"Right." I shake his hand briefly. "The horse expert."
"Something like that." He glances back toward the stable, then at me. "Tucker staying with Butterscotch?"
"Yes. I told him the horse needs monitoring for the next several hours."
Boone nods slowly, like he's processing more than just my words. "He'll stay all day if that's what it takes. Probably all night too if you'd let him."
"That's not necessary—"
"For Emma, it is." Boone's expression softens slightly. "That little girl is his whole world. Has been since her mom left when she was three."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. Just adjust my bag on my shoulder and hope Boone gets the hint that I need to leave.
He doesn't.
"Tucker's a good man," Boone continues, "Best man I know, actually. Hasn't had an easy go of it, but he never complains. Just keeps showing up, keeps taking care of everyone around him, keeps putting Emma first no matter what."
"That's... nice," I manage, because what else am I supposed to say?
"Just thought you should know." Boone takes a step back, giving me space. "In case you were wondering."
"I wasn't wondering."
His mouth quirks up at one corner: a smile that suggests he doesn't believe me for a second, and then he's walking back toward the stable, leaving me standing next to my truck with my face heating up and my heart doing that stupid erratic thing again.
I climb into my truck, throw my bag onto the passenger seat, and sit there for a minute with my hands on the steering wheel, trying to compose myself.
This is fine. This is completely fine. Tucker Hayes is a client, Butterscotch is my patient, and the fact that Tucker is attractive and devoted to his daughter and didn't once try to mansplain veterinary medicine to me is completely irrelevant.
I have professional boundaries for a reason. I've been burned before.
I came to Blackwater Falls for a fresh start. To build my practice, to prove I can make it on my own, to focus on my work and my career and not on men who look at me with worried eyes and talk about their daughters with voices full of love.
I start the truck and pull out of the driveway, forcing myself not to look back at the stable, at Tucker, at any of it.
Tomorrow I'll come back, I'll recheck Butterscotch, I'll maintain my professional distance, and everything will be fine.
Everything will be absolutely fine.
My clinic is a converted barn on the outskirts of Blackwater Falls. Nothing fancy, but it's mine. I bought it six months ago with every penny I'd saved from working at that practice in Denver, the one owned by Dr. Richard Chambers and his two condescending partners who spent more time explaining basic veterinary procedures to me than actually letting me do my job.
The fact that I slept with Richard for eight months before discovering he had a wife and three kids in the suburbs is something I try not to think about. The fact that I was stupid enough to believe him when he said he loved me, that we'd build a practice together, that I was different from all the other women he'd worked with… That's something I think about constantly, usually at three in the morning when I can't sleep.
But that's over now. He’s in Denver, probably explaining to some new veterinarian how to perform a spay while secretly texting his wife that he'll be home late. And I'm here, in Blackwater Falls, Montana, building something that's entirely mine.
The clinic is quiet when I pull up. I don't have any other appointments until this afternoon, thank God, because I need time to write up Butterscotch's file and order more supplies and maybe eat something that isn't gas station coffee and granola bars.
I let myself in through the side door, flipping on lights as I go. The exam room smells like disinfectant and dog shampoo. I had a golden retriever in yesterday for a routine checkup and the owner insisted on bathing him here because apparently their bathtub at home isn't big enough, and I make a mental note to open some windows later to air the place out.
My office is in the back, a small room with a desk, a filing cabinet, and a window that overlooks a field where someone's cows graze occasionally. I drop my bag on the desk and sink intomy chair, which squeaks because I bought it at a yard sale and it's approximately a thousand years old.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting it to be the Patterson ranch calling about their mare's ultrasound results, but instead it's a text from a number I don't recognize.
*This is Tucker. Just wanted to let you know Butterscotch is resting quietly. No signs of distress. Still not interested in food but I'm following your instructions about that.*
I stare at the message for longer than is reasonable, my thumb hovering over the screen.
I should respond professionally. Something brief and clinical. "Good. Continue monitoring and I'll see you tomorrow."
