The Market District was buzzing with Saturday shoppers. Felicity had been bringing eggs and homemade jams and jellies to the small Saturday farmer's market for as long as she could remember. She still had a couple of jars of blackberry preserves from last fall she set out, along with the cartons of eggs. The space, a single card table under a canopy, was free to locals, so everything she made was profit. Only, not enough profit for what she needed right now.
The hundred dollars she got from the eggs-she always sold everything she brought, so that wasn't a worry-plus any extra from her preserves, just wouldn't cut it. The milker was dead, and a new one, even a used small one off eBay, cost over five hundred. Her hens couldn't produce enough eggs fast enough for that.
Her hands were raw and aching from milking, and she could barely keep her eyes open. She'd gotten only a couple of hours sleep last night before she was up and at it again this morning.
"Hey, Felicity," an older woman, a weekly regular of hers, said as she stepped up to the table. "Looks like your hens are working overtime." She flipped open the lids on a few boxes, always searching for the biggest eggs.
Felicity forced a smile. "Same as usual, Mrs. Camden. How's Mr. Camden doing?"
"Oh, you know." She waved a hand in dismissal. The woman's elderly husband was in the early stages of Alzheimer's. When he didn't join his wife at the market, it meant he was having a good day and could stay home alone. "Heard about your daddy's foot. How's he doing?"
"Grumpy because he can't do anything, but the doctor said he'll recover fully…if he stays off it for a few weeks," she added, almost under her breath. The more he pushed it, the longer he'd take to heal, the longer she was left to worry about…everything. It still surprised her, though, what made headline news in this little town. A crushed foot caused by a cow. Who would have thought it?
Mrs. Camden laughed. "Your daddy has always been a hard worker. I'm sure the rest is killing him. You give him our love." She'd finally chosen her dozen eggs and handed over the exact change. "You take care of him."
"I will," she said rather wistfully as the older woman walked off. She sold half of her stock in a matter of a half hour. There would be a lull, as there was every week, when the food booths began grilling their burgers, hot dogs, and the mini-donut truck set to work frying their yummy treats. The scents wafted to her on the light breeze and made her stomach rumble.
She couldn't afford a treat this week, though. She needed every damn penny she had. That thought made her frown as she reached into her bag and pulled out several blank sheets of printer paper and a fat black marker.
Help Wanted, she printed in bold letters across the top of the first sheet. Farm hand at the Colbert Farm. Must know how to milk cows.
She made a face. Experienced milker needed? she thought. Help Wanted just didn't seem to cut it. She needed help, immediately. The milk truck would come on Thursday, and if she didn't have a full tank, she wouldn't make the mortgage. If she didn't make the mortgage…
For being brought up a farm girl, she'd led a fairly easy life. She'd been working with cows since she was old enough to follow her daddy around the barn. She didn't want for anything more. But if she lost the farm because she couldn't bring in the milk, she and her dad would be…
Tears stung her eyes, and she turned her head to blink back the moisture. She let out a slow breath and tried to calm the panic rising up inside of her. She had a little bit of savings. She'd find someone to help her bring in the milk. She just had to get through this week, and everything would be okay.
But they were still behind on the mortgage. They'd missed last month's payment, and if she missed this one, that'd be two, and if she missed a third, there goes the farm.
Forget buying groceries with the egg money, as she usually did. If they got so far behind on the mortgage, even if she could keep the bank off her back, where would the money for the feed for the cows this winter come from? The feed corn was planted, and the weather so far was on their side, raining often but not too much, so the harvest would hopefully be good. But she'd need to hire the help to harvest it in the fall. Which meant putting out more cash.
She pushed the first Help Wanted poster to the side and printed out a second and a third. She grabbed a small box of tacks out of her bag, and was just about to go post them on the lamp posts along Main Street, when a potential customer came up, munching on a hot dog.
"Hi, Rupert," she said. His aunt owned the herbal shop just down the block where she bought her bath salts. He did odd jobs for his aunt, a jack-of-all-trades but master of none. Kind of the town's ne'er-do-well. In his late forties, maybe, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair and pale brown eyes, he wasn't handsome, but he wasn't unattractive, either. He was a little too skinny with stark facial features. Still, he was friendly enough and a semi-frequent customer, so she smiled at him.
"Hi, Felicity." He gave her a once-over from head to toe and grinned. He had nice teeth; she'd give him that. "How's it going?"
She had to force her lips to keep that smile. "Okay."
He finished off his hot dog and crumbled the paper wrapper in his hand. "I heard about your dad. He okay?"
