CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Calvin~
The look on Amber’s face when she saw those nasty old boots were gone was utterly priceless. He had come into the vestibule in time to hear her wondering if she should keep her boots and gloves if she didn’t know who had sent them. By now, Patrick should have told Heather she had.
It was the work of a moment to slip outside and throw those boots into the dumpster and cover them up. Not as if there was much holding those worn soles on. The stitching was shot. So was the waterproofing. Even after a whole day of drying indoors, they were still soaking wet.
Amber was risking frostbite and arthritis by working in wet socks and thin worn out gloves in subfreezing temperatures. She would be far more comfortable in those waterproof boots he had found online. FedEx had done a splendid job of delivering them on time.
The only fly in the ointment was that while he was spying on her, Prescott had scooped up the girl and taken her home. Not that she seemed any too eager for Calvin’s company. What he ought to have done was found some job that would have kept Prescott working late. But he hadn’t, so he might as well head home.
The big house was warm and welcoming. Rosa was making dinner in the kitchen and had a kiss and a hug for him. Dad was relaxing in the living room with Laura and Steve and a pair of women. Strangers, for all they had glasses of wine in their hands. The twins were asleep in matching bassinets, but when he would have picked Kenny up Laura warned him off with a hard look.
“She just got them down,” whispered Steve.
“Hey, Cal,” Dad called. “Come meet our new vets. Dr. Amanda Arruta, and Dr. Sophia Franklin.”
Calvin smiled as the women stood up. Extended his hand. Shook. “Veterans or veterinarians?”
“Both,” said Dr. Arruta briskly. “At least I am.” She was a sturdy, capable looking female with short, no-nonsense dark hair and incongruous dimples in her rather severe face. Her crisp navy tunic and pants looked like a uniform.
Arruta eyed him critically from head to toe and found him wanting. “Your father tells me you’re in the Reserves.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Major. Marine Corps. Retired.” Scorn tautened her features. Arruta sat down.
Dr. Franklin looked softer. Sleeker. Her blonde hair was worn loose around her shoulders. She was wearing makeup. Not a lot, but enough to give her rosy cheeks and long lashes. Her camel-colored slacks were set off by a chocolate turtleneck. She smiled at him, shook hands and sat back down. She sipped at her wine glass.
His nose told him Arruta was a grizzly bear and Franklin a mountain lion. Lioness. What was up with that? In Clive’s day, the no-shifter rule had been strictly enforced. But Laura was a changed woman since her marriage.
Laura raised her glass of sparkling water. “Amanda and Sophia are going to split Dad’s workload,” she announced. “Welcome to the Double B, ladies. I hope you will both be happy here.”
Calvin found a glass and poured himself some of the red the veterinarians were drinking. “Welcome.” So these were the vets who were going to give Dad the time be a grandfather and granduncle. He was on board with that, whether or not they were shifters.
Laura began to inquire about their accommodations – they were apparently staying in the main house until their apartments in town were ready. In the buzz of conversation Cal moved over to admire the twins. Bigger every day. Not like Patrick’s three. Steve wandered over and indicated he wanted to talk. They slipped away to Steve’s office.
“So what do you think of our new horse doctors?” Steve asked when the door was shut.
“They seem fine. At least Dr. Franklin does. Maj. Arruta must just have woken up cranky from hibernation. But I thought they weren’t due for another week.”
Steve laughed. “Arruta pulled rank on me too. I don’t mind. Must be hard being a Latina working a male-dominated profession like large animal husbandry.”
“Maybe. More likely she thinks only Marines are real service people.”
“Could be. They’re here early because Freddie and I put our heads together and figured out what their former employers wanted in order to release them early.”
“Which was?” Cal asked curiously.
“Moses Bingley wanted to breed his championship Angus to Laura’s Evergreen Boy. And Colorado Agricultural Products is run by a good old boy who wanted a donation to the CU football team. The ladies settled for a month’s pay as a bonus for hurrying up their move.”
“Win-win,” Cal agreed. “That what you hauled me away from my niece and nephew to say?”
“Hell, no. I wanted to tell you what I found out about Lancelot Jefferson Prescott.”
“Lance-fucking-lot?” What the hell kind of sissy name was that?
Steve laughed. “Good Southern name.”
Calvin threw himself into a chair. “What about him?” Maybe Steve had found the goods on that fortune hunting bastard.
Steve picked up a printout. “Born and raised in Falkirk, Tennessee. Enlisted in the Marines after high school. Spent four years in Recon.”
Calvin’s brows rose. Recon was the Marine Corps most elite group. You didn’t make Recon without some serious commitment and training, and balls of steel.
“Had one too many missions. Was badly injured on the last one. Blown to hell and gone. That’s when his eye was damaged. He got a medical discharge and sent home with a chestful of medals. Psychiatrists expected him to eat his gun.”
Calvin wasn’t about to ask how Steve had gotten a look at Prescott’s military records, let alone his medical charts, both of which should have been confidential. “Guess he wasn’t that hungry,” Calvin said. Well, didn’t that suck? Lance was a genuine US hero.
Steve nodded. “There were incidents, however, at home in Falkirk. Police were called. No charges, but his wife left him, sued for divorce, and married his first cousin.”
“Christ on a crutch. What a thing to do!”
“That’s when he came out to Colorado. Left his job at the Falkirk distillery and signed on at the Double B.” Steve folded the paper and stuck it in a drawer.
“Falkirk. Falkirk. Why does that ring a bell?” Calvin asked frowning.
“Bourbon.” Steve walked over to a shelf and handed Cal the bottle of amber liquid he removed.
Cal read the label. Whistled. Twenty-year-old Falkirk. “Is Lance related to these Prescotts?”
“Grandson of Thomas Jefferson Prescott, President and former CEO of Prescott Distilleries. And the founder and owner of Prescott Horse Farms.”
“Son of a gun.” Cal poured himself two fingers of the bourbon. “You want some?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“So he comes from money?” Cal asked.
“Seems to. Not that he’s any long-lost heir. The present CEO of Prescott Distilleries is Thomas John known as Tommy Jack. He’s the cousin who married Lance’s ex. I can find out if Lance has a trust fund, if you want.”
“Nah. Don’t bother. If Prescott wanted money he’d be in Tennessee kissing ass.” Shift. Shift. And double dang. Not a fortune hunter. Just a certified military hero.
“I guess we’ve got an explanation for why he’s so great at training horses,” Steve said. “Laura figured him for a natural, but it looks as though he’s been around them all his life.”
“Yeah,” Cal said sourly. All his fucking life. Prescott Horse Farms were justly famed for their thoroughbreds. Year after year, they raised the two- and three-year-olds that won the big races and the most coveted prizes in American horse racing.
They went out to join the others at the dinner table. Where, after two hours of being patronized by Dr. Arruta, and watching her turn on the charm for his father, he finally excused himself to go keep watch on Amber’s cottage. Shift and damn.
It was colder than a witch’s hind tit tonight. The Chinook had churned the soil into mud that had frozen solid when the wind changed. He couldn’t see or smell any trace of snake, although he didn’t think this surface would take a print. And this dry windy air didn’t hold odors well.
He returned to his tree. Amber’s house was dark. He got settled just in time to see Prescott’s old truck rattle up to the cabin. Prescott escorted her to her front door, they had a little conversation and then she invited him in. At least she was wearing his warm boots. But Prescott was the one going inside.