Page 15 of The Mistletoe Kisser
“Whoops. Sorry,” she said, recovering.
“Are you the vet?” he demanded, eyeing her skeptically.
“I am. How can I help you?”
“Here.” He shoved the end of the leash at her and turned for the door.
5
How could she help him? Ha.
The veterinarian in ridiculous, stained Christmas scrubs with her blonde hair exploding out of a crooked ponytail didn’t look like she could help herself, much less him.
Besides, he was beyond help. And that was before he may or may not have accidentally hit the sheep with his teeny-tiny stupid car.
“Hold it,” she said as he headed for the door.
Despite her disheveled appearance, the vet’s voice was steely enough that it stopped him in his tracks.
“You can’t just abandon your sheep,” she warned him.
“It’s notmysheep,” Ryan argued. “This woolly mammoth belongs to some irresponsible hippie. He ran out in front of my car. I don’t know if I hit him or if he’s hurt. Or if he’s a he,” he supplied, refusing to resume control of the makeshift leash he’d made with his own belt and supplies he found in his stupid car’s tiny hatch. “He answers to Stan.”
After “Hey, sheep” and “Stupid, jackass livestock” hadn’t elicited a response from the animal, Ryan had to get creative.
It had been easier than he’d thought to stuff the sheep into the passenger seat. Stan had hopped right in. Catching him had been another story. Ryan’s shoes were ruined. His jeans were wet from the snow he’d fallen in five or six times. And his hands were so numb he had serious concerns about losing digits.
Now he appeared to be in a stare down with the bigger, non-pajamaed goat. Ears flicking, it stalked toward him. Ryan took two steps back.Great. He was going to die by goat.It was a fitting end to a disastrous week.
“Back off, demon,” he said.
“She’s mostly friendly,” the man cradling a baby version of the yellow-eyed monster assured him. “She only hates me.”
As if to prove his point, the goat changed directions and head-butted the guy in the thigh.
“You mother-effer,” the guy hissed through his teeth.
Ryan wondered if he was cleaning up his language for the sake of the baby goats. This town was insane.
“Knock it off, Clementine,” the vet said sternly. The goat actually looked contrite.
Kneeling face-to-face with the sheep, the doctor stroked competent hands over Stan’s thick wool. The sheep’s tail fluttered like he—or she—was enjoying the attention. Ryan hoped it was a sign of sheep happiness and not an impending sheep shit.
“He ran out in front of me. I slammed on the brakes. I couldn’t tell if I hit him or a pothole. It took me half an hour to catch him and load him up,” he explained, still not quite believing this is what his life had come to.
“Where did you find him?” Goat Guy asked.
“On a farm,” he said, shoving his hand through his hair and finding more mud there.
“Whose farm?” the vet asked without looking up from her examination of the sheep’s legs.
“My great-uncle’s. Carson Shufflebottom. I think everyone here knows him as—”
“Old Man Carson,” Goat Guy filled in.
“Yeah.”
At the mention of his uncle’s name, the vet gave him a weird look.
