I feed Charlie her dinner—prescription kibble the surgeon recommended—and watch her eat from her bowl, the cone bumping against the side.
She's on restricted movement for another month, which means no vet calls, no following me around the ranch, just rest and short, supervised walks.
It's killing her.
I know that feeling too.
While she eats, I move through the cabin on autopilot.
Lock the door. Close the curtains. Turn on the lamp in the living room.
The couch is covered in a Navajo-print blanket, and there's a stack of vet textbooks on the coffee table I keep meaning to put away.
My riding boots are by the door, and my work bag is hanging on a hook.
Evidence of a life that's suddenly feeling too small.
I head upstairs to the loft, my footsteps heavy on the wooden stairs.
The bedroom is small—just enough room for a queen bed, a dresser, and a chair in the corner where I toss my laundry.
The ceiling slopes with the roofline, and there's one window that looks out over the pasture.
I stand there for a moment, staring out at the darkness.
Somewhere out there, Shadow is waiting.
Has he already left for the north pasture?
Is he sitting on his bike, checking the time, wondering if I'll show?
My stomach flips.
I need to clear my mind, and there’s only one way I can think of doing that.
A shower.
The bathroom is tiny—barely enough room for a shower stall, toilet, and sink—but the water pressure is good and the hot water tank is new.
I strip off my clothes, catching sight of myself in the mirror above the sink.
I look...flushed.
Wild-eyed.
My hair is a mess from where Shadow's fingers tangled in it—wait, no.
He didn't touch my hair. But he wanted to. I could see it in his eyes.
The memory makes heat pool low in my belly.
I step into the shower and let the hot water beat down on my shoulders, trying to clear my head.
But all I can think about is Shadow.
The way he looked at me in that barn.
The way his voice dropped an octave when he saiddarlin'.
