Chapter 5
Wyatt
Snow fell hard overnight, blanketing the ranch until the fences looked like charcoal sketches against white paper.
The cattle huddle near the windbreaks, restless with the cold snap that followed yesterday's storm.
I've been up since before dawn, checking water lines, breaking ice, keeping my hands busy so my mind doesn't drift where it shouldn't.
But it does anyway. To her.
To the way Emmy felt in my arms in that storm-dark kitchen.
The soft sound she made when I kissed her neck.
How she looked wearing my clothes, like she belonged in my house, in my life.
Then this morning she was gone, back to town before I even woke up, leaving nothing but the faint scent of her shampoo on my flannel shirt.
I should be relieved. Should focus on the ranch, on the mounting bills, on anything except the way she whispered my name like a prayer.
Instead, I find myself loading grain samples into the truck, along with the pain medication Emmy said the foal would need. Business, I tell myself. Nothing more than taking care of my livestock.
The drive into Hope Peak takes longer than usual.
Christmas shoppers clog Main Street despite the early hour, their arms full of packages, breath visible in the frigid air.
Red ribbons flutter from every lamppost, and the Salvation Army bell ringer stamps his feet to stay warm.
Normal people doing normal holiday things, while I sit in my truck like an outsider looking in.
The clinic's windows glow warm and golden, strung with white lights that twinkle cheerfully in the gray morning. Through the glass, I catch a glimpse of Emmy moving around inside, her hair catching the light as she tends to something I can't see.
My pulse kicks up just watching her.
The bell above the door jingles when I push inside, followed by a rush of warm air that smells like coffee and antiseptic and something sweet.
Christmas music plays softly from speakers tucked between the holiday decorations, and a miniature village spreads across the reception desk, complete with tiny ice skaters and snow-covered shops.
Emmy's voice carries from the back room, gentle and soothing as she talks to a worried pet owner about medication schedules. When she steps into the reception area a few minutes later, those hazel eyes find me instantly, and her step falters.
"Wyatt." My name leaves her lips like a sigh she wasn't planning to make. She smooths her hands over her green sweater, the gesture nervous. "What brings you here?"
I lift the box of supplies. "Grain samples for analysis. Pain meds for the foal. You said she'd need more."
Her expression softens slightly. "You didn't have to make the trip yourself. I could have had Matty pick them up."
"Didn't say you couldn't."
We stare at each other across the small space, tension crackling between us like static electricity.
She's wearing jeans that hug her curves and that soft sweater that makes me want to run my hands over the fabric, see if it's as soft as it looks.
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and I remember how it felt tangled in my fingers.
"Come on," she says finally, her voice carefully professional. "I'll show you where to put everything."
She leads me down the narrow hallway, her boots clicking softly against the tile. I follow, carrying the box, trying not to watch the sway of her hips or remember how those hips felt pressed against mine. The hallway is decorated with garland and tiny bells that chime softly as we pass.
We stop at a storage room near the back. She pushes the door open and gestures inside. "You can set it on the counter there."
The room is small, barely larger than a closet. Medical supplies line the shelves, and there's a narrow cot pushed against one wall for overnight observations. The space smells like her, that light citrus scent that's been haunting me since yesterday.
I set the box down but don't step back. Not yet.
Emmy hovers in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame. She looks at me like she wants to say something but doesn't know how to start.
"You left early this morning," I say, keeping my voice low.
Color rises in her cheeks. "I had appointments. Mrs. Henderson's cat needed his shots."
"Right. Course."
She chews her lower lip, a gesture that draws my attention to her mouth. "About last night..."
"What about it?"
"We both know it can't happen again."
The words hit like a physical blow, even though I've been telling myself the same thing all morning. "Because?"
"Because you're a client. Because this is complicated. Because..." She trails off, shaking her head.
"Because you're scared."
Her chin lifts, that stubborn streak I'm learning to recognize flashing in her eyes. "I'm not scared of you, Wyatt."
"No. You're scared of this." I step closer, backing her into the doorframe. "Of how you feel when I touch you."
