voice, “I’m sorry, sir. There is no listing for a Samantha Harrigan.”
Tucker broke the connection, sighed, and looked down at Max. “What d’ya think, partner? Should I call her father to get her number?”
The rottweiler stopped gnawing the bone to give Tucker a bewildered look.
“I hear you. Not classy.” He considered the situation for a moment. Then he brightened. “There’s nothing wrong with calling him to see how she’s doing, though. How does that idea strike you?”
Max growled low in his throat and then went, “Woof!” The sound was so deep and vibrant, Tucker could have sworn the glass doors of the china cabinet rattled.
“Could you be more explicit? Is that a yes, a no, or a maybe?” Tucker switched his gaze to the portable phone. An image of Samantha’s lovely face flashed through his mind. Was he going to allow a little thing like an unlisted telephone number to stop him from seeing her again? Hell, no. “That fellow roughed her up pretty good,” he explained to the rottweiler. “She didn’t appear to be seriously hurt yesterday, but sometimes injuries aren’t apparent until the following day, when soreness sets in. A gentleman would call to make sure she’s all right.”
Max growled again.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m a gentleman. You think I’m not a gentleman?”
“Grrr! Woof!”
“Some friend you are. Who asked for your opinion, anyway? You’re just a dog. What do you know?”
Tucker dialed Frank Harrigan’s number. The phone rang three times. Then a man picked up and said, “Hello?”
Tucker replied, “Mr. Harrigan, this is Tucker Coulter.”
“Tucker! How’s the nose doing today?”
“Fine, just fine.” Tucker settled back in the chair, trying to convince himself he wasn’t nervous. “I, um, just called to see how Samantha’s doing. Aside from the bruise on her cheek she seemed fine yesterday, but sometimes injuries aren’t apparent until you wake up the next morning.”
“So far as I know she’s doing nicely. I haven’t actually spoken with her today. She had a little horse problem and couldn’t make it to church. When me and the boys got home, I was busy all afternoon spreading gravel on my road.”
“Oh, I see.” Tucker could feel this conversation fading away to an abrupt end. “I, um—” He broke off and swallowed hard. Why was he saying “um”? It made him sound brainless. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I would have called Samantha directly, but her number isn’t in the book.” Hint, hint. “I guess it’s unlisted.”
“She had some trouble with prank calls a while back. Her ranch number is listed, but she only gives out her personal number to a select few people.”
And Tucker wasn’t one of them. “I see. Well, that’s certainly understandable. When you see her, please tell her I called, and give her my regards.”
“Would you like it?”
Tucker snapped erect on the chair. “Her number? Yes, sir. You bet.” He hurried to the kitchen as Frank Harrigan rattled off the digits. Jerking open the junk drawer, he found a pen but no paper. “Hold on.” He ran to the library, hoping to find a piece of mail on his desk. The cleaning woman had been there. Damn. He hated when she put everything away. How was he supposed to find stuff? His hand. He could just write the number on his hand. “Okay, I’m ready. Can you give it to me again?”
Less than a minute later, Tucker was listening to Samantha’s personal line ring. He almost parted company with his skin when she said, “Hello!”
“Hi. This is Tucker.”
“I’m not in right now,” she went on. “But your call is very important to me. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
The answering machine beeped, and Tucker hung up. Then he immediately wished he hadn’t. How dumb was it to hang up without saying anything? He redialed the number, listened to the brief message again, and waited for the beep. Then he said, “Hi, Samantha. This is Tucker Coulter. I just thought I’d call and see how you’re doing. Call me back if you have a minute.”
He’d already hung up before he realized he hadn’t left his phone number. Stupid, stupid. What was it about the woman that turned his brains to mush? Exasperated with himself, he called back.
“Sorry. I don’t know where my head is tonight. I for got to give you my number.” He recited the digits; then he said good-bye and broke the connection. The moment he pressed the button, he realized he hadn’t repeated his name the second time around. “Shit.”
Max growled and went, “Woof.”
“She’ll know the second message was from me. She’ll hear them back-to-back and recognize my voice.”
Max made an O with his mouth and let loose a mournful howl.
“Shut up!” he told the dog. “You’re supposed to pump me up, build my confidence. Some friend you are. And what makes you think you’re such an expert? On your first date, you humped the lady’s head. How slick is that?”
Samantha got in just before dark, locked all the doors, set the security alarm, and then went to the kitchen to find something to eat. As she whipped up a sandwich and green salad, she listened to the messages on her home phone. Her dad had called just to say hi. Clint had phoned to ask how her eye was doing. The third message was blank, with only the sound of heavy breathing.
She paused in slicing a tomato to stare at the phone. A prank? No, Steve no longer knew her number, and only he had ever called and breathed heavily into the phone, hoping to unnerve her. The machine moved on to the next message.
“Hi, Samantha. This is Tucker Coulter.”
Samantha smiled slightly at the sound of his voice. He spoke rapidly and in fits and starts, as if he were nervous. She found that charming, but immediately clamped down on the thought. Of course he came off as being charming. Men like him practiced in front of a mirror for just that effect.
