"What's that going to do?" Tucker asks, watching as I attach the funnel to the end of the tube.
"Help lubricate everything in his digestive system so the impaction can pass." I start pouring the oil slowly, letting gravity do the work. "Think of it like... well, like a very effective laxative."
His mouth quirks up at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close, and I find myself noticing things I shouldn't be noticing. Like how he's probably six-two, all lean muscle and weathered strength. Like how his sandy brown hair is a little too long and looks like he cut it himself in the bathroom mirror. Like how there are lines around his eyes that suggest he smiles more than he frowns, even though right now he looks like he hasn't slept in a week.
"How long have you had Butterscotch?" I ask, because talking helps me focus on something other than the fact that Tucker Hayes is objectively attractive and that's completely irrelevant to the situation.
"Three years. He belonged to Frank Delaney, the man who owned this ranch before he passed. Frank left the place for me and five of my friends." He pauses, his hand moving to stroke Butterscotch's neck absently. "This horse has been Emma's favorite since the first time she saw him. She was four years old and barely came up to his knee, and she just marched right up to him and announced they were going to be best friends."
Despite myself, I smile. "Sounds like a confident kid."
"That's Emma." His voice softens when he says her name. "She's seven now, and she still visits him every day after school. Brings him carrots, tells him about her day, brushes him even when he doesn't need it."
"She's going to be worried."
"Yeah." Tucker's jaw tightens. "She already was this morning. Asked me if he was going to die like Mr. Delaney did."
And now I understand the tension rolling off him. It's not skepticism or defensiveness like I usually encounter. It's fear. Fear that he's going to have to break his daughter's heart.
"He's not going to die," I say firmly, pouring the last of the mineral oil into the funnel. "The impaction is significant, but we caught it early. With proper treatment and monitoring, he should make a full recovery."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure," I say. "But I'm going to need you to follow my instructions exactly. No food until I clear him tomorrow. Smallamounts of water only. Walk him every few hours to encourage gut motility. And if you see any signs of severe distress—"
"Call you immediately. You said."
"I'm serious, Tucker. Colic can go from manageable to surgical emergency very quickly. I need to know you're going to be vigilant."
"I will be." He doesn't look away, doesn't flinch. "Whatever he needs, whatever Emma needs, I'll do it."
I believe him. Which is dangerous, because believing clients means caring about their outcomes more than is professionally advisable, and I learned a long time ago that caring too much is what gets you hurt.
The tube is empty, so I remove it and reach for my IV supplies. "I'm going to place a catheter now so we can keep him hydrated. The fluids will help soften everything up internally."
Tucker nods and keeps holding Butterscotch steady while I clip a section of the horse's neck, clean it with antisone, and slide the catheter into place. Butterscotch barely reacts. He's too tired, too uncomfortable, and I get the fluids running and then step back to assess my work.
One bag of saline hanging from a portable IV stand. Check.
Catheter secured and flowing properly. Check.
Horse still standing, breathing normally, not in acute distress. Check.
"Okay," I say, pulling off my gloves and reaching for my bag to grab the pain medication. "Last thing. I'm going to give him some banamine for the pain and inflammation. It should help him feel more comfortable while we wait for the mineral oil to do its job."
I draw up the medication and administer it quickly. One smooth injection into the muscle, and then I'm done. The hard part, anyway.
"He'll need to stay on fluids for at least six hours," I say, checking my watch. It's 10:23 AM now. "I can set up a second bag before I leave, but someone's going to need to be here to monitor him and switch it out when it's empty. Can you do that?"
"Yeah. I'll stay with him."
"All day?"
"All day." Tucker's voice is firm. "I'm not leaving him alone, and I'm sure as hell not letting Emma come home to bad news."
I adjust my glasses. They've slipped down my nose again, which they always do when I'm working, and stare at him for a moment. Most ranchers would delegate this kind of monitoring to a hand or a stable worker. But Tucker Hayes looks like he's prepared to camp out in this stall until Butterscotch is fully recovered.
It's... actually kind of sweet. In a rugged, overprotective, handsome father kind of way.