It was official. Everyone in town had heard about her dad's foot. "Yep, he'll be fine." She set the signs down on the table next to the eggs.
Rupert eyed the top sheet of paper. "You need some help out there?"
"Uh…yeah. With Dad hurt, I need someone to help me milk so I can get the order out this week. Do you know anyone with milking experience you could recommend? Maybe a high school student?" She needed someone willing to work cheap.
He shrugged. "I don't know many high school students, but I worked a couple summers on a farm back in the day. I know how to milk."
"Oh, I…" She bit her bottom lip. He was a nice enough guy, but he wasn't exactly a spring chicken, and she couldn't afford to pay a fortune even with all the work she needed done. "I need someone who can put in a lot of hours, at least through this week, maybe a couple more weeks, and I can't pay a bunch." Three weeks of full-load, on-time deliveries and she should be able to afford the new milker. As long as her worker didn't need too much pay. That was why she'd thought a student would be good. Less than minimum wage-under the table. Tax free.
Rupert grinned. "I'm willing, if you need the help. You know I work for Aunt Marie, so I don't need a big paycheck, just a little extra change."
"Really? I'm not asking for favors. I will pay you, but seriously, I can't pay much."
"When do you want me there?"
"Tomorrow morning?"
"I'll see you at eight? We can work out the particulars then. What d'ya say?"
"Oh, thank you, Rupert." Her smile was genuine this time. "I'll see you in the morning."
He reached into his pocket and drew out a few bills then picked up two cartons. "Aunt Marie loves your eggs."
She dug into her change purse, but he waved her off. "Keep the change." He winked before he sauntered off.
Relief flowed through her so fast she had to sit down on the metal folding chair, her knees going weak. She couldn't believe her good fortune-to find someone so fast who would work cheap and knew what he was doing with a cow's udder. If he had the stamina she needed, they might make Thursday's delivery after all. The late mortgage payment would be paid. And if he worked out, she'd keep him on until she could get that used milker off eBay.
Things were looking up.
* * * * *
Marcus had forgotten about the Saturday market along Main Street, but it was somewhat of a boon for him. He'd officially opened his doors that morning, already had three resumes dropped off by prospective receptionists, and quite a few people-mostly old high school acquaintances-had stopped in to chat when they saw him through the window as they meandered by. Though he hadn't had any four-legged patients yet, word was sure to spread quickly that a vet was back in business.
The sign on the front door of Paws, Claws & Hooves Veterinary Clinic said he was open until 4:00 on Saturday. It was just after two, and the farmer's market was breaking down. He didn't expect anyone to drop in with a cat emergency, so he figured he'd call it an early day and go over the resumes.
He was just crossing the lobby to turn the Open sign to Closed when the bell jingled over the door.
The woman who stopped in the doorway and stared at him was plain in a pretty way. She had brown hair pulled back into a long ponytail, big brown doe eyes, and she was tall and curvy, with a cute little nose and pink lips in a tanned, heart-shaped face. She wore blue jeans with blown-out knees-obviously from wear and tear, not the stylish kind the teenagers were wearing-and a plaid, short-sleeved blouse.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
Her mouth opened a bit, but no sound came out. She glanced around the lobby, her gaze settling on the chairs, the counter, the sketches of various animals given to him by a budding artist friend of his. Then she licked her lips with the tip of a pink tongue and settled her attention on him. "You're the vet?"
He grinned, glanced down at his lab coat, then pointed to the red embroidery above his breast pocket. "Well, this says, 'Marcus Princeton, DVM,' so I guess so."
She swallowed so hard he heard it, and he wondered at her strange reaction to him.
"Do you need a vet?"
She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, and he kept his grin to himself. Her front teeth were just a little crooked, one slightly overlapping the other, and it was rather endearing. "No. Yes. I mean…" She blew out a breath and dropped her gaze to the floor as a soft, embarrassed laugh came out of her. She seemed to have gathered her wits before she looked back up at his face. "I have a cow that is going to throw a calf in a week or so, and my dad wanted me to stop in and ask if you do house calls." She glanced at the painted lettering on the door, which she still held open. "I figured you did, since you have hooves in your name. Not many people would bring their hoofed animals into town."
She closed her eyes, and her lightly tanned cheeks reddened. "I mean…" She laughed again. "I can see why your father suggested I stop in here. He was promoting his son's business."
"Or playing matchmaker," Marcus muttered.
"What?" Her brow puckered a little, and her smile faded.
