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you see that you can’t start dividing jobs into sexual categories? What about women vets, for instance, Mitch? Same thing, in your valuable estimation? Vetting is no job for a woman either, I suppose?”
    He made a low, angry noise in his throat. He had to restrain the urge to reach across the two feet that separated them and take her by the shoulders, shake some sense into her. Kiss her into silence? Now, wouldn’t that just confirm her impression of him as a sexist male.
    Angry green eyes met disdainful gray, and the clash was almost audible. When the tension became unbearable, Sara shoved her chair back and got to her feet, turning to Ruth with a strained facsimile of a smile.
    “Can I help you clear up and do t hese dishes?” she managed to ask.
    Ruth got up as well, palpably relieved to end the tense scene. “Heavens no, Sara, there’s a dishwasher in the kitchen.” She slid a troubled glance at Mitch. “Why don’t we all go sit on the porch where it’s cool and have some more coffee?” she suggested in a hopeful tone.
    Sara shook her head. “I really must get home now, I still have to stop at t he clinic tonight.” She reached a hand to Ruth and grasped the woman’s chilly fingers warmly in her own. “Thank you so much for having me and making such a lovely dinner.”
    A tiny, strained smile flitted across Ruth’s mouth and then was gone.
    “It was such a pleasure. But I’m afraid I’m not good company these days. I’m so lonesome, but I can’t seem to...” The easy tears that lurked so near the surface filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks, and she mopped them away with the back of one hand in an absent gesture that tore at Sara’s heartstrings.
    Wilson came up be hind his wife and put a protective arm around her shoulders. “Now, Mother, don’t start in crying again,” he admonished, but there was male helplessness in his blustery voice.
    Mitch had gotten to his feet. He didn’t say anything, but when Sara finished her strained goodbyes and thank-yous and hurried across the yard, he followed her out the door.
    All the way to the truck, he walked beside her, stubborn and silent, like an ominous shadow, his loping stride matching her own step for step.
    How could this... this narrow-minded chauvinist... affect her without saying a darned word? Her heart pounded as if she was running full speed, and she could feel the pulse in her throat hammering. Her knees felt weak. When she reached the truck, she whirled around and faced him.
    “I’m very grateful for your help with the pigs,” she snapped. He was still frowning, and she’d never seen anyone who could frown quite that effectively. Except maybe Wilson Carter, come to think of it. Mitch was more like his father than he probably realized.
    Tilting her chin at a deliberately aggressive angle, she turned away and opened the door of the truck.
    His hand suddenly closed around her upper arm, the hardness and power of his fingers evident through the thin sleeve of her T-shirt, forcing her to turn and face him.
    “Sara,” he said, and in his voice was a confused blending of regret and warmth, and something more, that stopped her angry movement away from his grip.
    “Damn it all, I’m sorry the day ended this way.” He lifted one shoulder in a rueful half shrug, still holding her arm, and she felt the urgency in his touch. “The fact is, I always liked and respected your sister Frankie.”
    His eyes were a clear, transparent green with flecks of gold in the warm light. Sara noted that he’d actually forgotten his hat, and his shining dark hair was alive in the dying rays of the sun, his skin as bronzed as an old copper penny, making the lightness of his eyes more arresting.
    “Sara, I like you, too, even though I may not agree with all your ideas. And I’m grateful to you for s taying to supper tonight.” He hesitated a bit, then blurted, “You know, that story you told about the snake? I think that’s the first time I’ve