She had his number, she assured herself, and she wasn’t thinking of his phone number. That boyish charm was surely an act. Given his education, he undoubtedly came from an upper-middle-class family and had never wanted for anything, except perhaps a dash of humility. Not that she had any room to point fingers, having been born with a proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. It had been different for her, though. Her father was the salt of the earth and didn’t have a fancy bone in his body. He’d raised her to appreciate the value of a dollar, to have a good work ethic, and to judge others by their character, not by their bank balances.
Most people who had privileged childhoods thought they were special. Samantha knew better. She was just lucky. If the dice had fallen differently for her dad when he gambled on success, she could have grown up poor as a church mouse.
Tucker Coulter, on the other hand, had probably had everything handed to him all his life: good grades, lots of friends, popularity with the girls. She finished making her sandwich, wiped her hands, and stepped over to erase his messages.
Chapter Seven
Samantha rose the next morning at four, grabbed a quick shower, got dressed, confined her wildly curly hair into a French braid, and went directly to the stables without going for her daily run. Even though Jerome had promised to check on Tabasco periodically throughout the night and call her if there were any chang
es, she had barely slept for worrying about the young stallion. He’d had no more bouts with diarrhea yesterday afternoon, but he’d seemed listless and had eaten very little of his evening measure of hay. She couldn’t shake the suspicion that something was seriously wrong.
She was pleased beyond measure when Tabasco met her at the gate of his stall and nudged her shirt pocket, searching for treats. “Ah, you’re feeling better, are you?”
She ran her fingertips through the horse’s forelock as she checked to make sure his eyes were clear and bright. No sign of jaundice. She pushed up the stallion’s lip to have a look at his gums. They were still a bit pale, in her estimation, but not alarmingly so.
When the horse bumped her half off her feet, she laughed and said, “I think a day without treats is in order, Tabasco. I don’t want anything to upset your stomach again.”
The horse whickered and gave her another push.
“I know, dear heart. But let’s stick with small portions of hay and lots of fresh water for the next several hours. If you seem okay, maybe I’ll bring you something this afternoon.”
“Is he sick?”
Samantha jumped at the unexpected question. Pressing a hand to the base of her throat, she turned to see Carrie standing a few feet away. “My goodness, you startled me out of ten years’ growth. I didn’t think anyone but Jerome and me were here.”
Carrie shrugged and kicked at the powdery dirt of the arena floor. “I came in really early so I can get some of the heavier work done before it turns hot.”
Samantha glanced at her watch. It was only a quarter to five. “Sleepless night?”
Carrie gave her an intent look, and two bright spots of color flagged her pale cheeks. “Why do you ask that?”
“It’s so early, it’s still almost yesterday,” Samantha replied, quoting one of her father’s favorite sayings. “Jerome’s out loading hay to start feeding. Care to join me in his apartment for a cup of coffee and some Oreo cookies while we’re waiting?”
“I’m dieting,” Carrie replied. “Oreo cookies aren’t on the menu.”
Samantha sighed. “They aren’t on mine either, but I still like to cheat every once in a while.”
“You’re on a diet? Why, for heaven’s sake?” Carrie moved into Tabasco’s stall to give him fresh water. As she turned on the spigot, she said, “You’re already skinny as a rail.”
Samantha’s ex-husband had used precisely that expression to describe her figure, and the memory still stung. Shaking it off, Samantha replied, “I think it’s easier on the horses if I keep my weight down. I work them pretty hard when they’re training.”
Using her palm, Carrie scrubbed the sides of the rubber trough and gave it a quick rinse. “Your brothers are a lot heavier than you are, and they don’t seem concerned about their weight.”
“True,” Samantha conceded. “I’m a worrywart, I guess.”
Watching her employee refill the trough, Samantha concluded that Jerome was right: Carrie’s appearance had changed drastically. The young woman wore makeup this morning, a shade too much for Samantha’s taste, and had also curled her shoulder-length hair. Sadly, the garish red lipstick and heavy eyeliner only enhanced the masculine cut of her features.
Hoping to draw her employee into a more personal conversation, Samantha rested her arms on the stall gate. “So how did your weekend go?”
“Okay,” Carrie replied noncommittally. “I went to the rodeo Saturday afternoon and worked a shift for the nursing agency on Sunday.”
“Bummer,” Samantha said. “I’m sorry it’s necessary for you to work a second job on your days off. As soon as I’m able, I’ll increase your hours and give you a raise. I know you’re not making very much.”
“It’s enough for now.” Carrie smiled stiffly. “I live with my mom, so I don’t have to pay rent or anything. I only work the second job for spending money, not necessities. If my diet continues to work, I’ll be wanting to buy some new clothes.”
“What kind of diet are you on?” Samantha asked. Her brother Quincy, the family nutritional expert, lectured constantly against the popular high-protein regimens.
“I’m just not eating.”
Samantha didn’t like the sound of that. Carrie worked hard in the stables and needed sustenance to keep up her energy. “My brother says starving is bad for you, that it’s better to eat small, frequent meals so your metabolism doesn’t shut down.”
