Lucy
The late afternoon sun slants gold through the clinic windows, casting long shadows across the kennel area where I'm making my evening rounds with dinner bowls.
Outside, the Montana sky is painted in shades of amber and rose with the kind of sunset that makes this place feel like a painting I'm not supposed to be part of.
A tabby cat recovering from dental surgery barely lifts her head as I refill her water dish. Two kennels down, Bear, the German Shepherd mix with a bandaged paw, watches me with those intelligent brown eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul, his tail thumping weakly against his blanket.
This has become my routine over the past week.
Staying late while Colt spends dawn to dusk at ranches delivering calves during the height of spring birthing season, our conversations limited to terse exchanges about medications and feeding schedules.
Both of us pretending that night never happened. Both of us avoiding eye contact like teenagers who got caught making out behind the barn.
I talk to the animals like they're old friends, telling them about my day, asking about theirs. It's easier than facing the thoughts that circle my mind like vultures picking at roadkill.
"How are we feeling today, Bear?" I ask, slipping him a piece of the chicken jerky I keep in my pocket. "That paw getting better, boy?"
He takes the treat with the gentle precision of a dog who's learned to be careful with his teeth, and something in my chest loosens.
Animals don't lie. They don't manipulate or scheme or gaslight you into questioning your own sanity.
They don't tell you you're broken when you're just trying to survive. They just are what they are. Honest, uncomplicated, no masks, no hidden agendas.
Unlike me, apparently.
I finish the feeding rounds and sink into the worn leather chair behind the reception desk, staring at the wall calendar with its cheerful Montana landscape photos.
Six more weeks until I can petition the court to end uncle Richard's guardianship. Six weeks until I can reclaim my inheritance, my identity, my life.
So why does the countdown that used to comfort me, that used to be my lifeline through the darkest moments, now feel like a ticking bomb?
Because you're getting attached, you idiot.
And I am. God help me, I am getting attached.
To this place with its peeling yellow paint and the way afternoon light makes dust motes dance like tiny miracles.
To these animals who trust me with their pain and healing. To the way Mrs. Peterson waves at me from across Main Street like I'm a neighbor instead of a stranger just passing through.
To the way Gabriel looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once, his blue eyes holding secrets that match my own. To the way Colt's rare smiles feel like small victories hard-won, like sunshine breaking through storm clouds.
To the way Beau almost kissed me yesterday in that barn that smelled of hay and possibility.
The memory slams into my chest like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making my skin burn. His thumb tracing my cheek with callused gentleness, his voice rough as gravel when he breathed my name, the way his gray eyes went dark with want in the golden light filtering through the barn windows.
For a moment, one perfect, impossible moment, I'd forgotten everything except the heat building between us,the way my body leaned into his like it had been waiting for his touch all my life.
Until reality crashed back in the form of ranch emergencies and the harsh reminder that I don't get to have this. Any of this.
I'm Lucy Reid, temporary assistant, not Lucinda Kensington-Reid, heiress with a target on her back and an escape plan.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to push down the panic that's been building like flood water behind a dam. This isn't supposed to be happening. I'm supposed to keep my head down, earn enough money to keep moving, and disappear again.
I'm not supposed to be fantasizing about three different men, wondering what it would feel like to kiss each of them, to be held by them, to wake up safe in their arms instead of alone in a van.
"Three men. One broken girl," I mutter to the empty clinic, my voice echoing off the sterile walls. "That's not a love story. That's a country song. And probably a bad one."
But the worst part, the part that makes my hands shake and my chest tighten, is uncle Richard's voice echoing in my head, cold and clinical as a scalpel:You're unstable, Lucinda. Prone to delusions and inappropriate attachments. You're incapable of making rational decisions.
