The words hit like a physical blow. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. I stare at her, my hands tightening into fists at my sides. The anger is a shield for the panic clawing at my throat, the desperate urge to grab her waist and pull her against me, to claim her before she can run.
“I keep things alive. That’s my job. If you want to walk away, walk. But don’t tell me how to run my life.” My voice is gravel-rough.
“I’m not trying to run your life. I’m trying to save mine.” She looks away, her voice suddenly dropping, turning raw and tired.
She turns and walks out of the office, the door clicking shut behind her.
I stare at the blank wall, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. The room is hot, the air thick and difficult to breathe. The wall I built is back up, solid and cold, but it doesn’t stop the ache in my chest.
She’s right. I’m terrified.
I’m terrified of the moment she gets into that rental and drives down the mountain, leaving me to listen to the empty corridors and the wind through the pines. I let myself touch her. I let myself want a future, only to watch it slip away like Jesse did.
I don’t want to lose her, too, and there’s the honest truth.
I’m a healer, the vet who saved Atlas, but I couldn’t save Jesse. I couldn’t stop him from walking into that cold garage. I wasn’tthere when he needed me most, and now I’m standing guard over a grave.
The clinic landline rings.
I ignore it, letting the machine in the waiting room pick up. The bells chime five times before cutting off, only to start up again on the office desk, the high-pitched bell vibrating the wooden surface. I grab the heavy plastic receiver, ready to bark a refusal, and press the speaker button so I don’t have to hold the cold plastic to my ear.
“Calhoun,” a voice crackles through the line. The tone is sharp and dry, instantly recognizable from the estate paperwork. Brock Sterling. “I want to speak with Bella Coleman. Her mobile isn’t connecting.”
I grip the desk, my knuckles turning white. “Sterling. She isn’t interested in your threats.”
“Calhoun.” A quiet sigh comes through the static, loud in the small office. It’s heavy with corporate dismissal. “I didn’t call to negotiate with a vet who can’t keep his heating oil paid. You own half of a bleeding balance sheet. The banks will foreclose on that property before the spring melt if the back taxes aren’t cleared. Put Bella on. The county commissioner is signing the easement variance at one o’clock. If she wants the ten percent bonus on the acquisition payout, I need the signed contract in my inbox by noon. After that, we withdraw the offer and proceed with the north ridge parcel. The access road will be cut off. She can take the money now, or she can hold onto a dead asset.”
I look up. Bella is standing in the doorway, her shoulders hunched, her face pale. She heard every word. The raw contempt in Sterling’s voice hangs in the air between us.
Before I can speak, she steps forward. Her chin is set, her hazel eyes cold.
Bella reaches out and takes the receiver from my fingers, switching off the speaker. She doesn’t look at me. She speaks directly into the mouthpiece.
“This is Bella Coleman.”
I stand still, my shoulder brushing hers. The scent of her hair is there, a quiet reminder of the dawn.
“I received the agreement, Mr. Sterling.” Her voice is steady, her crisis-line calm back in place. It’s a professional tone, clean and cold. “But your timeline is your problem, not mine. The access road is a public county easement, and any variance requires a public hearing. You won’t be cutting off anything by spring.”
I look at her, my chest tightening. What’s happening?
Bella grips the receiver, her voice hard. “I don’t care about the board meeting. You’ve been digging through my finances, building a file to use my debt against me. That isn’t negotiation. It’s intimidation. If your legal team wants to discuss a sale, they can contact my attorney downstate. That is the only signature you’re going to get.”
She listens for a second, then presses the button, cutting the line.
She sets the receiver back on the cradle. Her hands are shaking, but her expression is fierce. She looks at me, her eyes bright with defiance.
“I’m not signing it,” she says.
“Bella.” My voice is gone. I stare at her, the cold wall in my chest cracking, the pieces falling away like ice in the sun.
Her voice cracks, but she holds my gaze. “I’m not letting them bully you. And I’m not letting them destroy this place. Not like this.” She takes a shaky breath, looking down at her hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay the bank. I don’t have a plan. But I’m not selling Jesse’s clinic to a predator. We’ll find another way.”
“We’ll find it.” A warm ache opens in my chest, a sudden, sharp relief that has nothing to do with the numbers.
The office door opens.
Eleanor stands in the doorway. She holds an envelope in her hand, the paper creased, yellowed, and worn at the corners. Her expression is solemn, her usual meddling briskness is replaced by a quiet gravity.
