The Ashtons - Cole, Abigail & Megan

shoulders, and, backing her away from the horse, he shook his head. “I’m going to call the vet and you’re going to go back to the house, or wherever it is you came from.”
    His large hands on her shoulders sent a shiver of excitement up her spine, and she had to concentrate hard in order to ignore it. Luckily, it wasn’t too difficult todo. He might be the best-looking guy she’d seen in all of her twenty-four years, but she wasn’t the type to give in to anything as silly as attraction. Nor did she intend to be dismissed like so much fluff.
    “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” she said, careful to hide her irritation.
    He dropped his hands to his sides. “Russ Gannon.”
    When he started to turn away, Abby placed her hand on his arm to stop him. Her breath lodged in her lungs at the feel of his hard muscles flexing beneath the blue fabric of his sleeve. She forced herself to ignore it and concentrate on the mare in need of treatment.
    “It’s nice to meet you, Russ. My name is Abigail Ashton. Dr. Abigail Ashton, DVM. But please call me Abby.”
    “You’re a vet?” His skeptical expression told her that he still had his doubts about her treating one of the Sheppards’ horses.
    “More precisely, a large-animal veterinarian,” she said, nodding. “Now, get the first-aid kit and a hose. I have a horse to treat.”
    Russ stared at the auburn-haired beauty barking orders at him like a drill sergeant. She sure didn’t look like any of the veterinarians he’d ever met. Most of the ones he knew were men, and didn’t have eyes the color of new spring grass or soft, feminine features that could easily grace the cover of a fashion magazine.
    When she bent to look at the wound on Marsanne’sfetlock, the sight of her cute little upturned rear just about caused him to have a coronary. None of the vets he’d met had a figure that could stop traffic or remind him of just how long it had been since he’d been with a woman, either.
    “Don’t just stand there,” she said impatiently. “This mare’s fetlock needs treatment. And when you get the hose, bring some petroleum jelly and grease down her heel to keep it from getting sore.”
    Turning to get the hose and first-aid kit, he couldn’t believe he was allowing this woman to order him around. He was used to giving orders, not taking them.
    It had to be a case of shock. That’s all he could think of that might explain his letting her order him around.
    Where the hell had she come from, anyway? he wondered. He knew all of the Ashtons here at The Vines, and had heard about most of their relatives, but he couldn’t recall them mentioning this one’s name.
    He shook his head as he gathered what she wanted. One thing was certain—if he’d ever met her, he damned sure would have remembered it. He had a weakness for redheads. And Dr. Abigail Ashton not only had hair the color of cinnamon and a killer body, she was an absolute knockout.
    “What took you so long?” she asked when he returned with the requested items.
    “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a bossy little number?” he grumbled, handing them to her.
    “My brother, Ford, tells me that all the time.” Removing her jean jacket, she pushed the sleeves of her blue sweater up to her elbows, then tucked behind her ear a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re slower than molasses in January?”
    Russ stared at her for a moment before he burst out laughing. It appeared that Abby Ashton could hold her own with the best of them.
    “Now, what do you say we call a truce until after we get this mare on the road to recovery?” she asked, grinning.
    His heart stalled and he had to take a deep breath to get it going again. When Abigail Ashton was issuing orders, she was awesome. But when she smiled, she was absolutely beautiful.
    “What’s the matter?” Her easy expression turned to one of concern. “You look like you were just treated to the business end of a cattle prod.”
    Damn! Was he that transparent? Apparently, he needed to make a trip into Napa and see if he could find a willing little filly to help him scratch the itch that he suddenly seemed to have developed.
    “I’m fine,” he lied.
    “Good.” She handed him the jar of petroleum jelly.“Now, spread this over the mare’s heel, then start running cold water on her leg so that it trickles down over the wound.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Do you keep Epsom salts