salty d rops roll freely down her cheeks.
Mitch felt his heart contract with joy and humble gratitude that this amazing woman had the knowledge needed to assist in the birth and that nature had provided the necessary extra dose of luck that every vet prayed for at such times.
A dusty sunbeam was filtering through a small window high in the log wall, and as Mitch watched, its light picked out Sara’s face, gray eyes shining silver and wet with t ears, long, curling lashes clumped on cheeks stained with dirt. Her hair, caught in its usual haphazard knot at the back of her head, was coming undone, and wispy strands curled around her ears and down her back. Straw stuck to her bloodstained coverall.
Mitch glanced bashfully at her, his own eyes suspiciously damp, and she turned her head just then and smiled at him, a watery, blazingly triumphant, ecstatic grin.
He looked into the shining glory of her face and everything in his immediate world shifted, rearranged itself. It was as if he’d been asleep all his life and suddenly awakened.
He fell totally in love with Sara Wingate at that exact moment in time.
Carol, teary and wonderfully relieved, hurried up to the house to make coffee.
“Bill promised he’d make it home before dark, and I just can’t wait to see his face when we show him the foal. I just can’t wait,” she chattered as she hurried away.
Sara struggled out of the filthy blue coverall, revealing well-worn jeans and a faded yellow T-shirt. She shook her head at the state of Mitch’s clothing.
“If you’re going to insist on being in on the vet action like this, you ought to get a coverall and keep it in your truck,” she teased him, wonderin g momentarily why he kept looking at her in that curiously intense way. Probably because she was an absolute disaster of a mess, she concluded, lifting a hand up to her hair, painfully aware all of a sudden of the state of her hands and arms and of the probable dirt on her face. She hurried over to the outside tap and filled a bucket to wash off the worst of the grime, acutely conscious of Mitch following close behind.
She always carried soap, towels and washcloths in the bag with her instrument s, and she lathered a cloth and scrubbed vigorously at her arms, dried them hurriedly, then bent forward and applied the dripping, soapy washcloth to her face and neck, closing her eyes.
They were still screwed tightly shut when she felt a warm male hand grip her wrist firmly, extract the washcloth and then gently rub it across one cheek and down her jawline.
“You missed a place right here,” he said softly, and she was aware of the deep resonance of his voice and of its slight unsteadiness. She drew her breath in sharply when his callused fingers took hold of her chin as if she were a child he was tenderly washing. There was nothing at all childish about the way his touch made her feel, however.
Her breath quickened and the pulse in her throat felt as if it were hammering wildly. The places his fingers touched felt scalded. She stood utterly still. For some obscure reason, she kept her eyes shut as he clumsily blotted her face dry, aware of how close he was to her, of his fingers still holding her chin. There was an instant when she could smell the man-scent of him, the heady combinati on of clean perspiration, cigarettes and after-shave, mingling with the more intimate, sweet and faintly beery odor of his breath as he whispered questioningly, “Sara?”
Then his lips closed over hers before there was time to answer his tentative question. His hand left her chin, came slowly up to cradle the back of her head, tilted it expertly to the exact angle he needed, and she felt the brim of his hat touch her forehead as he turned his head one way, then the other, barely brushing her lips.
“Sara,” he murmured, answering his own query, breathing her name as he kissed her more deliberately this time, and she thrilled at the note of wonder in his voice. All the
Mitch felt his heart contract with joy and humble gratitude that this amazing woman had the knowledge needed to assist in the birth and that nature had provided the necessary extra dose of luck that every vet prayed for at such times.
A dusty sunbeam was filtering through a small window high in the log wall, and as Mitch watched, its light picked out Sara’s face, gray eyes shining silver and wet with t ears, long, curling lashes clumped on cheeks stained with dirt. Her hair, caught in its usual haphazard knot at the back of her head, was coming undone, and wispy strands curled around her ears and down her back. Straw stuck to her bloodstained coverall.
Mitch glanced bashfully at her, his own eyes suspiciously damp, and she turned her head just then and smiled at him, a watery, blazingly triumphant, ecstatic grin.
He looked into the shining glory of her face and everything in his immediate world shifted, rearranged itself. It was as if he’d been asleep all his life and suddenly awakened.
He fell totally in love with Sara Wingate at that exact moment in time.
Carol, teary and wonderfully relieved, hurried up to the house to make coffee.
“Bill promised he’d make it home before dark, and I just can’t wait to see his face when we show him the foal. I just can’t wait,” she chattered as she hurried away.
Sara struggled out of the filthy blue coverall, revealing well-worn jeans and a faded yellow T-shirt. She shook her head at the state of Mitch’s clothing.
“If you’re going to insist on being in on the vet action like this, you ought to get a coverall and keep it in your truck,” she teased him, wonderin g momentarily why he kept looking at her in that curiously intense way. Probably because she was an absolute disaster of a mess, she concluded, lifting a hand up to her hair, painfully aware all of a sudden of the state of her hands and arms and of the probable dirt on her face. She hurried over to the outside tap and filled a bucket to wash off the worst of the grime, acutely conscious of Mitch following close behind.
She always carried soap, towels and washcloths in the bag with her instrument s, and she lathered a cloth and scrubbed vigorously at her arms, dried them hurriedly, then bent forward and applied the dripping, soapy washcloth to her face and neck, closing her eyes.
They were still screwed tightly shut when she felt a warm male hand grip her wrist firmly, extract the washcloth and then gently rub it across one cheek and down her jawline.
“You missed a place right here,” he said softly, and she was aware of the deep resonance of his voice and of its slight unsteadiness. She drew her breath in sharply when his callused fingers took hold of her chin as if she were a child he was tenderly washing. There was nothing at all childish about the way his touch made her feel, however.
Her breath quickened and the pulse in her throat felt as if it were hammering wildly. The places his fingers touched felt scalded. She stood utterly still. For some obscure reason, she kept her eyes shut as he clumsily blotted her face dry, aware of how close he was to her, of his fingers still holding her chin. There was an instant when she could smell the man-scent of him, the heady combinati on of clean perspiration, cigarettes and after-shave, mingling with the more intimate, sweet and faintly beery odor of his breath as he whispered questioningly, “Sara?”
Then his lips closed over hers before there was time to answer his tentative question. His hand left her chin, came slowly up to cradle the back of her head, tilted it expertly to the exact angle he needed, and she felt the brim of his hat touch her forehead as he turned his head one way, then the other, barely brushing her lips.
“Sara,” he murmured, answering his own query, breathing her name as he kissed her more deliberately this time, and she thrilled at the note of wonder in his voice. All the
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