Boone looks at me for a long moment, then nods. "I'll send Colt and Mason to handle it. You want coffee?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
He leaves, and I sink down onto an overturned bucket, and I wait.
Dr. Williams arrives at 9:47 AM in a beat-up Ford truck that's seen better days, pulling a horse trailer behind it that I assume carries her equipment. I'm standing outside the stable when she parks, because Boone came by twenty minutes ago to tell me she was on her way, and I wanted to meet her out here instead of making her wander around looking for the right building.
The truck door opens and a woman climbs out. She’s white, curvy, long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and boots and a canvas jacket with "Dr. M. Williams, DVM" embroidered on the chest. She's got glasses on, black-framed and slightly crooked, and when she turns to look at me there's something sharp in her expression, something that says she's ready for a fight.
Great.
"Mr. Hayes?" she calls, walking toward me with a large bag in one hand.
"Tucker," I say, meeting her halfway. "Thanks for coming out so fast."
"Of course." She shifts the bag to her other hand and offers me the free one. "Marley Williams."
Her handshake is firm, professional, and brief. Up close she's prettier than I expected. Dimples when she gives me a tight smile, brown eyes behind those glasses that are currently scanning me like I'm a specimen she's evaluating, and I realizewith a jolt that I'm noticing these things, which I haven't done in years.
"The horse is this way," I say, turning toward the stable.
She falls into step beside me. "Your friend—Boone?—said it might be colic. How long has the horse been symptomatic?"
"Noticed yesterday he wasn't eating. Still hasn't touched his food this morning."
"Any signs of distress? Rolling, pawing, sweating?"
"No rolling. A little restless, but mostly he's just... quiet. Which isn't like him."
"How old?"
"Fifteen."
"Any previous health issues?"
"Not since we've had him. Got him from Frank Delaney three years ago when he passed."
She nods, and we reach the stable. I hold the door open for her and she passes through, her bag bumping against her hip, and I catch a whiff of something clean and professional. Soap, maybe, or whatever shampoo veterinarians use when they're about to stick their arm up a horse's ass.
"Which stall?" she asks.
"Third on the right. Butterscotch."
She raises an eyebrow at that. Probably thinking the name is ridiculous but doesn't comment. Just heads down the aisle, and I follow her because I'm not leaving Butterscotch alone with a stranger, even if that stranger is a vet.
The horse is standing in the same position I left him in, head low, not moving.
"Hey there, buddy," Dr. Williams says softly, and her whole demeanor changes. Softer, gentler, like she's talking to a scared child. "I'm just going to take a look at you, okay?"
She sets down her bag and approaches slowly, letting Butterscotch smell her hand before she touches him. He doesn't react much, which worries me more, but she doesn't seem fazed. Just starts her examination: hands moving over his body, checking his pulse, his breathing, his temperature.
I lean against the stall door and watch, trying not to think about how competent she looks, how her hands are gentle but sure, how she's murmuring to Butterscotch the whole time in that soft voice that makes even me want to relax.
"His gut sounds are reduced," she says after a minute, pulling out a stethoscope and pressing it to his abdomen. "Not absent but definitely reduced. Temperature is slightly elevated. Gums are tacky."
"Is it colic?"
"Possibly." She straightens up, pushing her glasses up her nose with one finger. "I'm going to do a rectal exam to check for impaction. Do you have somewhere you need to be, or can you stay to help hold him?"
