4. Wren
WREN
The canvas flap drops behind me, and the evening air hits like a glass of cold water in the face.
I make it five steps before I stop. Then I set the kit down, press both palms flat against my thighs, and try to remember how lungs work.
It's not you.
His voice keeps replaying in my head, low and rough. The worst part is the way he said it, like he could read the script running through my skull and wanted to shut it down before I got to the chorus.
I tug the hem of my jacket. Tug it again.
He flinched. That's all. He flinched, and then he explained, and I shouldn't be standing out here with my pulse in my throat, replaying it.
Except I am.
Tasha Brennan flickers up the back of my brain again.
Sixth grade, the locker room, the way she'd shove past me to get to the sink and then wipe her shoulder like she'd brushed against something contagious.
The boys laughed. Don't touch her, you'll catch it.
And I don't even remember what it was supposed to be.
Acne, glasses, the wrong jeans. Anything.
But that's not what happened in there. Right? He didn't recoil because it was me.
I exhale through my teeth and pick the kit back up.
“You okay?”
I jump. Rowe is right behind me, and I didn't hear him move. For a man his size, he walks like a panther.
“Fine,” I say breathlessly.
He lifts an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yep.”
Rowe narrows his eyes at me, and his gaze feels like a physical touch. I look at his boots instead.
“This way,” he says and turns.
I follow.
It’s getting late, the carnival is being swallowed up by the darkening sky, and somewhere a generator coughs to life. A man with floppy black hair is sitting cross-legged on the steps of a trailer flipping a knife end over end. He looks up as we pass, and a slow grin spreads over his face.
“Doc,” he calls, eyeing me from the top of my ponytail to the tips of my boots.
“Cole,” Rowe says. Not a greeting, but a warning.
The knife thrower holds up both hands, knife still spinning between two fingers. “I'm watching.”
“Don't.”
Rowe keeps walking. I keep up.
“They're like this,” he says under his breath, like an apology.
“Like what?”
“Bored.”
A surprised chuckle tries to claw its way out of my throat, but I stifle it.
The elephant's enclosure isn't what I pictured. Heck, I don't know what I pictured. Maybe a concrete pad. Chain link. Some sad swaying back-and-forth thing I'd have to write up later with my heart aching.
Instead, it's a portable corral with deep straw bedding, a sand wallow in one corner, a water trough the size of a small bathtub, and an actual enrichment puzzle hanging from a beam—a knotted tarp with bits of fruit stuffed into the folds.
The animal lifts its head when Rowe approaches. It makes a low, rumbling sound, then its trunk lifts and curls over the top of the railing, finding Rowe's chest without looking, like he's done it a thousand times.
“Hey, old man,” Rowe murmurs. “Wren, meet Rome.”
Rome's trunk runs up Rowe's sternum, hovers at his throat, then drops to rest in his open palm.
I forget to breathe for a second. Because it's not a trick. There's no command, no cue. The elephant just wanted to know where his person's pulse was, and now he knows.
Rowe scratches behind a leathery ear. “Rome, this is Wren.”
The trunk turns toward me.
It comes slowly, snuffling, taking my measure.
I hold very still because I've read enough about elephants to know that the worst thing I could do is reach out first. The damp nostril hovers an inch from my collarbone.
Then it brushes my shoulder, my elbow, the back of my wrist, and stops at my hand with a puff of warm air across my knuckles.
A laugh escapes me, and I clap my other hand over my mouth.
“Hi,” I whisper through my fingers.
The trunk taps my palm once and withdraws.
“He likes you,” Rowe says confidently.
I snort. “He doesn't know me.”
“He knows enough.”
I look up at him, and he's already watching me. That gaze. It's not predatory like the one the knife thrower threw at me on the steps. It's different… Heavier. Like he's not sure what to think of me.
My throat starts tickling, and I clear it.
“Half-blind?” I ask, because I need something to look at that isn't him.
“Left eye.” Rowe rests his forearm on the rail. “Came out of a tourist outfit in Florida. They had him hauling kids for photos in the parking lot of a strip mall.”
My eyes start to prickle as he speaks. “Jesus.”
“Yeah. He's fifty-two now. He's earned his retirement, but he likes the routine, and he'd be miserable without us.”
I watch Rome lift a hunk of melon out of the tarp puzzle with the tip of his trunk. His tail swishes contentedly. After a moment, we move on.
The zebra is in a paddock with a brown-and-white pinto pony for company. The two of them stand shoulder to shoulder under a shade canopy, tails flicking in lazy synchrony.
“Cleopatra gets lonely,” Rowe says. “Pony's name is Domino. Another rescue.”
“You collect strays,” I remark.
“Something like that.”
Cleopatra ambles over when she sees him, and Domino follows. Rowe reaches into a side pouch on his belt and produces two carrot pieces, one for each, and the zebra takes hers from his palm with a gentleness that doesn't match her teeth.
