The call comes through Thursday afternoon while I'm restocking supplies at the clinic, but I barely hear the phone over the noise in my head, because Mason Rivera wrecked me last night.
I’ve spent the whole morning in a fog, replaying it—the rough sound he made when he came, the way he held me after like letting go wasn’t an option, the steady rise and fall of his breath in my bright living room while I lay on his chest pretending the whole world hadn’t shifted.
I liked it. I liked how I felt. I liked how I made him feel, and I wanted more of all of it.
Then he got up and left.
I know that he was giving me room to breathe. He was respecting the boundaries I set—the rules about consent and control. But I've been thinking about it all morning, and I'm starting to think I don't want space anymore. I'm starting to think I wanted him to stay. I want him in my bed, and I want to feel him inside me.
The more I think about it, the more I think that’s where he belongs.
The phone buzzes in my pocket. It takes me a couple rings to realize what it is. Because clients use my personal number to get in touch with me about emergencies, I answer it without looking. “This is Dr. Carter.”
“Doc Carter?” The voice is male, gruff, unfamiliar. “This is Ray Hutchins, the lead hand from the Turner Ranch. We've got a bull that needs looking at. Limping on his front left, won't put weight on it.”
The Turner Ranch. My hand tightens on the phone. Every instinct I have screams at me to make an excuse and decline. To stay as far away from that property as possible after what happened Monday night, when Kelly nearly caught me in the shadows and Mason triggered the alarm to save me.
But the professional part of me can't refuse a legitimate call without raising suspicion. And who am I kidding? I can’t pass up this opportunity to go there. They’re inviting me.
“I can be there in forty minutes,” I say.
“Appreciate it, Doc.”
The line goes dead.
I stand in the supply room, phone still pressed to my ear, my pulse kicking up in a way that has nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with dread.
This is a mistake. Mason and I set rules. No solo operations, no unnecessary risks. No going out without backup.
But this isn't hunting. This is work. It’s a legitimate veterinary call that has nothing to do with my mission and everything to do with the health of an animal. This doesn't violate the rules, not to mention that they’re inviting me onto the ranch. I’ll be fine.
I set the phone down and reach for my veterinary bag.
56
LILY
The drive to Turner Ranch feels longer than it should.
I force myself to breathe evenly, to keep my hands steady on the wheel, to run through the tactical checklist I've memorized: professional demeanor, minimal eye contact, treat the animal and leave. Don't ask questions. Don't linger.
But keep your ears open.
Fortunately, I doubt I’ll run into Kelly. He’ll probably be busy doing other things. He didn’t even take the time to call me—usually it’s the foreman who calls me out to a ranch.
The Turner Ranch spreads out before me as I turn onto the long gravel drive. I follow the road all the way up to the main barn, where I park my truck and kill the engine.
Ray Hutchins is waiting for me. I’ve met him a few times since I took the job here in Iron Ridge. He’s a man in his fifties with weathered skin and the kind of build that comes from decades of physical labor.
He nods as I approach, his expression neutral. “Thanks for coming out, Doc. Bull's in the south corral.”
I follow him past the barn, my veterinary bag heavy in my hand, my awareness sharp and focused.
That's when I see him—Patrick Kelly.
He's leaning against the fence near the corral, arms crossed, his posture deceptively casual. But his eyes are on me.
My stomach drops. I tell myself it’s nothing more than curiosity. I’m likely the only woman on the ranch right now—unless they have a cargo hidden somewhere—so of course he’d stare. You’d stare at a flamingo among pigeons, right?
