A Stone Creek Christmas. Linda Miller Lael
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“Did you hear that?” Olivia persisted.
Ginger turned to look at her. Gave a little yip. Today, evidently, she was pretending to be an ordinary dog—as if any dog was ordinary—incapable of intelligent conversation.
The call was coming from the ancient barn on the Starcross property.
Olivia took a moment to rest her forehead on the cold steering wheel. She’d known Brad’s friend the big-time contractor was moving in, of course, and she’d seen at least one moving truck, but she hadn’t known there were any animals involved.
“I could ignore this,” she said to Ginger.
“Or not,” Ginger answered.
“Oh, hell,” Olivia said. Then she signaled for a left turn—Stone Creek was in the other direction—and headed for the decrepit old gate marking the entrance to Starcross Ranch.
The gate stood wide open. No sheep or cattle then, probably, Olivia reasoned. Even greenhorns knew livestock tended to stray at every opportunity. Still, some kind of critter was sending out a psychic SOS from that pitiful barn.
They bumped up the rutted driveway, fishtailing a little on the slick snow and the layer of ice underneath, and Olivia tooted her horn. A spiffy new red pickup stood in front of the house, looking way too fancy for the neighborhood, but nobody appeared to see who was honking.
Muttering, Olivia brought the Suburban to a rattling stop in front of the barn, got out and shut the door hard.
“Hello?” she called.
No answer. Not from a human being, anyway.
The animal inside the barn amped up the psychic summons.
Olivia sprinted toward the barn door, glancing upward once at the sagging roof as she entered, with some trepidation. The place ought to be condemned. “Hello?” she repeated.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light, since the weather was dazzle-bright, though cold enough to crystallize her bone marrow.
“Over here,” said a silent voice, deep and distinctly male.
Olivia ventured deeper into the shadows. The ruins of a dozen once-sturdy stalls lined the sawdust-and-straw aisle. She found two at the very back, showing fresh-lumber signs of recent restoration efforts.
A tall palomino regarded her from the stall on the right, tossed his head as if to indicate the one opposite.
Olivia went to that stall and looked over the half gate to see a small, yellowish-white pony gazing up at her in befuddled sorrow. The horse lay forlornly in fresh wood shavings, its legs folded underneath.
Although she was technically trespassing, Olivia couldn’t resist unlatching the gate and slipping inside. She crouched beside the pony, stroked its nose, patted its neck, gave its forelock an affectionate tug.
“Hey, there,” she said softly. “What’s all the fuss about?”
A slight shudder went through the little horse.
“She misses Sophie,” the palomino said, from across the aisle.
Wondering who Sophie was, Olivia examined the pony while continuing to pet her. The animal was sound, well fed and well cared for in general.
The palomino nickered loudly, and that should have been a cue, but Olivia was too focused on the pony to pay attention.
“Who are you and what the hell are you doing sneaking around in my barn?” demanded a low, no-nonsense voice.
Olivia whirled, and toppled backward into the straw. Looked up to see a dark-haired man glowering down at her from over the stall gate. His eyes matched his blue denim jacket, and his Western hat looked a little too new.
“Who’s Sophie?” she asked, getting to her feet, dusting bits of straw off her jeans.
He merely folded his arms and glared. He’d asked the first question and, apparently, he intended to have the first answer. From the set of his broad shoulders, she guessed he’d wait for it until hell froze over if necessary.
Olivia relented, since she had rounds to make and a reindeer owner to track down. She summoned up her best smile and stuck out her hand. “Olivia O’Ballivan,” she said. “I’m your neighbor—sort of—and…” And I heard your pony calling out for help? No, she couldn’t say that. It was all too easy to imagine the reaction she’d get. “And since I’m a veterinarian, I always like to stop by when somebody new moves in. Offer my services.”
The blue eyes sized her up, clearly found her less than statuesque. “You must deal mostly with cats and poodles,” he said. “As you can see, I have horses.”
Olivia felt the sexist remark like the unexpected back-snap of a rubber band, stinging and sudden. Adrenaline coursed through her, and she had to wait a few moments for it to subside. “This horse,” she said when she’d regained her dignity, indicating the pony with a gesture of one hand, “is depressed.”
One dark eyebrow quirked upward, and the hint of a smile played at the corner of Tanner Quinn’s supple-looking mouth. That had to be who he was, since he’d said “I have horses,” not “we” or “they.” Anyhow, he didn’t look like an ordinary ranch hand.
“Does she need to take happy pills?” he asked.
“She wants Sophie,” the palomino said, though of course Mr. Quinn didn’t hear.
“Who’s Sophie?” Olivia repeated calmly.
Quinn hesitated for a long moment. “My daughter,” he finally said. “How do you happen to know her name?”
Olivia thought fast. “My brother must have mentioned her,” she answered, heading for the stall door and hoping he’d step back so she could pass.
He didn’t. Instead, he stood there like a support beam, his forearms resting on top of the door. “O’Ballivan,” he mused. “You’re Brad’s sister? The one who’ll be running the shelter when it’s finished?”
“I think I just said Brad is my brother,” Olivia replied, somewhat tartly. She felt strangely shaken and a little cornered, which was odd, because she wasn’t claustrophobic and despite her unremarkable height of five feet three inches, she knew how to defend herself. “Now, would you mind letting me out of this stall?”
Quinn stepped back, even executed a sweeping bow.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” the palomino fretted. “Butterpie needs help.”
“Give me a second here,” Olivia told the concerned horse. “I’ll make sure Butterpie is taken care of, but it’s going to take time.” An awkward moment passed before she realized she’d spoken out loud, instead of using mental e-mail.
Quinn blocked her way again, planting himself in the middle of the barn aisle, and refolded his arms. “Now,” he said ominously, “I know I’ve never mentioned that pony’s name to anybody in Stone Creek, including Brad.”
Olivia swallowed, tried for a smile but slid right down the side of it without catching hold. “Lucky guess,” she said, and started around him.
He caught hold of her arm to stop her, but let go immediately.
Olivia stared up at him. The palomino was right; she couldn’t leave, no matter how foolish she might seem to Tanner Quinn. Butterpie was in trouble.
“Who are you?” Tanner insisted gruffly.
“I told you. I’m Olivia O’Ballivan.”
Tanner took off his hat with one hand, shoved the other through his thick, somewhat shaggy hair. The light was better in the aisle, since there were big cracks in the roof to let in the silvery sunshine, and she saw that he needed a shave.
He