"I can stay."
"Good." She pulls out a long plastic glove from her bag. The kind that goes all the way up to your shoulder, and I realize what's about to happen.
Butterscotch realizes it too, because he shifts nervously, and Dr. Williams gives him a reassuring pat.
"Easy, sweet boy," she murmurs. "I know this isn't fun."
I move to Butterscotch's head, taking his halter gently, holding him steady. Dr. Williams positions herself at his back end, and Ilook away because watching a vet do a rectal exam at nine in the morning is not how I wanted to start my day.
"Talk to him," she says. "Keep him calm."
So, I do. I tell Butterscotch about Emma, about how worried she was this morning, about how she drew him a picture and wore her pink boots even though it's not a pink-boots kind of day. I tell him about the ranch, about the new investor who's going to help us save this place, about Wade falling in love so fast it made all our heads spin.
I'm rambling, basically, but it seems to work. Butterscotch stays mostly still, and Dr. Williams works quickly.
"Significant impaction in the large colon," she says after a minute, pulling her arm free and stripping off the glove. "That's what's causing his discomfort and lack of appetite. Not severe enough for surgery yet, but we need to treat it aggressively."
"What do we do?"
"Mineral oil, IV fluids, pain management, and monitoring." She's already pulling supplies from her bag—a large bottle of clear liquid, IV equipment, syringes. "I'm going to tube him first, get some oil into his system to help break up the impaction. Then we'll set up fluids and give him something for the pain."
"How long until he's better?"
"If we caught it early enough? Twenty-four to forty-eight hours. But I'll need to come back tomorrow to check on him, and you'll need to monitor him closely tonight. If he starts rolling or showing signs of severe distress, you call me immediately, understand?"
"Yeah."
"Good." She pulls out a long tube and a bucket, and I realize she's about to pass a tube down Butterscotch's nose into his stomach.
This day just keeps getting better.
Chapter 2 - Marley
I can feel Tucker Hayes watching me as I prepare the nasogastric tube, and I'm trying very hard not to let it throw off my concentration because the last thing I need right now is to fumble a basic procedure in front of a client who's probably already looking for reasons to doubt my competence.
They always are, the men on these ranches. Watching, waiting, ready to jump in with "well, actually" or "back in my day" or my personal favorite, "are you sure you know what you're doing?"
I've been a veterinarian for eight years. I graduated top of my class at Cornell. I've performed emergency surgeries in the middle of fields with nothing but a headlamp and my skills to guide me. But put me in front of a rancher who's been working with animals for decades, and suddenly I'm supposed to prove myself all over again.
"This is going to look uncomfortable," I say, measuring the tube against Butterscotch's nose to estimate the distance to his stomach. "But it's necessary, and it won't hurt him."
Tucker doesn't respond, just keeps his hand steady on the horse's halter, his hazel eyes following my movements. He hasn't tried to tell me how to do my job yet, which is something, but I can feel the tension radiating off him—the worry, the protectiveness.
At least he actually cares about his animals. I've dealt with plenty of ranchers who see their livestock as nothing but dollar signs with legs.
I lubricate the tube and approach Butterscotch slowly, murmuring reassurances. "Easy, sweet boy. I know this isn't fun, but you'll feel so much better after, I promise."
The horse shifts nervously, and Tucker's grip tightens on the halter.
"Keep him still," I say, positioning myself at Butterscotch's shoulder. "Talk to him like you were before."
Tucker starts talking again. Something about his daughter Emma and pink boots, and his voice is low and soothing, and I can’t help but clench my thighs. Fuck. I need to focus.
I guide the tube gently into Butterscotch's nostril, advancing it slowly while monitoring his reactions. He tosses his head once, but Tucker steadies him, never stopping that steady stream of calm words, and the tube slides home without incident.
Thank God. The last thing I needed was to have to make multiple attempts with an audience.
I check the tube placement. Blowing gently to make sure I hear gurgling from his stomach, not air from his lungs, and then reach for the mineral oil. Three liters ought to do it, maybe four depending on how severe the impaction is.
