"Your father was a rancher?"
"Worked at the Double R Ranch about thirty miles from here. Started as a hand when he was sixteen, worked his way up toforeman. He taught me everything: how to read the land, how to manage herds, how to fix things with whatever you have on hand because buying new isn't always an option. He even supported me when I decided to work for Frank."
There's something complicated in Tucker's voice, and I find myself asking, "Is he still there? At the Double R?"
"No. Ranch closed about five years ago. The owner died and his kids sold it to developers." Tucker's jaw tightens. "My dad had worked that land for thirty-five years. Poured everything into it. And then it was just... gone. Turned into vacation homes for rich people from California."
"Where is he now?"
"Dead. Heart attack two years after the ranch closed." Tucker's voice is flat, but I can hear the pain underneath. "Doctor said it was genetic, bad cholesterol, all that medical stuff. But I think he died of a broken heart. He didn't know how to be anything other than a rancher, and when that got taken away..."
He trails off, and I don't know what to say. I don’t know how to acknowledge that kind of loss without sounding trite or pitying.
"My mom died when I was young," Tucker continues, still staring out at the cattle. "Cancer. So, it was just me and Dad, and this life. Ranching, working the land, taking care of animals, that was all we had. All we knew how to do."
"Is that why you're so determined to make this place work? For him?"
Tucker looks at me then, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just terrified that if this ranch fails, I'll end up like he did. Broken and lost and not knowing what to do with myself." He pauses. "That's probably too heavy for a ranch tour, huh?"
"No," I tell him. "It's honest."
We stand there in silence for a moment, the fence rails solid under my hands, the sun warm on my shoulders, Tucker's presence beside me both comfortable and electric.
"Come on," he says finally. "There's more to show you."
He leads me past the main barn where I met Mason and Garrett yesterday, toward a section of the ranch I haven't seen yet. There's new fencing here too, and what looks like the beginnings of a riding arena.
"This was Sierra's idea," Tucker explains. "She thinks we should diversify. Not just rely on cattle. Maybe offer riding lessons, horse boarding, agritourism stuff. Wade was resistant at first, but she's got him convinced now."
"And you? What do you think?"
Tucker shrugs. "I think it's smart business. Scary as hell to change things, but smart. We can't keep doing what we've always done and expect different results." He grins slightly. "That's what Sierra keeps telling Wade anyway, and she's usually right."
"She sounds impressive."
"She is. She's also terrifying when she gets an idea in her head. But in a good way." He pauses at the fence line, looking back at the ranch buildings. "Wade fought her investment at first, you know. Fought it hard. Didn't want some outsider coming in and changing everything. But she proved herself, and now..." He trails off, shaking his head with a smile. "Now he looks at her like she hung the moon."
I've heard this story too, in various forms, from various gossipers at the diner. But hearing Tucker tell it, with affection and amusement instead of judgment, makes it sound different. Real. Like something worth believing in.
"You don't sound skeptical," I say.
"About Wade and Sierra? Nah. When you see them together, it makes sense. They just... fit." He glances at me. "I haven't seen Wade that happy in years. Maybe ever. Makes me think that sometimes taking a risk on something, or someone, unexpected can be worth it."
There's something in the way he says it, the way he's looking at me, that makes me want to kiss him. Makes me want to be the person he takes a risk on.
But I can’t. I need to remember my professional boundaries.
"I should probably get going," I say, even though I don't want to. Even though I could stand here all day listening to Tucker talk about the ranch and his father and his friends who are finding happiness in unexpected places.
"Yeah. Of course." But he doesn't move, and neither do I, and we're standing there at the fence line with the ranch spread out behind us and something fragile and terrifying hanging in between us.
"Tucker—"
"I know," he says. "You're the vet. I'm the client. This is probably a terrible idea."
"Definitely a terrible idea."
"But I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since yesterday. Since you walked into that stable and saved Butterscotch and didn't treat me like I was an idiot for being worried about a horse."
