I hurry to the bedroom, grabbing a fresh pair of socks and my sturdy boots. I shove my phone into my pocket and grab my purse.
When I come back out, Boone is waiting by the door. He has his hat pulled low, his collar turned up against the chill. He looks imposing and capable and incredibly reliable.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready,” I say.
We walk out into the drizzle. The air is crisp, the sky a bruised purple as the sun tries to break through. Knox is waiting by the truck, the tire chains clanking in his hands.
I climb into the back seat. The cab smells like Boone. It’s a comforting scent.
Knox climbs into his own seat and turns the radio on. Dolly Parton’s “Here You Come Again” blasts from the speakers.
Boone puts the truck in gear. “Hold on,” he says.
We pull out of the driveway, churning through the mud. I look back at the house. Rhett’s standing on the porch, holding his coffee mug. He raises a hand in a wave.
I’m assaulted with the memory of the last time, and how instead of Rhett, it was Boone who stood there and watched me drive away.
I turn around in my seat, facing the road.
Saramaria
We’ve only been on the road for ten minutes when the rain starts again.
The drive over feels like navigating a riverbed. Boone’s truck cuts through the ruts in the mud with the ease of a ship slicing through waves, the big tires gripping where my rental would have surely spun out and died.
I sit in the back, my hands gripping the handle above the door, watching the water sheet down the windows. The world outside is a blur of gray and brown, but inside the cab, the air is warm and smells of leather and Boone’s distinct scent. It’s calming, much as I hate to admit it.
When we finally pull up to the ranch, the rain has slowed to a fine, misty drizzle. I jump out before Boone can even put the truck in park.
“Wait,” he calls out, but I’m already running toward the side entrance.
I need to see her. I need to know she’s real.
I find her in the birthing stall at the back of the main barn. The air in here is humid, and heavy with the scents of straw, disinfectant, and the metallic tang of birth. Willa is elbow-deepin a haystack, cooing softly to an ewe that’s lying on her side, panting.
“Saramaria?”
She looks up, surprise widening her eyes. Her face is pale, her hair pulled back in a messy braid, and there are dark circles etched deeply under her eyes that makeup can’t hide. But she’s here. She’s standing.
“I came as soon as I could,” I say, rushing forward. “I tried to call.”
She wipes a forearm across her forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt. “Phone’s been off. I just... I couldn’t deal with the noise.” She gestures to the stall. “This little one decided to make an entrance early. Breech. I’ve been trying to turn him for twenty minutes.”
“Do you need help?” I ask, stripping off my coat.
Willa smiles, a tired, genuine thing. “Actually, yes. I need an extra pair of hands to hold the mother while I manipulate the lamb.”
I don’t hesitate. I wash my hands in the bucket of warm water near the door and step into the stall. The ewe bleats, a low, pitiful sound, and I place my hands on her flank, murmuring soothing words. Willa goes to work, her movements sure and professional.
I watch her, admiring her focus. Here, in this stall, she isn’t the victim of a scandal. She isn’t the Omega who was cornered by a monster. She’s a doctor. A healer.
Ten minutes later, a wet, slippery lamb slides onto the straw. Willa clears the airways, rubbing the creature vigorously with a towel. The lamb sneezes, shakes its head, and lets out a loud, indignant bleat.
“Good lungs,” Willa says, sitting back on her heels. She looks exhausted but relieved.
We move the lamb and mother to a clean pen, ensuring the baby is nursing. Then we strip off our gloves and wash up.
