I nodded, my throat tight.
She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the frame. For a moment, she stood there, shoulders squared in that no-nonsense way she carried herself. Then she turned back, her expression softer than I'd seen in weeks.
“You're a good man, Callum.”
The words hit sideways, unexpected and too much all at once. My chest constricted. I didn't know what to do with kindness like that, the kind that saw past the bluntness and awkward silences, to something I wasn't sure existed.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
Nothing came out.
Sharon glanced back, her expression gentle in a way that made my eyes burn. She knew—had always known—that I wouldn't find the right words. That I couldn't. But she also knew I heard her, that it mattered.
“Get some rest after he wakes up.” Her voice returned to its usual briskness, a lifeline back to familiar ground. “You look like you could use it.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. “Thanks.”
The front door chimed.
We both froze.
Sharon's eyebrows lifted. “We don't have?—”
“Anyone there?” The voice drifted from the waiting room, bright and slightly breathless.
I recognized it immediately, the warmth and energy unmistakable even through the wall.
Rosie.
Sharon's gaze swung to me, curiosity flickering across her face. “Friend of yours?”
“No. I mean—” I straightened, suddenly aware of how long I'd been sitting here, how rumpled I probably looked. “She's Walt Sullivan's niece. Took over the farm.”
“Ah.” Sharon's mouth curved into something dangerously close to a smile. “Well. I'll let you handle this.”
“Actually, could you—” I gestured toward the waiting room, then back to Pudding. “I need to stay with him.”
Sharon's expression shifted, something knowing flickering in her eyes.
“Of course.” She drew the words out just long enough to make me uncomfortable.
She left before I could respond, the door swinging shut behind her.
I turned back to Pudding, trying to focus on his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Professional. Clinical. Nothing to do with avoiding?—
“Hi there.” Sharon's voice carried clearly through the door. “I'm Sharon, Doc Sterling's assistant. What can I do for you?”
“Oh, hi! I'm Rosie. I was there earlier when Pudding started moaning, and I just—I wanted to check on it. Pudding.”
The worry threading through her voice caught me off guard.
“He's doing a lot better. Surgery went well.”
“Oh, it's ahe? And that's such a relief. I've been thinking about him all afternoon.”
She'd met the puppy for five minutes. Maybe less. And here she was, driving back into town to check on him.
Of course she did.
