She studies me carefully. “Can we find a more private place for this?”
I roll her card in my fingers, the corners sharp against my skin. I’m afraid to know what she wants, and I know I must.
“Did you speak with my father about the congressman?”
She meets my eyes. “Yes.”
The gelding nudges me. I stroke his flank. “When was this?”
“Afew months before he passed. He…said he’d contact you, ask if you’d be willing to meet with me.”
I pocket her card and shake my head slowly. “He didn’t.”
“He…ah…said he carried a lot of guilt.”
Too little, too late, Daddy.
He was my hero—the man who taught me to cauterize a wound, to thread a needle through tough hide without tearing, to tube a calf that wouldn’t suck, to tell colic from bloat by sound alone. He showed me how to stay steady when a horse panicked, how to keep my voice calm when the world wasn’t, how to put the animal first even when my own hands shook.
Everything I am as a vet, I learned at his side. And still, when I needed him most, the man who taught me to heal didn’t believe I needed saving.
I crouch again, fingers pressing along the tendon, feeling for heat and swelling. The gelding blows out a breath, shifts weight onto his other leg as if giving me permission to fuss over him. I adjust the wrap on his leg, tugging the bandage snugly—not too tight—and check the tension with two fingers.
“What happens if I talk to you?”My world will explode. The past will spill back into the present.
When I first came to Wildflower Canyon, I wanted to expose Landon; now I’m not sure if that’s the right course. Kicking up a decade-old dust storm will only hurt Cade—and Evie will feel the fallout. And what good will that do?
Cade won’t ever believe me. If he were going to, hewould have already. It’s a pipe dream I’ve carried, that he’ll learn the truth and beg me to take him back.
That’s not happening. He hates me. That’s clear as day.
He hates me so much that he won’t even let me give his daughter a stuffed toy.
“If you talk to me, I will tell your story to the world.”
Just what I’m afraid of.
I reach for my stethoscope, slipping it under the horse to listen for gut sounds. “And I’ll become a joke at DC cocktail parties.”
“I know you have doubts. Why don’t you check my work? Look at what I’ve done. After that, you can decide whether to call me.”
I set the stethoscope aside, then crouch lower to palpate the fetlock, my thumb tracing along the suspensory ligament.
I hear the reporter let out a long exhale. “Dr. Kirk, you’re not the only woman I’ve approached.”
The words strike like a lash across bare skin.
I’m not the only one.
My vision tunnels, the ground tilts.
I let the hoof drop. The gelding shifts, ears flicking back as if he’s reading my mood.
“What?” I croak.
“You’re not the only one he’s done this to, Dr. Kirk.”
I gasp.
