“Take the gate over there.” Wyatt doesn’t break his rhythm, throwing another heavy shovelful over the fence. “Clear the latch first, then shovel the path out to the main fence. Don’t throw it against the wire, or the weight will buckle it.”
“Got it.”
I dig the blade into the snow. It’s heavy and packed dense by the wind. My shoulders protest on the first scoop, the muscles tight and unused to this kind of labor, but I drive the shovel in again.
We work in silence. The only sounds are the scraping of the steel blades against the concrete pads, the thud of the snow landing on the drifts, and our own rhythmic, deepening breathing.
After ten minutes, my skin is slick with sweat under the heavy sweater. I stop, leaning on the shovel handle, wiping my forehead with the back of my glove.
Wyatt stops, too. He stands three feet away, his chest rising and falling. His dark hair is damp, clinging to his forehead, and the grey at his temples is bright in the winter sun. He watches me, his eyes dark, his gaze dropping to the open collar of my sweater where Jesse’s tags have slipped out.
The tags catch the sun, a bright, blinding flash of silver.
Wyatt’s jaw tightens. He steps closer, his boots crunching loud and deliberate in the snow, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating from his flannel shirt. He reaches out, his large, gloved hand rising to my face.
My breath hitches. I freeze, my eyes wide, my body leaning toward him. The desire is sudden, sharp, and heavy in my belly, a desperate want to feel his fingers against my skin.
He doesn’t pull away. With agonizing slowness, the side of his thumb brushes the sensitive skin just below my cheekbone, wiping away a stray fleck of cold ice that had clung to my skin.
The contact is electric, even through the thick insulated glove. His thumb lingers there for a fraction of a second too long, a warm, heavy pressure against my shivering skin, before his hand drops to his side.
“You’re shaking,” he says, his voice barely louder than the breeze.
“It’s just the work,” I lie, my voice breathy, my skin burning where he touched me. “I’m not used to plowing through drifts.”
“Take a break. Go inside and check the stove. I can finish the runs.”
“No.” I drive the shovel back into the pack, my movement sharp, fueled by the frustration of my own body’s breathless reaction to him. “I told you I’d help.”
“Stubborn.” A faint, dry line appears at the corner of his mouth. It’s not a smile, but it’s the closest I’ve seen to one.
“Runs in the family.”
The mention of Jesse hangs in the cold air, but it doesn’t snap the connection this time. It feels different now—less like a wall between us and more like a shared, quiet understanding.
We finish the runs. Wyatt opens the clinic door and lets Dolly out. The collie steps onto the cleared concrete, her nose up, sniffing the sharp, cold air. She moves cautiously, her white paws checking the boundaries of the path. She doesn’t have her sight, but she knows this run, turning to navigate the corner with confidence.
“She knows the walls.”
“Animals learn the layout fast.” Wyatt leans his weight on the shovel handle, watching Dolly’s nose work the air. “They don’t spend time wishing the fence wasn’t there. They just find the path inside it.”
“And people?”
“People spend all their time fighting the fence.” Wyatt stares out toward the horizon where the white peaks of Angel’s Peak meet the blue sky. “Until they break themselves against it.”
I look at him. He stands tall, his broad shoulders squared against the mountain, but there’s a loneliness to his silhouette that makes my chest ache. He’s built this shelter as a fortress, a place where he can control the boundaries, where nothing has to die if he works hard enough.
But it’s a prison, too.
“Let’s get some food.” He shoulders his shovel and turns back toward the clinic door.
We clean the tools and step back into the mudroom, shedding our wet boots and gloves. The clinic kitchen is warm, thewoodstove in the hall having heated the interior. Wyatt puts a pot of coffee on the small stove, the dark, rich scent filling the room.
He sets two mugs on the counter, then pulls a loaf of bread and some cheese from the small fridge. He cuts the bread with thick, uneven slices, his hands steady and capable.
“Thank you.” I take the plate from him.
We sit on the two oak stools, the space between us agonizingly small. Wyatt turns his stool slightly to face me, and our knees brush.
