"How restricted?"
"Stall rest. Hand walking only." She pulls supplies from a cabinet, and I can't help but notice the way her jeans hug her backside. "If you'd waited much longer, we might be talking surgery."
The criticism in her tone rankles, but she's right. I should have brought the filly in sooner. I just hate admitting I need help, especially from someone who looks like she belongs in a Christmas commercial instead of a veterinary clinic. I already feel guilty enough for believing that the foal would get better on its own.
I watch her closely as she works with quiet efficiency, wrapping the leg with practiced ease. Her fingers brush mine when she hands me the lead rope, and the contact sends electricity straight to my groin. She must feel it too because her cheeks flush pink.
"She'll make a full recovery," Emery says, stepping back. "You did the right thing bringing her in."
I want to say something, anything, but words stick in my throat. She's looking at me with those warm eyes, and I'm remembering what it feels like to want something besides solitude.
"I'll need to see her again in a week," she continues. "To check the splint."
A week. Seven days to forget the way she smells like vanilla and winter air. To stop thinking about what she'd look like without that coat.
"I'll call," I manage.
She smiles, and it transforms her whole face. "I'll be here."
The drive home passes in a blur of snow-dusted fields and the memory of hazel eyes. The foal rides quietly now, no longer in pain, and I should feel satisfied. Mission accomplished. Problem solved.
Instead, all I can think about is the way Emery's voice wrapped around my name like a caress.
That night, I sit in the barn loft with a glass of bourbon. I brought the whole bottle with me just in case. I’ve been drinking a little too much while I’ve been trying to see how to stop losing the ranch. I stare out at the Christmas lights twinkling in the distance. Christmas is just around the corner, which means I need to pretend to be in the Christmas spirit.
My phone buzzes. Matty, my ranch foreman.
"West barn roof gave out completely," he says without preamble. "We're looking at major repairs before the next storm hits."
I close my eyes. The ranch is bleeding money, winter feed costs are through the roof, and now this. "How major?"
"Ten thousand, minimum. That's if we do most of the work ourselves."
Ten thousand I don't have. Not without selling cattle I can't afford to lose. This day is getting worse by the minute.
I end the call and pour another bourbon. The foal shifts in her stall below, settling into clean bedding with the kind of trust that comes from knowing someone cares enough to fix what's broken.
The irony isn't lost on me. I can save a limping horse, but I can't save my own ranch. And the only person in Hope Peakwho might understand that particular brand of desperation is a golden-haired veterinarian who smells like Christmas morning and makes me remember what it feels like to want something more than survival.
Outside, snow begins to fall, covering the frozen ground in pristine white. Inside, I sit alone with my whiskey and the dangerous thought that maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of being alone.
Chapter 2
Emmy
The clinic buzzes with pre-holiday chaos from the moment I unlock the door. Jingle bells chime from the radio, phones ring constantly, and I've got one arm wrapped around a wriggling border collie while trying to write dosage instructions for Mrs. Hampton's diabetic cat. Red and green tinsel drapes the reception desk, and the miniature Christmas village I set up last week twinkles cheerfully despite the mayhem.
"Hold still, Romeo," I murmur to the collie, who responds by licking my chin enthusiastically.
The memory of yesterday hits me without warning. Wyatt's calloused fingers brushing mine when I handed him the lead rope. The way his dark eyes tracked my every movement. How his presence filled the entire clinic, making the air feel charged and dangerous.
I shake my head, focusing on Romeo's vaccination record. I do not have time to think about brooding ranchers with shoulders built for sin.
The bell above the door jingles, and Carly bursts in carrying two cardboard trays of steaming cups. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and snowflakes dust her dark hair.
"Emergency caffeine delivery," she announces, kicking the door shut with her boot. "You look like you haven't slept."
Because I haven't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Wyatt's hands. Those strong, capable hands that probably knew exactly how to touch a woman. The thought sends heat spiraling through my stomach.
