"Deal."
She goes back to her drawing, humming again, and I drink my coffee and watch her and try not to think about how fast seven years went by, how she's going to be eight in two months, how every day she looks more like Jenna and acts more like me, and how I'm terrified I'm screwing this up.
The toast pops up. Actually burnt this time, because I forgot I was making it, and Emma giggles.
"You're bad at breakfast, Daddy."
"I'm bad at mornings in general, Bug."
"I know." She grins at me, dimples flashing, and I think not for the first time that she's the bravest person I know and she has no idea.
The bus comes at 7:15, right on time, and Emma kisses my cheek and runs down the driveway with her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, her pigtails flying behind her. I watch until the bus pulls away, until I can't see her face in the window anymore, and then I head straight for the stables.
The morning is cold and clear, the kind of Montana autumn morning that makes your lungs ache in a good way. The sun's just starting to climb over the eastern ridge, painting everything gold and orange, and if I wasn't so worried about Butterscotch I might actually stop and appreciate it.
But I am worried, because Emma's right. Horses are always hungry, and Butterscotch has never turned down a meal in his life.
The stable is warm and dim, smelling like hay and leather and horse, and I find Butterscotch in his stall with his head hanging low, not even bothering to look up when I approach.
"Hey, boy," I say softly, unlatching the door and stepping inside. "What's going on with you?"
He doesn't move. Doesn't even flick an ear.
I run my hands over him, checking for heat or swelling, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. His coat is dull, which isn't like him, and when I press gently on his abdomen he shifts away with a soft grunt.
*Shit.*
I pull out my phone and call Boone, because if anyone knows horses, it's him.
He answers on the second ring. "Yeah?"
"Butterscotch still isn't eating. Emma was right."
There's a pause, then a sigh. "I'll be there in five."
He's there in three, because Boone doesn't mess around when it comes to horses. We go over Butterscotch together: checking his gums, his temperature, his gut sounds, and everything Boone finds makes his face grimmer.
"Could be colic," he says finally, straightening up. "Could be something worse."
"We need a vet."
"Yeah." He pulls out his phone, scrolls through something, then shows me the screen. "New one just opened a practice in town last month. Dr. Williams. Got good reviews from the Patterson ranch."
The Pattersons are old-school ranchers who don't trust anyone under sixty, so if they're recommending this vet, that's saying something.
"Call them," I say, and Boone nods and steps out of the stall, already dialing.
I stay with Butterscotch, one hand on his neck, feeling his shallow breathing, thinking about how I'm going to explain this to Emma if something goes really wrong.
Boone comes back a few minutes later. "She can be here by ten. Said to keep him warm and calm, no food or water until she's evaluated him."
I check my watch. It's barely eight. Two hours.
"I'll stay with him," I say.
"Tucker, we've got fence repair on the south pasture—"
"I'll stay with him."
