“So?” I moved to Buddy's side, running a hand along his warm neck. “What's the verdict, Doc?”
Cal pulled his stethoscope from around his neck. “He's fine.”
“Well, that's vague.”
“He's healthy.” He listened to Buddy's heart, then checked his teeth again. “Good weight. No signs of arthritis. Heart sounds good. He's in excellent shape for eighteen.”
Pride swelled in my chest even though I'd had exactly nothing to do with it. “Walt took good care of him.”
“He did.” Cal stepped back, coiling the stethoscope. “Keep him on the same routine. Light exercise, grazing or walking around the pasture. No hard riding.”
“Wasn't planning on taking him barrel racing.”
Cal just stared at me.
Right. Jokes weren't his thing.
“Annual checkup next year,” he continued. “Call if anything changes—limping, loss of appetite, lethargy.”
“Got it.” I patted Buddy's shoulder. “Hear that, Bud? You're perfect.”
Buddy huffed, unimpressed by the praise.
Cal gathered his supplies, sliding instruments back into his bag. “I'll write up the invoice?—”
“Oh! Walt left a check.” I gestured toward the house. “He said to give it to you. I'll grab it.”
“You can just?—”
“I'll be quick.” I was already backing toward the door. “Two minutes. Don't leave yet, I want to say goodbye to Pudding.”
I didn't wait for his response, jogging across the yard toward the farmhouse.
The screen door banged shut behind me as I headed straight for the small office at the front of the house. Walt's envelope sat on the desk with several others he'd prepared before leaving.
I grabbed the check, then paused by the window overlooking the yard.
Cal was loading his bag into his truck. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, like he carried the weight of the entire world and refused to set it down for even a minute.
What is it with men and their whole martyr complex?
The guy could probably use a decent night of sleep. Then maybe he'd bepleasantto be around. Because so far, every word he'd said to me sounded like it physically pained him to speak.
He was busy, I got it. But would it kill him to manage even ahintof warmth? A tiny smile? Literally anything that suggested he was capable of human emotion beyond irritation and exhaustion?
Though... He did let me name Pudding.
I shook my head, tucking the check into my pocket as I headed back outside.
The chickens scattered as I crossed the yard, clucking their disapproval at my interruption to their morning scratching. I paused mid-step, counting automatically.
One, two, three... twenty-four. All accounted for.
General Cluckington strutted past, head held high, leading her small army toward the garden fence. One hen trailed behind the others, and something looked off. Her back looked patchy.
I crouched down, making soft clicking sounds. “Come here, girl.”
She wandered closer, pecking at the ground near my boot. I scooped her up gently, fingers brushing along her back where several feathers were definitely missing.
