Should tell him I don't need help, that I've been doing this job for years without him.
But the truth is, having Shadow there makes me feel safer.
And after yesterday's note, I'll take all the safety I can get.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Thank you."
His expression softens. "Always, darlin'. Always."
The Peterson ranch sits about twenty miles east of Sharp Shooter property—five thousand acres of rolling pasture and Hereford cattle.
I pull my truck into the main yard, Shadow's bike rumbling behind me, and Mr. Peterson is already waiting by the cattle pens.
"Doc Dalton," he calls, tipping his hat. Then his eyes land on Shadow, and his eyebrows rise. "And Shadow. Didn't expect to see the Saints' enforcer out on a vet call."
"Just helping out today," Shadow says easily, swinging off his bike.
Mr. Peterson's gaze flicks between us, curiosity clear on his weathered face, but he's smart enough not to push. "Well, appreciate the extra hands. This bull's been a real bastard lately."
I grab my vet bag from the truck, and we follow Mr. Peterson to the working pens.
The bull is already in the chute—a massive Hereford, easily two thousand pounds of muscle and attitude.
His eyes roll, showing white, and he's shifting his weight despite the metal restraints.
"He's got an abscess on his jaw," Mr. Peterson explains, keeping a safe distance. "Been draining some, but it needs to be lanced proper or it's gonna get infected."
I approach carefully, assessing.
The abscess is visible—a swollen lump along the bull's lower jaw, angry and hot to the touch when I get close enough to check.
He tosses his head, and I step back quickly.
"Easy, boy," I murmur, but the bull's having none of it.
Shadow moves to the front of the chute, and I watch him settle into a different mode.
Not the possessive lover from my kitchen this morning.
Not even the enforcer.
This is something older, deeper.
Farm boy.
He places one hand on the bull's forehead, the other along his neck, and starts talking.
Low, steady, calm.
Words I can't quite make out but the tone is soothing, authoritative.
The bull's ears flick toward Shadow.
His breathing slows.
"How the hell did you do that?" Mr. Peterson mutters.
Shadow doesn't answer, just keeps his hands on the bull, his voice steady.
