It's a Christmas Thing Page 2

  Rush was about to break his way into the house when the door opened.

  The woman on the threshold was smaller than she’d appeared in the courtroom. She was dressed in ragged jeans and a baggy, faded sweatshirt. Her blond hair, escaping from its loose ponytail, hung in damp strings around a face that was bare of makeup. A small gash above her left eyebrow was oozing blood. There was no cat in sight. But a grizzled tan dog, some kind of pit bull mix, was eyeing Rush as if it wanted to rip his throat out.

  Maybe he had the wrong house. Or the wrong woman.

  * * *

  The man staring down at Tracy was drop-dead gorgeous—tall, with dark brown hair and dark eyes set in a George Clooney face. The logo on the Hummer parked out front, along with the medical bag in his hand, reminded her that he must be from the mobile vet service she’d called. But why did he look so familiar? Surely, if she’d met him before, she’d remember him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m . . . fine.” She steadied herself with a hand on the door frame. “Why should you ask?”

  “Because you’re bleeding.” His gaze went to the tender spot where her head had struck the drainpipe under the sink. She touched it gingerly. Her fingers came away smeared with blood.

  “I’m here about a sick cat,” he said. “But you look like you could use some attention first—you are Judge Emerson, right?”

  “Right. Tracy.” How had he known she was a judge? There were some missing pieces to this puzzle. “Come on in,” she said, opening the door wider.

  “Will that be all right with him?” He glanced down at the dog, who’d placed his body between his mistress and the stranger in the doorway.

  “Don’t worry about Murphy. He looks tough, but he’s really an old softy.” She scratched the dog’s ears. “It’s all right, old boy. Go and lie down.” Murphy thumped his tail and drooled on her bare foot before curling up in his bed by the fireplace.

  Tracy stepped aside to let Dr. Gorgeous into the house. For a long time after Steve’s death, she’d had no desire to look at a man in an admiring way. Even now, after eighteen months, the slightest glance jabbed her with guilt.

  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.

  If he had any sense, he would treat the cat, walk away, and forget her.

  Tracy dropped to her hands and knees, raised the bed ruffle
, and peered under the bed. “I see her,” she said. “But I can’t reach her, and she isn’t coming to me.”

  “Try this.” Rush took a small can of salmon-flavored cat food out of his bag, peeled back the lid, and held it out to Tracy. “Put this where she can smell it.”

  Tracy took the opened can and placed it a few inches from the bed. “Come and get it, kitty,” she coaxed. “Come on. I know you’re hungry.”

  Slowly and timidly, a small calico cat with matted fur crept out from under the bed, headed for the cat food, and began gulping it down in ravenous bites. Tracy knelt beside her, watching. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “She wouldn’t be eating like that if she was sick,” Rush said. “I won’t know for sure until I’ve examined her, but I can tell you one thing just by looking at her.”

  “What’s that?” Tracy asked, gazing up at him.

  “Look at that round belly on her. Unless I miss my guess, your cat’s going to become a mother.”

  Chapter 2

  “She’s pregnant?” Tracy stared at the handsome vet.

  “It certainly looks that way. I won’t know for sure till I’ve examined her. But first, let’s give her a minute to finish eating. Aside from that belly, she’s skin and bones. I’d say she’s been on her own a while, and that she’s had a pretty rough time of it.”

  “Poor little mama.” Tracy stroked the cat’s bumpy spine with a fingertip. “When I opened the door, she came right in. She lapped up the milk I gave her like she was starving.”

  “That’s something I meant to tell you,” Rush said. “Milk isn’t the best thing for her. Most adult cats are lactose intolerant. She’ll be better off with water and cat food, like these sample cans I’m going to leave with you—that is, if you plan to keep her.”

  “Keep her?” Tracy hadn’t thought that far ahead. She’d never planned to take in another pet, let alone a cat. But how could she put the poor thing and her little family-to-be out in the cold?

  “There’s a shelter in Cottonwood Springs. You could take her there if you don’t want her.”

  Tracy kept stroking the cat. “That sounds so heartless—dumping her off to have her babies in a cage—if they even let her live that long. I’ve never wanted a cat, but—oh!” A low rumble quivered through the bony little body. “Oh, listen! She’s purring!”

  A smile tugged at the vet’s mouth. He pulled on the disposable latex gloves he’d taken from his bag. “Something tells me you’ve got yourself a cat,” he said.

  “For now, I guess.” Tracy shook her head. “I never planned this. But at least I can give her a warm, safe place to have her babies.”

  “Well then, let me check her out and make sure she’s healthy. Then we can talk about what you’ll need for her. Will she be all right with the dog?”

  Tracy rubbed the cat under the chin, feeling the purr vibrate beneath her fingertips. “Murphy’s never been a cat-chaser. These days, he barely has the energy to hobble outside and do his business.”

  “If you’d like, I can give him a quick checkup while I’m here—no charge.”

  “Thanks. That’s very generous of you, Dr. Rushford.”

  “Everybody calls me Rush. I hope you will, too.”

  “And the J. T. part of your name? What does that stand for?”

  “That,” he said, frowning, “is a family secret. Now let’s have a look at the cat.”

  * * *

  Rush picked up the cat with his gloved hands. The little calico tried to struggle, but she was too weak to offer much resistance as he checked her body, her gums, and her rectal temperature. Perched on the edge of the bed, Tracy watched him with a worried gaze. Rush could tell she’d already become attached to the bedraggled creature. When the cat started purring, her eyes had been as full of wonder as a little girl’s.

