Wyatt straightens. “I’ve got a thermos in the truck. Be right back.”
As he jogs off, I examine the wound more closely. “You’re so brave,” I whisper to Maisie. “I’m sorry you’re hurt. We’ll fix you up, okay?”
She licks my wrist weakly, and my heart folds in on itself.
Wyatt returns with a small thermos. “Hot water,” he explains, setting it down. “Not sterile, but clean.”
“Perfect,” I say.
He kneels beside me, close but not crowding, and hands me gauze, scissors, and tape, wordlessly anticipating my next moves.
“You’ve done this before,” he notes quietly. Not a question. An observation.
“A few times,” I say, washing blood away carefully, keeping my tone light. “I did a rotation at several animal shelters. Emergencies were frequent.”
A partial truth, wrapped in enough reality to hold.
Once the bleeding is under control, I wrap the wound snugly with gauze and secure it. The dog sighs, her eyes drooping.
“You’re a miracle,” Tom says, his blue eyes flashing with gratitude. “Maisie is like family. You sure you’re not a vet?”
My heart stutters. Wyatt’s head turns slightly, as if waiting for the answer too.
“Not officially,” I say. “I… didn’t finish.”
Another half-truth. Easier than the real reason: you can’t finish school when you’re dodging threats instead of deadlines.
The men stand, stretching out their cold, stiff limbs.
Tom grins. “Well, Sadie, the goats are gonna love you. And by love, I mean they’ll attempt to eat your clothes and possibly your soul. But y’know. Affection.”
“Goats,” I repeat faintly, because of course there are goats.
“Tom,” Wyatt says, equal parts warning and resigned amusement.
“What?” Tom shrugs. “She should be prepared. Cheese Puff is basically a feral toddler with horns.”
A small, involuntary laugh escapes me. It feels foreign. It feels good.
Wyatt glances at me, as if the sound pulls his attention like gravity. Warmth kindles in his gray eyes this time. Approval? Relief?
I look away quickly, focusing on adjusting the bandage, but heat curls in my stomach like a candle flame refusing to be snuffed out.
Snow thickens around us, the flakes now fat and fast. The wind shifts and becomes colder, sharper. One of the men by the fence line calls Tom’s name. He tips his hat and heads off.
Wyatt subtly scans the tree line, but I catch it. A habit of someone who never assumes safety is guaranteed.
“You’re shivering,” he says. “Let’s get you warm.”
“I’m okay?—”
“You’re freezing,” he corrects gently. “That jacket’s good, but you’ve been on the snow too long.”
He’s right. My fingers are numb.
Wyatt pauses as two men approach through the drifting snow. They’re bothtall and broad-shouldered, moving with the easy familiarity of men who’ve worked the same land together for years.
One is older, gray-eyed, steady as granite. The other is slightly younger, rougher around the edges, with a long scar running from the edge of his eye to the corner of his mouth. His eyes are the same startling blue as Tom’s, sharp even in the dim light.
