"Don't apologize. I'd rather have clients who are too attentive than not attentive enough." I pack up my supplies, trying to ignore the way Tucker's still watching me, the way his presence in this small stall makes the space feel even smaller. "He can have small amounts of hay now. Just a handful at a time, spread out over the course of the day. And keep him on water, as much as he wants."
"No more IV fluids?"
"Not unless he stops drinking on his own, which I don't think he will." I gesture to the catheter still in Butterscotch's neck. "I can remove that now if you want or leave it in until this evening in case we need it. Your choice."
Tucker considers this, his hand absently stroking Butterscotch's neck. "Leave it in. Just in case. I can call you later if he's drinking well and you can talk me through removing it."
"I can come back—"
"You don't need to make another trip out here just to pull a catheter. I can handle it if you walk me through it."
He's right, of course. It's a simple procedure, and there's no medical reason for me to come back today. But something in me wants to argue anyway, wants to find a reason to return to this ranch, to this stable, to this man who showers before I arrive andtexts about horse urination and loves his daughter so much it shows in every word he speaks.
"All right," I say. "Call me around five and let me know how he's doing. If he's drinking and eating normally, I'll talk you through removing the catheter."
"And if he's not?"
"Then I'll come back."
Tucker nods, seeming satisfied with this plan, and we both step out of the stall. Butterscotch watches us go with what I swear is a reproachful look. He’s probably wondering why we're leaving when he just started feeling better and could use some more of that attention.
I'm heading for the stable door, ready to make my escape before I do something stupid like notice how the morning light catches in Tucker's hair or how his voice does that soft thing when he talks to animals, when he speaks.
"Marley."
I stop, turn back. He's standing in the aisle, hands in his pockets, looking uncertain in a way that doesn't quite match the confident rancher who's been managing Butterscotch's care so competently.
"Yeah?"
"Would you—" He pauses, runs a hand through his hair. "Would you want to see the rest of the ranch? Before you go? I know you probably have other appointments, but Emma wanted me to show you around. She's proud of this place, and she's excited that you helped Butterscotch, and—"
He's rambling. Tucker Hayes, who was perfectly calm and collected during a rectal exam and IV placement, is rambling. It's endearing, really.
"I'd like that," I hear myself say, even though I know I shouldn't. Even though I have paperwork waiting at the clinic and boundaries I should be maintaining and a history of making bad decisions when it comes to attractive men who look at me like I'm something more than just the person who treats their animals.
But Tucker's face lights up. It actually lights up, like I just gave him something valuable, and he's already moving toward the stable door, gesturing for me to follow.
"We've made a lot of changes in the past couple weeks," he says as we step outside. "Got a new investor… Well, partner now, who's helping us save the place. My buddy Wade, he's one of the other owners, he actually started dating her a few days ago."
I've heard rumors about this in town. The diner where I stop for coffee most mornings was buzzing with gossip about Promise Ranch's heiress investor who supposedly showed up out of nowhere and fell for one of the owners within forty-eight hours. The stories ranged from romantic to scandalous depending on who was telling them.
"I heard something about that," I say, not wanting to admit how much small-town gossip I've already absorbed in my six months here.
Tucker grins. "I bet you did. Blackwater Falls doesn't have much to talk about, so Wade and Sierra gave everyone enough material for months. But it's real. They're crazy about each other, and she's the reason we could afford all this."
He gestures toward a section of fence that looks brand new, the wood still pale and unseasoned. "New fencing on the north pasture. Old stuff was falling apart, literally held together with wire and prayer. Now we can actually rotate the cattle properlywithout worrying they're going to break through and end up on the highway."
We walk past the fence toward a large metal building I didn't notice yesterday. "New equipment barn," Tucker continues, and there's pride in his voice now. "Had to store everything in the old barn before, which meant half our equipment was exposed to the elements and the other half was buried under hay bales. Now we've got proper shelter and organization."
He opens the door and I follow him inside. The building is spacious and well-lit, with tractors and machinery lined up neatly along one wall, tools organized on pegboards, everything clean and accessible.
"This is impressive," I say, running my hand along the side of a tractor that looks significantly newer than the ancient equipment I saw yesterday. "This must have cost—"
"A lot. But Sierra understood that we needed to invest in infrastructure if we're going to make this place sustainable. Can't keep limping along with equipment from the eighties."
We step back outside and Tucker leads me toward the pastures, pointing out other improvements as we walk. New water troughs. Repaired barn roof. A whole section of irrigation system that's been replaced.
"My father taught me that good ranching is about more than just cattle," Tucker says, stopping at a fence that overlooks rolling hills dotted with grazing Angus. "It's about the land, the equipment, the infrastructure. Everything has to work together or nothing works at all."