Carrie turned off the water. “He’s probably right. But I need to lose weight fast, and hopefully I won’t have to do this for very long. I have a salad at night. During the day I only drink water or iced tea. It’s working. I’ve already lost five pounds.”
Samantha wondered why Carrie felt it necessary to lose weight so quickly. Maybe Jerome was right, and the young woman was involved in a rocky relationship, possibly with a man who found fault with her figure. The thought saddened Samantha. No one knew better than she how miserable it was to love a man who constantly criticized. A strong urge came over her to dole out advice, but she bit her tongue. Carrie was her employee, not a close friend, and her personal life was none of Samantha’s business.
Jerome entered the arena just then, effectively ending the conversation. Samantha was nevertheless troubled as she resumed her morning chores. Carrie was a sweet, caring individual. If she was involved with a man who didn’t love her exactly as she was, she was bound to get her heart broken many times before the relationship ran its course.
Samantha had other concerns to take her mind off Carrie’s love life over the next few days. Though Tabasco had no more bouts of diarrhea and his appetite had improved a little, he wasn’t bouncing back as quickly as Samantha would have liked. She spent an inordinate amount of time standing at his stall gate, watching him.
“I think he’s going to be fine,” Jerome told her three mornings later. “He’s eating and drinking, and his feces look normal now.”
“But he isn’t back to his old self.”
“True. Whatever it was hit him hard and took a lot out of him. I had food poisoning that did me that way once. Took me damned near a week to get my strength back.”
“This couldn’t have been food poisoning. It was like that, though, wasn’t it? Almost as if some kind of contaminant got into his feed.” Samantha looked to Jerome for confirmation. “I know it’s silly, but I’ve got a bad feeling, and it just won’t go away. I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
“A bad feeling about what?” Nan Branson, a slender blonde who’d been working at Sage Creek Ranch for just under a year, joined them at the gate. Her pretty blue eyes were filled with concern. “Tabasco’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”
“Sure he is.” Jerome clasped Samantha’s shoulder. “Sam’s just doing her mother-hen thing.”
The foreman left the two women to continue the conversation without him. Nan joined Samantha in her study of the sorrel. “You don’t think somebody poisoned him, do you?”
The question startled Samantha. “Good grief, no. What makes you think that?”
Nan shrugged her thin shoulders. As Samantha often did, Nan wore her shoulder-length blond hair drawn into a ponytail that poked out through the back of her green baseball cap. “I just heard you talking to Jerome about a contaminant getting into his feed. Seems to me the only way that could happen is if someone deliberately put it there.”
The suggestion sent a cold shiver over Samantha’s skin. “Don’t even talk that way. Who’d want to poison one of my horses?”
Even as Samantha asked the question, she knew the answer. Steve. The morning their divorce had been finalized, he’d waited for her outside the courthouse. Not even the presence of her father and brothers had prevented him from spewing his venom.
The memory made Samantha feel shaky and nauseated. She pushed it away and took a deep, calming breath. Glancing at Nan, she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“No problem.” Nan tugged up the strap of her tank top, which kept slipping f
rom her shoulder. “I’d probably react the same way if someone suggested that my horse had been poisoned. Not that I think Tabasco was, mind you.” She shrugged again. “I don’t know why I even said it.”
Samantha wished she hadn’t. Now that the thought had been planted in her mind, she wasn’t at all sure she’d be able to banish it.
A shrill wolf whistle brought both women’s heads around. Kyle waved as he crossed the arena to join them. He was a handsome man, of medium height, with a stocky, muscular build, wavy black hair, and dark blue eyes. Unfortunately, in the half decade that he’d worked for Samantha, she’d learned that the thirty-four-year-old stableman was his own most devoted admirer.
“Oh, bother,” Nan whispered. “Here comes living proof that the male of our species thinks about sex every three seconds.”
Samantha tried to stifle a startled laugh and snorted air up her nostrils, which set both her and Nan to giggling.
“What’s so funny?” Kyle asked as he drew up behind them.
“Nothing,” Nan said innocently.
In his supreme self-confidence, Kyle never would entertain the notion that they might be laughing at him. He rubbed his chest, squeezing and massaging one well-toned pectoral through his white undershirt. Samantha had noticed he did that a lot. She didn’t know if it was a suggestive gesture or merely a preoccupation with his own anatomy. She only knew that watching him fondle himself made her uneasy.
The undershirt displayed an excess of darkly suntanned skin, showcasing the powerful muscles of his broad shoulders and arms. His blue jeans were so tight, he looked poured into them. Nan had once suggested that he stuffed a sock behind his fly to create the impressive bulge. Samantha suspected the fullness was real, yet another reason for Kyle to be so stuck on himself.
Samantha envied him that, in a way. How nice it would be to have no complexes. On the other hand, though, Kyle’s high opinion of his looks had the perverse effect of making others search for defects. His neck was too thick for her taste; he was built more like a brick than a triangular wedge, which she found far more attractive; and his facial features were too pretty-boy perfect for a man. The package was attractively wrapped, but there wasn’t much inside.