  He remembered seeing her on the bench in her black robe, stern, dignified, and completely in charge. This tender, vulnerable woman was the last thing he’d expected to find when he’d driven up to her house this morning. Something told him he was already in trouble. But he’d be a fool to fall for a widow who was still mourning her husband.

  Today’s visit would be strictly professional.

  “The cat’s pregnant for sure,” he said. “I’d say she’s probably due in the next few days. Otherwise, aside from being undernourished and dehydrated, she seems okay. I’m going to give her some worm medicine—it’s fenbendazole, a kind that won’t hurt her kittens. She’ll need vaccinations, too, but those can wait.”

  “What do I need to get for her?” Tracy asked as Rush dropped the medicine into the squirming cat’s mouth.

  “She’ll need a box in a quiet place, with something soft inside, like an old blanket or towel. She’ll also need a water bowl and a dish for wet food, like the kind I’ll leave you. And she’ll need a litter box—with any luck, she’ll know how to use it. Shop Mart should have everything you need.”

  “I can set her up in the laundry room.” Tracy glanced at her watch. “I’m due in court at one thirty. It’s barely eleven o’clock now. That should give me plenty of time for a run to Shop Mart.”

  Rush released the cat on the floor. She slunk back under the bed. “Now that she’s eaten, she’ll be ready for a long nap,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to worry about her for a while.”

  “What about the kittens?” Tracy looked anxious. “What do I do when she . . . what do you call it? Goes into labor?”

  “Relax. Cats are good mothers. She’ll know what to do. You won’t even need to be there, unless you want to.”

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  “It shouldn’t. But if anything worries you, you’ve got my number. Don’t hesitate to call me, even if it’s in the middle of the night.”

  She laughed. “You may regret making that offer.”

  Try me, lady, anytime. Rush knew better than to voice that thought. He stripped off his gloves and pulled on a fresh pair. “Now what do you say we check your dog?”

  The aging pit bull mix was asleep in the living room, where they’d left him. At the sound of voices, he opened his eyes and thumped his tail.

  “Hello, Murphy.” Kneeling, Rush stroked the dog to get him comfortable before the exam. “How old is he?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Tracy said. “Steve had him before we met. Murphy was the ring bearer at our wedding. But even then, he wasn’t a young dog. I’d guess he’s at least fifteen or sixteen.”

  Rush gazed into the old dog’s eyes. “He’s got cataracts. From the look of them, I’d say he’s almost blind. Does he bump into things?”

  “Sometimes. But the house is familiar. Most of the time, he manages to sniff his way around. But if anything unexpected gets in his way . . .” She shook her head, a lock of blond hair falling loose from the clip that held it at the crown of her head. “Is there anything you can do? What about cataract surgery, like they do on humans?”

  Tears were welling in her eyes. Damn, this isn’t going to be easy.

  “It’s been done on animals. But Murphy’s an old man, close to ninety in human years. Even if he were to survive the surgery, he’d be miserable afterward. As long as he can find his way around the house, that’s about the best you can expect.”

  “Oh.” The word was a whispered sigh.

  Rush gently pried open the dog’s mouth. There were just a few teeth. At least one of them looked infected. No way to pull it without anesthesia, and Murphy was too old to sedate safely. “Can you get him up and walking?” Rush asked.

  Tracy backed off a few steps. “Come here, Murphy,” she coaxed. Murphy hauled himself to his feet and hobbled toward his mistress while Rush studied his labored gait.

  “That’s far enough, old boy.” Rush’s hands explored the old dog’s arthritic joints and bony body. There was no sign of a lump that might suggest a tumor. That, at least, was good news. “How’s his appetite?”

  “Fine. He doesn’t eat a lot, but he always eats something.” Tracy
sounded defensive, as if she might be bracing herself to deny bad news.

  “His arthritis is pretty bad—something you’d expect in a dog his age. I can tell he’s in pain. I’m going to write you a prescription for a joint supplement called Cosequin. It won’t cure him, but it should make it easier for him to get around. I’ve got some samples at home. I can drop them off later for you to try before you spend the money.”

  “Thank you.” She looked so hopeful that Rush was tempted to leave things like that. But if he didn’t tell her the whole truth, he wouldn’t be doing his job.

  “The medicine should help him feel better,” he said. “But he’s an old dog. Life isn’t much fun for him anymore. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to face the—”

  “No!” Tracy’s voice quivered. “I won’t stand for having him put down! Don’t even talk to me about it.”

  “Tracy, you can’t stop time—”

  “Don’t you understand?” The tears in her eyes spilled over.

  “Murphy was my husband’s dog. Steve loved him, and so do I. He’s all I have left of our time together. When he’s gone—all those memories—”

  “I understand.” From where he stood, Rush could see the photo on the mantel—the all-American couple on the beach with their dog. Tracy was an appealing woman. But Rush had gotten the message loud and clear. She was strictly off-limits.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t bring it up again,” he said. “At least not until you’re ready.”

  “Thank you.” She swallowed hard, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.

  Rush handed her the prescription he’d written. “I can drop off the Cosequin samples when I come back to town this afternoon. Would that work for you?”

  “I’ll be at the courthouse until five o’clock. You can leave them there, with the receptionist. There’s no need for you to come by the house.”

  “Fine.” Rush glanced at Murphy, who’d hobbled back to his bed again. “Any more questions before I leave?”

  “Just one. How much do I owe you?”

  “Since you took in the cat as a Good Samaritan, we’ll call it no charge.”