The one downside of having a friend who rescues kittens for a living is dodging all the cuddle attempts when I visit so I don’t end up looking like I went ten rounds with a swarm of bees. Why couldn’t Birdie have started a dog-only rescue—or better yet, not taken in every stray that shows up on her doorstep? It’s a real hardship having a saint as one of my best friends.
The sudden blare of my alarm startles me, nearly sending my phone flying out of my hand.
“No way it’s time already,” I mutter under my breath.
I glance at the pregnancy test on the counter, but don’t move closer to read the result. I’m choosing blissful ignorance for a little while longer over finding out if my world is about to be turned upside down.
With diabetes, spontaneity is already a luxury I can’t afford, so I thrive on small acts of rebellion—ordering red velvet lattes with extra whipped cream, eating pizza on the first Friday of every month, and binge-watchingSchitt’s Creekwhile eating hot Cheetos straight from the bag at 10 p.m.
If I’m pregnant, life suddenly becomes more complicated—not just with managing my chronic illness, but because the freedom I enjoy so much would disappear. Late-night animal rescue missions with the girls and impulsive bar hookups would have to take a back seat. Not that I’ve had one of those in ages. Nope, instead I went for the reckless option and slept with the older cowboy I’ve been sparring with for years, and now I’m paying the price.
God, I can’t even imagine telling Heath he’s going to be a dad. I can already picture him—arms crossed, scowling—asking how he can be sure it’s his. Ugh, I’m already outraged by the response I’ve scripted for an announcement that probably won’t ever happen.
I’ve handled challenging situations before and come out the other side just fine on my own. In high school, when money was tight, I worked at the local diner, and when Grams couldn’t run the shop anymore, I took over. So, if by some chance I am pregnant, I’ll take it in stride and figure it out as I go. That’s what I do best.
I shake my head, dragging a hand across my face.
Why am I wasting energy stressing over something that’s not going to happen?
I’m about to confirm I’m not pregnant, and all this worrying will have been for nothing.
With a surge of confidence, I stride to the sink and pick up the test. I take a deep breath before looking down, my heart skipping a beat as my eyes land on the result.
Two Little Words
“Dammit, Petunia, why do you have to be so goddamn stubborn?” I mutter.
I shake the cup of grain in front of her nose, trying to lure the uncooperative cow out of the mud she’s decided is the perfect place to soak up the sun. I’m pretty sure this is her version of a protest after being cooped up in the barn all winter. Now that spring has arrived and she can roam the fields again, she’s making the most of her newfound freedom—while testing every ounce of my patience in the process.
She lifts her head, letting out a loud moo, and pivots to face the opposite direction.
I sigh. “Nice try, but I’m not leaving until you get out of there.”
Unfazed by my threat, she flops down into the mud, sending it splattering in all directions. A wet clump lands on my cheek. I grunt as I pull a handkerchief from my back pocket and wipe it off. Being a rancher with a brain that fixates on cleanliness is a contradiction I’m constantly battling, and most days I come out on the losing end.
I’m so hyperfocused on the mess Petunia has made that I don’t notice Peaches and Daisy until they’ve already brushed past me to join her.
“Oh, come on,” I protest, scrubbing a hand over my jaw.
Daisy shoots me a bored look, like I’m the problem here. She’s a one-and-a-half-year-old Hereford cow with a slight limp, knobby horns peeking out from fuzzy ears and a patch of white on her forehead that contrasts with her deep brown eyes. She used to be shy as hell, but thanks to Petunia’s bad influence, she’s turned into a little troublemaker. Case in point: she plods straight into the mud until she’s standing hip deep.
Peaches, on the other hand, has always been an ass—both literally and figuratively. She’s dappled in shades of gray and tan, as if the sun bleached her coat unevenly, and her mane sticks up along her neck in a stubborn ridge. She drops down next to Petunia, glancing at me with a look that says I’d better not think about stepping in unless I want her to file a complaint with PETA.
“Have you two forgotten who saved you? If it weren’t for me, you’d probably be a pile of bones somewhere,” I remind them.
“If I recall, Birdie did the rescuing.”
I glance over to see Walker riding up on his horse, Ranger, with a smug grin on his face.
“Sure. Then she pawned them off on me when she almost got busted stealing them,” I counter as I fold my handkerchief and shove it back into my pocket.
Birdie took them from an auction at the local county fair. When she needed to move them off her property to avoid getting caught, they ended up at the ranch. I figured it would only be for a few days, but I should’ve known better. She’s usually two steps ahead, and there’s no question her plan was for them to stay with me all along. Now that she’s married to my brother, I can’t exactly send them back without being the bad guy.
Walker brings Ranger to a stop and swings down from the saddle. “Oh, please. You offered to keep them. Besides, Petunia loves the company, and you’d do anything to keep your favorite pet happy,” he adds with a wink.
“She isn’t my pet,” I grumble.
Walker scoffs. “Heath, you pay a fortune to haul in that fancy hay she likes from two towns over even though we’ve got plenty of the regular stuff growing around here.” He motions to a nearby field where pasture grass is starting to push through the soil. “I don’t see you doing that for any of the other cows.”
