It's a Christmas Thing (The Christmas Tree Ranch #2)(4)

Especially today.

“Let’s have a look at your head,” the vet said. “Do you mind moving into the light?” Tracy recalled his name now, from the business card she’d picked up at the library. It was Dr. J. T. Rushford. But she still couldn’t remember where she’d seen him before. Heaven save her, how could any woman forget that face?

Standing with her by the window, he examined the oozing lump on her forehead. “That’s a nasty little gash but I don’t think it’s bad enough to need stitches. While I clean it, maybe you can tell me what happened. Not that it’s any of my business, but something tells me it might be an interesting story.”

“You wouldn’t believe it.” Her laugh sounded more like a whimper as he dabbed the wound with an antiseptic pad he’d taken from his bag.

“Try me.”

“Well . . . This is going to sound so stupid.” She took a deep breath. “Just before you returned my call, I’d discovered that the kitchen sink drain was clogged. I tried using a plunger. That didn’t work, but I figured I still had time to fix the problem before you’d show up. I got a wrench and a bucket and crawled under the cabinet to take the trap apart.”

“I’m impressed. You must be a handy lady.” He found a Band-Aid in his bag and tore off the wrapper.

“It doesn’t take a man to unscrew a pipe connection. And doing it myself beats paying a plumber.”

“I hear you.” He laid the Band-Aid over the gash above her eyebrow. Even the light pressure of his fingers made her wince. “Sorry,” he said. “After I leave, you might want to put a cold pack on it—a bag of frozen vegetables works fine for that. Meanwhile, I can’t wait to hear the rest of the story.”

Tracy fingered the Band-Aid, feeling the swollen soreness beneath. “I was under the sink, on my back, with the bucket under the trap, when this mouse came out of nowhere and ran right across my chest.”

“You’re kidding!” He chuckled. “I’ll bet that scared you.”

“Not really. I’m not afraid of mice. But it did startle me. I let out a yelp, sat straight up, and banged my head on the pipe so hard that my ears rang. The bucket tipped over and went rolling across the floor—and then, when I heard the doorbell, I knocked over a stool while getting up. If you heard it fall, you probably thought the place was under attack.”

“That did cross my mind. I was about to charge in and save you when you opened the door.” His gaze narrowed. “Do you feel dizzy? Does your head still hurt?”

“Are you saying I could have a concussion?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to check. Let me have a look at your eyes.” His hand cupped her jaw, tilting her face toward him. As he leaned closer, Tracy felt her pulse kick into overdrive. Everything about the man was attractive.

“I thought you came to see the cat,” she said. “Can’t you get in trouble for practicing on humans without a license?”

“Only if you report me. Here, hold still and look up at me, right into my eyes.”

Tracy forgot to breathe as his gaze locked with hers. His eyes were the color of dark chocolate with flecks of caramel in their depths. Her throat tightened. Shimmering threads of heat trickled downward through her body.

Maybe she did have a concussion. At least it might explain the subtle urges flowing through her—almost as if she wanted this stranger, a man she’d barely met, to bend closer and . . .

But this was all wrong. When Steve died, her heart had died with him. That she could respond to another man—any man—was unthinkable, especially today, on the date of their sixth wedding anniversary.

*

She had hazel eyes—blue and green and gold, all the colors in one. Her lashes were dark, with a sheen of unshed tears. And her soft, vulnerable mouth was as tempting as . . .

What was he thinking? Lay an unprofessional hand on the woman, and his career could be over. At the very least he’d get his face deservedly slapped.

Rush forced himself to lower his hands and step away from her. “Your pupils look fine,” he said. “No dilation. But if you get headaches or feel confused, don’t hesitate to call your doctor.”

She gave him a shaky laugh. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Well, then the next question is, where’s your cat?” Rush scanned the living room, which was tasteful and cozy, with overstuffed furniture, colorful cushions, and a wall of shelves filled with books and memorabilia. His gaze lingered on the mantel, where an eight-by-ten framed photo showed a younger Tracy with her husband and their dog on a beach, looking as if nothing could ever go wrong in their happy lives.

The dog, older now, his muzzle gone white, lifted his head and wagged his tail, as if aware that Rush was looking at him.

“Good boy,” Rush said. The dog put his head down and closed his eyes. Still no sign of the cat.

“She isn’t really my cat,” Tracy said. “As I told you on the phone, she just showed up on my doorstep, but I could tell she needed help.”

“And you had a soft heart. Where does she like to hide?”

“She likes closets. But her favorite place seems to be under my bed.”

“Lead the way. I’ll let you do the checking.”

Bag in hand, he followed her down the hall and waited in the doorway while she looked for the cat under her bed—an old-fashioned four-poster covered with a bright patchwork quilt that looked as if somebody’s grandma had pieced it with a loving hand. On a nightstand next to the bed was another framed photo, this one a headshot of her husband—chiseled features, blue eyes, and a TV newscaster’s smile. The man would be a hard act to follow, Rush mused—especially since it appeared that Tracy was still very much married to her late husband.