My cabin sits at the edge of the property, tucked into a grove of live oaks that provide shade in the brutal Texas summers.
It's small—just under a thousand square feet—but it's mine.
Dad built it for me when I graduated vet school, said every woman needs her own space.
I think he just wanted me close to the ranch but not underfoot in the main house.
It works for me.
The exterior is rough-hewn logs, weathered to a silvery gray, with a metal roof that pings when it rains.
A small covered porch runs the length of the front, with two rocking chairs I never use and a porch swing that creaks in the wind.
Inside, it's all open concept—living room flowing into kitchen, with a loft bedroom upstairs, and two other bedrooms on the main floor, and two bathrooms.
I pull up next to my clinic truck and kill the engine, but I don't get out right away.
The clock on the dashboard reads a little after eight-thirty.
Three hours and thirty minutes until midnight.
He said if I didn’t show up, he’d know I wasn’t ready.
And the terrifying truth is... I think I'm ready.
I finally climb out of the truck and head up the porch steps.
The wood creaks under my boots—a familiar, comforting sound.
Before I can get my key in the lock, I hear the scrabbling of claws on the other side of the door and a sharp, excited bark.
Charlie.
I push inside and immediately drop to my knees as my red heeler limps toward me, her tail wagging so hard her whole back end wiggles.
She's wearing a cone—the plastic kind that makes her look ridiculous—and there's still some swelling around her back leg where the vet sutured her up after ACL surgery two weeks ago.
"Hey, girl," I murmur, running my hands over her head and shoulders, careful not to jostle her. "How you feeling?"
She licks my face in response, whining softly.
Charlie's been my shadow for five years—riding shotgun in my vet truck, sleeping at the foot of my bed, following me from room to room like she's afraid I'll disappear if she takes her eyes off me.
The surgery hit her hard.
She hates being stuck inside, hates the cone, hates not being able to jump and run like she used to.
I know the feeling.
"I know, baby. Just a few more weeks and you'll be good as new." I press a kiss to the top of her head and stand, moving into the kitchen.
The cabin smells like cedar and the lavender candle I burned this morning.
Everything is exactly how I left it—coffee mug in the sink, vet journals spread across the kitchen table, and my boots kicked off by the door.
Normal. Safe.
Except nothing feels normal anymore.
