Page 1 of Meddling Under the Mistletoe
1
LINDSEY
“Hey, I need you up front.”My best friend and head vet tech, Kayla, looms in the doorway of my office, her face pinched with concern. She has a tiny wriggling puppy tucked under her arm like a football. It’s ten after two the Thursday before Thanksgiving, and I just took a hurried bite of the sandwich I packed for lunch.
“Now?” I ask through a mouthful of ham and cheese.
She motions for me to follow her, and after one more bite, I do. “Your two fifteen is here, and he doesn’t look so good.”
“How old is he? What breed?” I ask, mentally preparing myself for whatever situation I’m about to encounter.
“If I had to guess, he’s a senior citizen,” Kayla says as we push through the door to the reception area. “And human.”
“Huh?”
An older gentleman with gray hair and glasses is clutching his right side. To his left is a dark-haired guy with his back to me, his broad shoulders causing his flannel shirt to stretch within an inch of its life. His hand is on the older man’s shoulder, as though he’s trying to comfort him, and a black-and-white border collie stands at his side.
“This is Mr. Phillips,” Kayla says, pointing to the gray-haired man. “He came in with his new puppy, June Bug” —she holds up the fluffy, wiggly pup the color of a toasted marshmallow— “and started feeling sick. I already called your next two clients and let them know you’ll likely be running a little behind.”
“It’s Ron,” Mr. Phillips manages, raising his head while Kayla uses her free hand to pick up the ringing phone.
I nod my thanks as I survey the scene.
“I suspect he has a ruptured appendix,” the younger guy says to my sister Lucy, our resident dog groomer, who is standing off to the side with her phone to her ear. His tone is authoritative but kind, like this isn’t his first rodeo. “He’s having severe pain in his lower right quadrant, and he definitely has a fever.”
Lucy repeats what he told her into the phone, presumably to a 911 dispatcher, before covering the receiver with her hand. “They’re five minutes out.”
I nod and shift my attention to the ailing gentleman in front of me. “Ron, I’m Dr. Haggerty,” I introduce myself as I approach him and pull my stethoscope from my neck. “Mind if I have a listen?”
“This is quite embarrassing,” Ron says. “I’m so sorry, hon.”
I place a gentle hand on his back. Ron appears to be about the age my father was when he passed, and that fact alone heightens my concern.
“Don’t be. I promise, we’ve seen it all here.” I hold up my stethoscope and square my shoulders in a meek attempt at appearing more confident than I am. I don’t often use my medical skills on humans. Though there was that one time when Kerry Winstead’s water broke while I was at her farm doing a check on her pig, Steve. It took me half an hour to convince her she hadn’t just peed her pants when she sneezed and was, in fact, in labor.
“May I?” I ask Ron.
He nods, sweat dripping from his brow. “Of course.”
I place the drum against his chest and listen to thethump, thump, thumpof Ron’s heart. It’s much faster than it should be.
“He’s tachycardic,” I say to Lucy, who relays my words into the phone.
“It’s probably because of the pain he’s in,” says the dark-haired guy who’s been directing Lucy. I see his face for the first time, and my own heart begins to beat out of rhythm. His dark hair is tousled as though he just ran his fingers through it, and he has the sweetest smile that causes the skin around his eyes to crinkle. “Sorry—I’m Oliver. Your two thirty. Well, Ace is.” He gestures to the stoic dog at his side before placing a gentle hand on Ron’s shoulder. “And Ron here is my neighbor.”
“Good thing you two came together,” I say.
Ron shakes his head. “We didn’t, but I sure got lucky running into him. He knew exactly what was wrong.”
“I’m a Firefighter EMT,” Oliver explains as he grabs some tissues from the box on the desk and dabs at the perspiration on Ron’s face. My heart squeezes at the gesture.
I blink, peering up at his strong jaw and the faint scar above his upper lip. My mind runs rampant with the possibilities of all the dangerous, brave things he might have done to get that scar. Falling while saving a baby from a burning building. Taking a plank to the face as he pulled a terrified family’s golden retriever to safety before their home collapsed in a heap of fiery rubble. Or maybe he slipped on a ladder while rescuing someone from a third-floor balcony.
“The ambulance will be here any minute now,” Lucy says as she joins us, snapping me back to reality.
Get it together, Lindsey. Seriously. You’re a professional.
“I can’t go to the hospital.” The color in Ron’s face surpasses white and goes straight to gray. “Who will take care of June Bug?I live alone. I don’t have family here. She’s only eleven weeks old.”