"Oh, nothing." He smiled at her and stepped forward, holding out his hand. "I think you have me at a disadvantage. You know my father, but I don't know who you are."
She smiled again, but it looked a little forced as she took his hand to shake it. Her palm was slightly rough, her skin red and raw when he glanced down. He had the urge to offer her some cream. They must hurt like hell.
"Felicity Colbert. Apparently, our fathers went to school together. I just met yours yesterday when he came out to visit mine."
"Ahh. Okay. Your dad's the one who got his foot stepped on by a cow."
She rolled her eyes. "Front page news in Everland, don't you know?"
He chuckled.
"We also went to school together," she added softly as she tugged her hand out of his and wiped her palm on her jeans as if wiping away the feel of him.
He frowned. "We did?" Marcus thought he would remember someone as pretty as Felicity.
"Sort of. I mean, we weren't in the same classes or anything like that. I was a year behind you. Anyway…Dad thinks that Ida Belle needs to be checked out, because she had a hard time birthing before. But…uh…" She glanced around the room again. "How much do you charge for house calls?"
Marcus walked over to the coffee table in the waiting area and picked up one of the brochures he'd had printed. Everland was a small town dealing with a bad economy these past couple of years, so his fees were more than reasonable, but some people were uncomfortable outright asking about prices. He handed her the brochure. "Forty-five for the house call, and then the exam on top of that."
Felicity let go of the doorknob, but she still stood in the doorway, keeping the door from closing, as if she didn't want to be trapped in the room with him. He wondered if he'd offended her in some way when they were younger and going to school together. Maybe she wouldn't want to pay him anything. For the life of him, he couldn't think of ever offending anyone. He'd kept mostly to himself and his studies.
That little frown line returned between her brows as she looked over his price list. "Okay," she said softly. "I'll give you a call if we need you. Do you charge extra for emergency house calls? If she goes into labor and there's a problem?"
He shook his head when she looked back up at him. "No, that's the set price on any house call." Obviously one of those unable to afford much right now, he thought. "You can take that with you. My number's on the back. I'll answer 24/7."
"Thanks," she said and turned away.
"Felicity," he called as he grabbed the door to keep it from shutting behind her.
She turned back and raised her eyebrows in question.
He had no idea what he wanted to say to her. No, he knew, but it seemed rather inappropriate. He wanted to ask her to dinner. He wanted to ask her if there was anything he could do for her. Wanted to know why her hands were so chapped, what he'd done to make her uncomfortable. He'd been gone from Everland for almost a decade, except for the occasional brief visits around the holidays. Could she forgive him and maybe go out on a date with him?
"Thanks for stopping in," he said, feeling like an idiot.
She nodded then turned, walking down the now quiet sidewalk, her head bent as she read his brochure.
He went back inside, shut the door, and turned the deadbolt. "What a dork," he muttered. He was back in Everland. He was a Princeton. He'd grown into his height and put on some muscle. He wasn't the geeky, bookish Marcus Princeton anymore. He had more degrees than he could ever use, owned what would become a thriving vet business, and would one day inherit a good portion of the Princeton fortune.
So why the hell did he still have a problem talking to pretty women?
He turned the sign to Closed and headed up the back stairs to his cozy, little apartment. Rip, his aged English Bulldog, lifted his head from his paws, greeting him with his sad-eyed, heavily wrinkled expression, but didn't budge from his sprawl on the comfy forest-green sofa. After stopping to scratch Rip's ears long enough to elicit a groan of contentment, he went into the kitchen to warm some of the mountain of food Sylvia had delivered that morning. She'd said she couldn't have her soon-to-be cousin starving and figured he'd be too busy to do much grocery shopping.
He smiled and slipped a small casserole dish into the microwave. He wasn't about to begrudge her the chance to cook for him. It was a whole lot better than eating out all the time or having to fend for himself.
Maybe he'd take a run out to the Colbert farm tomorrow to check on that pregnant cow. No charge. Just a doctor concerned for the wellbeing of one of the town's milk cows.
He snorted and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He'd see if he could work up the courage to actually do it.
It wasn't as if he hadn't had his fair share of women while in college. There always seemed to be someone around who needed that particular itch scratched as badly as he did. Somehow, though, being back in his hometown made him regress to that geeky, bookish kid. Although he'd attended almost every high school function from the football games to dances-mostly because it was expected of him since his older brothers were school jocks-he never quite had the courage to make the first move back then. To make any move at all.
He drank down half the beer and set the bottle on the counter when the microwave beeped. He wasn't that kid any longer.
And he would make the first move.
