*Honestly? Someone who'd talk down to me and act like I don't know anything about horses because I'm just some rancher who inherited a struggling property and doesn't have a degree on the wall.*
Oh.
*Has that happened before?*
*More times than I can count.*
I think about all the ranchers I've dealt with who've done exactly that to me—assumed I don't know my job, questioned my decisions, mansplained procedures I could perform in mysleep. I think about Richard and his partners, about the way they'd introduce me to clients as "our associate" instead of "Dr. Williams," about the way they'd step in to "help" with surgeries I didn't need help with.
I know exactly what Tucker's talking about. Just from the other side.
*I'm sorry,* I type. *That's not fair. You clearly know your animals and care about them deeply.*
*Thanks. And I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier. Boone said I can be intense when it comes to Emma.*
*You weren't uncomfortable. You were worried. That's different.*
*Still. I appreciate you not treating me like I'm overreacting.*
I stare at that message for a long moment. This is how it starts, I think. A few friendly text messages. Some mutual understanding. The slow erosion of professional boundaries until you're in too deep and you've forgotten why those boundaries existed in the first place.
I should stop this now.
But when I look at that photo again, at Tucker sitting in that stall, devoted and patient and kind, I don't want to stop it.
Which is dangerous.
Which is exactly why I need to.
*I should let you go,* I type. *You need to focus on monitoring Butterscotch, and I have paperwork to finish.*
*Right. Of course. Sorry for texting so much.*
*Don't apologize. I'm glad he's doing well.*
*See you tomorrow at nine?*
*See you tomorrow.*
I set my phone down and close my laptop and sit there in my squeaky chair, staring out the window at nothing.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I'll go back tomorrow, I'll check on Butterscotch, I'll maintain my professional boundaries, and I won't think about Tucker Hayes or the way he talks about his daughter like she's the center of his universe.
I won't think about how he said I was easy to talk to, or how he sent me that photo, or how something in my chest cracked open when I read his messages.
I won't think about any of it.
My phone buzzes one more time.
*Emma says the picture she drew for you has a unicorn in it because Butterscotch told her he always wanted to be a unicorn. Just thought you should be prepared.*
And despite everything, despite my boundaries and my past mistakes and my determination not to get emotionally involved with clients, I laugh.
A real laugh, the kind I haven't had in months.
I pick up my phone and type: *Can't wait to see it.*
And I mean it.
