Chapter 1
Wyatt
It’s crisp out, the chill making me zip up my jacket as I step off the ranch house porch. December in Montana doesn't mess around. Frost coats every surface, and holding the railings is dangerous as the ice is sharp there. My breath fogs thick enough to hide behind. Red and green lights from the neighbors' Christmas display twinkle through the bare trees, a reminder that the holidays are bearing down whether I want them or not.
The land spreads out before me, endless and mine. Grass crunches underfoot, stiff with ice that'll melt by noon if we're lucky. Cattle cluster near the feed troughs, their breath creating small clouds as they wait for breakfast. This is my world. Quiet. Predictable. Safe from the complications that other people bring.
I pull my gloves on tighter and head toward the corrals. Tommy's already there, but something about his posture sets my teeth on edge. He's leaning too casually against the gate, hands stuffed in his pockets like he's got nowhere else to be.
"Why's that foal still favoring her leg?" The question comes out sharper than I intend, but it gets Tommy moving.
"Thought she was getting better, boss." He moves toward me, clearly on edge because I called him out.
I push past him and swing into the pen. The filly limps toward me, her right front leg twisted at an angle that makes my stomach clench. Out here, weakness gets you killed. Nature doesn't give second chances.
"Load her up," I say, catching the halter. "We're going to town."
The drive into Hope Peak takes forty minutes on a good day. Today, with Christmas shoppers clogging Main Street and the foal shifting nervously in the trailer behind me, it feels like hours. The truck's heater rattles against the cold, barely keeping the cab warm enough to matter.
I've been avoiding town since Thanksgiving. Too many people want to chat about the weather or invite me to their holiday parties. Too many reminders of what I used to have before everything went to hell. But the foal needs help, and Dr. Morrison retired last spring.
Which means I'm stuck with his replacement.
Emery Sinclair.
I've heard the name whispered around Peterson's Feed Store and the Skyline Bar & Grill. Hope Peak's new guardian angel, they call her. Fresh out of veterinary school, pretty as a picture, and sweet enough to give a man diabetes. Exactly the kind of complication I don't need.
The clinic sits at the end of Maple Street, a converted Victorian house painted cheerful yellow with green shutters. Christmas wreaths hang on every window, and garlands drape the porch railings. It looks like something from a greeting card.
I'm backing the trailer up to the loading area when she appears.
Sweet Jesus.
The first thing I notice is her legs. Long, shapely legs encased in fitted jeans that disappear into tall boots. My eyes travel up, taking in the curve of her hips, the way her forest-green coathugs her waist. When I finally make it to her face, those hazel eyes are studying me with an intensity that makes heat crawl up my neck.
"You must be Wyatt Callahan." Her voice carries a slight southern drawl that does things to my insides I haven't felt in years. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
Looking forward to it? She holds her hand out for me to shake. I just stand there looking at it, really? I clear my throat and tip my hat. "Ma'am."
She moves to the trailer with practiced efficiency, but I catch the subtle sway of her hips, the way her hair catches the winter sunlight. Golden brown with streaks of honey. The kind of hair a man could get his hands tangled in.
"Let's see what we're dealing with," she says, and I realize I've been staring.
Inside the clinic, the scent of pine from a massive Christmas tree mingles with antiseptic and something that smells like cinnamon. Holiday lights twinkle everywhere, casting warm shadows that make Emery's skin glow. She kneels beside the foal, and I find myself watching the graceful line of her neck as she bends forward.
"How long has she been limping?" Her hands move over the filly's leg with gentle confidence.
"Three days." I cross my arms to keep from reaching out to touch that soft-looking hair. "Maybe four."
She glances up, and those hazel eyes pin me in place. "You should have brought her sooner."
The mild rebuke stings more than it should. "I know what I'm doing."
"I'm sure you do." She returns her attention to the foal, murmuring something too soft for me to hear. Her touch is careful, soothing. The kind of gentleness I forgot existed.
The filly relaxes under her hands, and I wonder what it would feel like to have those fingers on my skin. The thought comes out of nowhere and hits me like a sucker punch.
"The joint's inflamed," she says, rising gracefully. A piece of straw clings to her knee, and my fingers itch to brush it away. "She'll need splinting and restricted movement for at least two weeks."
