“I’m choosing ignorance.” I took the cup. The lemonade was too sweet, sticky on my tongue, and perfect.
The loudspeaker crackled to life. “Welcome to the Everwood Founders Day Festival and Barbecue!” Mayor Peterson’s voice boomed, cheerful as a carnival barker. “Rodeo starts at noon, animal auction at three, fireworks after dark. Don’t forget to stop by the vet booth for free check-ups.”
I raised my cup toward the sound.
Austin walked up, wiping his hands on a towel. “How’s morale?”
“High,” I said. “And possibly sugar-drunk.”
He grinned, handing me a folded napkin. Inside were two sugar cookies shaped like little cows. “Breakfast of champions.”
“Rations for the overworked.”
“For Everwood’s newest vet,” he said, eyes soft but teasing.
I tried to glare, failed, and laughed instead. “You’re laying it on thick.”
“It’s Founders Day,” he said, leaning closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “Thick is allowed.”
A cheer rose from the rodeo ring; a bull kicked up dust, and the crowd roared in approval. The air was alive with it—motion, noise, joy. For the first time since the brick through the window, I didn’t feel like the world was watching to see if I’d flinch.
Today, Everwood was mine too.
BBy noon, the fairgrounds pulsed like a living thing. The sun had settled into its summer stride, high and hot, painting everyone’s shoulders the same shade of pink. Smoke from the grills drifted over the field, curling around laughter, sizzling with the smell of ribs, chicken, and the world’s most competitive potato salad. The rodeo announcer’s voice boomed from the loudspeakers, half-choked with enthusiasm and static. Horses stamped, kids hollered, and the whole place smelled like hay, leather, and sugar. I loved it. Every bit of it.
“Doc Thomas!” Levi shouted from the grill pit, holding a set of tongs like a microphone. “You here to judge the rib contest or eat your way through it?”
“Neither. I’m here to observe and make unhelpful comments,” I called back.
He laughed, flipping a rack of ribs the size of a toddler. Mason stood beside him, fanning the smoke toward the line forming at the sauce table. Carl Hendrix from the feed store wandered by with a plate stacked high. “Best ribs in five counties,” he declared. “Don’t tell my wife I said that.”
“Too late,” Mason said. “She’s running the pie booth.”
Cassie looped her arm through mine. “You’re supposed to be relaxing, remember? Founders Day tradition. We eat until we question our life choices.”
“I don’t know if my stomach can handle that,” I said, but I let her drag me along anyway.
“You’ll change your tune after a churro, monkey bread, pie, a snow cone or two, cotton candy,” the more Cassie listed, the more my mind fell into a sugar coma.
We made our way down food row. Booths leaned against each other like old friends—cornbread, pies, roasted corn, lemonade so sweet it practically hummed. From inside the 4-H buildings and livestock barns, the animals were still buzzing from the morning shows. A few of my patients preened at me from behind their fences, tails wagging, feathers puffed.
I stopped to pick up a second-place ribbon and handed it to a little girl with pigtails holding a rogue turkey I’d vaccinated two days ago.
“You did great,” I said.
“She only attacked one judge this year,” the girl said proudly.
“Improvement!”
Near the auction ring, Justin Keller—the leather-repair guy who smelled permanently of saddle oil and coffee—was settingup his booth. He waved with a strip of polished reins. “Still need a halter fixed, Doc?”
“Can I bring it on Thursday?” I asked.
“Anytime,” he called back.
I caught sight of Austin across the ring, talking with Carl. His sleeves were rolled up, sunglasses pushed up on his head, and the easy way he moved through the crowd made me smile before I realized I was doing it.
“Stop staring,” Cassie said.