He holds the second piece out to me, eyes on mine. “Flat palm. Fingers together.”
“I know how to feed horses,” I mutter crankily. “I'm a veterinarian, Mr.—Rowe.”
When he purses his lips like he's holding back a smile, I quickly take the carrot.
Domino's whiskers tickle, but his muzzle is velvety. He huffs a warm breath across my wrist, and the carrot disappears, and I feel a stupidly wide grin split my face.
When I look up, Rowe is still watching me. Not the animals. Me.
I duck my head and pretend to fuss with my kit strap.
The lion's enclosure is the one I've been bracing for. I've prepared the speech a dozen times in my head since we left Peanut. The one about whipping, about declawing, about dental damage that circus lions usually carry. I have arguments ready for every excuse he could give me.
I don't need any of them.
The lion is enormous. He's lying on his side in deep, clean straw, his tail curled lazily over one massive paw, watching us approach like a housecat watching the can opener.
He has all his claws. The pads of his paws are intact, his canines unworn, his coat full and glossy.
Rowe steps to the wire, and the animal's head comes up. The lion lets out a soft conversational chuff, and his amber eyes lock onto Rowe with what I can only describe as affection. Not the wary tolerance of a captive animal, more like… the easy regard of an old friend.
“Hey, Caesar,” Rowe says softly. He doesn't reach through the wire but stands close enough for Caesar to push his head against the mesh where Rowe's palm rests on the other side.
The lion's eyes close. So does my throat.
“He chose you,” I say hoarsely.
“What?”
I gesture at the lion. “He likes having you near him.”
Rowe glances over, his eyes softening just a smidge.
“Yeah,” he says. “He chose me.”
Caesar yawns, displaying every tooth, and resettles in the straw.
The last stop is the bear. Rowe said his name is Brutus. I'm starting to see a pattern.
He's also enormous and brown and has positioned himself in the exact center of his enclosure with his back to the entrance.
“He's sulking,” Rowe says.
“About what?”
“Missouri.”
I furrow my brow. “Was Missouri offensive?”
“Apparently,” Rowe replies deadpan.
I laugh, surprised at myself, and Brutus swivels his head to find the source of the noise. He huffs. Turns his head a fraction more. Pretends he hasn't seen us.
Rowe leans on the railing the way he leaned on Rome's. “He'll come over.”
I'm skeptical. “Will he?”
“He always does. He just makes me work for it.”
We wait. The light slants lower. A breeze moves through the canvas of the Big Top in the distance, making it sigh. A carnival worker is whistling a tune and butchering it.
After maybe a full minute, Brutus heaves himself onto all fours with a long-suffering groan and shuffles a few feet closer. Then a few more. Then he flops down again, this time with his enormous shoulder pressed against the inside of the rail where Rowe is standing.
Rowe slides his hand through the safety gap and scratches behind a round ear.
The bear closes his eyes.
I lean both elbows on the railing without meaning to, aware of how close my shoulder is to Rowe's.
“I owe you an apology,” I say, eyes on Brutus.
Beside me, Rowe goes still. “For what?”
“For walking in there assuming the worst.”
“You usually see the worst.”
“Maybe.” I turn the kit strap between my fingers. “I'm a vet, not a prosecutor. Still, I should know better than to make a case before I've examined the witness.”
He's quiet for a beat.
“I made it harder for you,” he says quietly.
“You didn't—”
“I did.” His thumb moves against the bear's ear. “The flinch. That was—it's hard to make sense of that on the spot, I know. I'm sorry.”
I turn to look at him, unable to resist any longer.
His profile is gorgeous, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut.
The line of his jaw is stubbled, his sorrowful eyes fixed on the bear like the bear is the only safe place to put them.
There's a scar on the inside of his forearm where his sleeve has ridden up. It’s shiny. Raised. I don't look at it long.
“It's okay,” I say. “Really.”
“It's not. But thank you.”
We stand there in the silence for long moments, but it's not uncomfortable anymore.
“I'll come back,” I say softly. “Tomorrow. For Peanut.”
“He'll be glad.”
I snort. “Will he?”
“He likes you.” He tilts his head. “You spoke quietly to him.”
“I speak quietly to all of them,” I assure him.
Rowe looks at me then. Full on. And I'm blushing again, but this time it's not shame or me feeling self-conscious.
“I noticed,” he says.
I pick my kit up. God, I am not equipped for this man.
“Tomorrow, then,” I manage.
“Tomorrow.”
He walks me to the edge of the lot, hands tucked into his pockets, careful to leave a foot of space between us the whole way. At the gravel where my car is parked, he stops.
“Drive safe.”
“I will.”
He doesn't move until I'm in the driver's seat with the door shut.
I sit there for a minute with my hands on the wheel, the kit on the passenger seat.
Paige is going to lose her mind when I tell her.
I'm not sure yet what I'm going to tell her.
I put the car in drive.