"Sorry." I take another sip of mocha, letting the sweetness ground me. "Just thinking about tomorrow's schedule."
"Right. Because thinking about work makes you blush like a virgin on prom night."
The afternoon flies by in a blur of holiday-stressed pet owners and last-minute emergencies. Mrs. Parker brings in her ancient Persian cat for his pre-Christmas checkup, complete with a tiny Santa hat that he tolerates with feline dignity. The Morrison twins drag their parents in because their hamsterseems ‘sad about Christmas,’ which turns out to be perfectly normal hamster behavior.
By six o'clock, I'm finally alone in the clinic. Snow falls steadily outside, coating Main Street in pristine white. The Christmas lights strung between the lampposts cast rainbow reflections on the wet pavement, and carols drift from the speakers of Peterson's General Store across the street.
I should go home. Heat up some leftover soup, grade the anatomy papers I've been putting off for the local 4H kids, maybe watch a cheesy holiday movie. Instead, I find myself standing at the front window, staring toward the road that leads to Dry Creek Ranch.
What am I doing? Wyatt Callahan is exactly the kind of man my mother warned me about. Powerful, remote, used to getting his way. The smart thing would be to call Matty tomorrow and claim an emergency. Send him to Dr. Harrison in Billings instead.
But I can't stop thinking about the gentleness in Wyatt's voice when he spoke to his injured foal. The way his jaw tightened when I told him he should have brought her in sooner, like he genuinely cared about my opinion. There had been something vulnerable in his eyes, quickly hidden but definitely there.
Maybe I'm imagining things. Maybe I'm projecting my own loneliness onto a man who's made it clear he prefers solitude. The holidays have a way of making people see connections that don't exist.
My phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. Mom's face appears on the screen, all warm smiles and concerned eyes from her video call in Phoenix.
"Hi, sweetheart. How was your day?"
"Busy." I settle into my desk chair, grateful for the distraction. "How's the retirement community treating you?"
"Like a queen. We had a cookie decorating contest today, and I may have gotten a little competitive." She holds up a plate of elaborately frosted sugar cookies shaped like reindeer. "I won second place."
"Only second? You're slipping."
She laughs, then her expression grows serious. "You look tired, Emmy. Are you taking care of yourself?"
"I'm fine, Mom. Just the usual holiday rush."
"And no handsome cowboys trying to sweep you off your feet?"
The question hits closer to home than she could possibly know. "You know me better than that."
"I do. That's why I worry." Her voice softens. "I know I taught you to be careful, but honey, not every man is your father. Some of them are worth the risk."
"Since when do you advocate for risk-taking?"
"Since I realized I might have overcorrected after the divorce. You deserve love, Emmy. Real, honest love. Don't let my mistakes keep you from finding it."
After we hang up, I sit in the darkened clinic listening to the snow tap against the windows. Love. Such a simple word for something that's caused so much pain in my family. My grandmother lost herself in a man who drank away their farm. My mother fell for a charmer who abandoned us when things got tough. And me? I've spent the last five years building walls so high that no one could possibly scale them.
Until yesterday, when a gruff rancher with storm-gray eyes walked into my clinic and made those walls feel suddenly fragile.
I lock up the clinic and drive home through the snowy streets, Christmas lights blurring past my windows. My little rental house sits at the end of Birch Lane, modest but cozy with its own string of colored lights wrapped around the porchrailings. Inside, my tabby cat Sebastian greets me with his usual demands for dinner and attention.
"What do you think, Seb?" I ask as he winds around my legs. "Should I go to the ranch tomorrow?"
He meows once and stalks toward his food bowl, clearly more interested in dinner than my romantic dilemmas.
I heat up leftover chili and try to grade papers, but my attention keeps drifting to tomorrow morning. What will I wear? Something professional but approachable? What if he thinks I'm overdressed? Underdressed? What if he doesn't even remember asking Matty to call me?
By the time I crawl into bed, snow is falling harder, coating my bedroom window in intricate patterns. I close my eyes and try not to think about Wyatt's hands, or the way his voice dropped when he said my name, or the possibility that tomorrow might change everything.
But sleep doesn't come easily, and when it finally does, my dreams are full of storm-gray eyes and the promise of something that feels dangerously like hope.
Chapter 3
Wyatt