Her breath catches. "Don't."
"Don't what? Tell the truth?"
I'm close enough now to see the pulse fluttering at her throat, to count the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. She's trying to look anywhere but at my mouth, and failing.
"Emmy." I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her cheek. "Look at me."
When she does, I see my own want reflected back, burning just as bright despite her protests. The fight goes out of her all at once, her body swaying toward mine.
"This is a bad idea," she whispers.
"Probably the worst I've ever had."
But I kiss her anyway, slow and deep, pouring three days of pent-up longing into the contact. She melts against me with a soft sigh, her hands fisting in my jacket to pull me closer.
The storage room door swings shut behind us, and suddenly we're alone in the small space, nothing but medical supplies and soft lighting from the overhead fixture. I back her against the supply cabinet, my hands spanning her waist, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where her sweater has ridden up.
She arches into the touch, her own hands sliding up my chest to tangle in my hair. When she tugs gently, I groan against her lips, the sound swallowed by her mouth.
"We shouldn't," she breathes even as her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt.
"Tell me to stop." I trail kisses down her neck, finding that sensitive spot that makes her gasp. "Tell me you don't want this."
Instead of answering, she pulls my head back to hers, kissing me with a desperation that matches my own. Her tongue traces my lower lip, and heat shoots straight through me.
My hands slide under her sweater, palms flat against warm skin, and she shivers at the contact. The soft wool bunches as I push it higher, revealing the lace edge of her bra. She's beautiful, all curves and softness, and I want to worship every inch of her.
"Wyatt," she whispers when I cup her breast through the delicate fabric, thumb brushing over the peak until she arches into my touch.
The sound of my name on her lips, breathless with want, nearly undoes me. I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs, and she wraps her legs around my waist to pull me closer.
This angle brings us flush together, and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes. She rocks against me, a soft moan escaping when I trail kisses along her collarbone. Her hands fumble with my belt, desperate and clumsy with need.
"Please," she breathes, and I don't know if she's begging me to stop or continue.
Before I can ask, the clinic's front bell chimes, followed by a man's voice calling out urgently.
"Doc Sinclair? My dog's been hit by a car!"
Emmy freezes in my arms, eyes wide with alarm. We stare at each other for a heartbeat, both breathing hard, the spell shattered by reality crashing back in.
"I have to..." she starts, scrambling off the counter.
"Go." I step back, giving her room to move, though every instinct screams at me to pull her back into my arms.
She smooths her sweater down with shaking hands, tries to finger-comb her hair into some semblance of order. But there's no hiding what we were doing. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed, and she looks thoroughly ravaged.
"How do I look?" she asks, panic edging her voice.
"Like you've been kissed senseless," I say honestly.
She groans, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "He'll know. Everyone will know."
"Emmy." I catch her hands, pulling them away from her face. "Breathe. You look fine."
Not true. She looks beautiful and thoroughly kissed and like everything I want but can't have. But she also looks professional enough to handle whatever emergency waits in the front room.
"Doc? Please, he's bleeding bad!"
She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and transforms back into Dr. Sinclair. "I'm coming!"
She hurries from the storage room, leaving me alone with the scent of her perfume and the ache of unfinished desire. I button my shirt with unsteady hands, trying to pull myself together before I have to face whoever's out there.
When I finally emerge, Emmy is already kneeling beside a golden retriever on the examination table, her hands gentle and sure as she assesses the damage. The dog's owner hovers nearby, face pale with worry.
"He's going to be fine, Mr. Garcia," she says, her voice calm and reassuring. "The leg's broken, but it's a clean break. We can fix this."
She moves with practiced efficiency, preparing medications, explaining procedures, completely focused on her patient. The only sign of our encounter is the slight tremor in her hands and the way she carefully avoids looking at me.
I should leave. Give her space to work, to pretend the last twenty minutes never happened. But I find myself lingering, watching her work, marveling at the way she can compartmentalize, switch from passionate woman to skilled veterinarian in the space of a heartbeat.
"I'll need to keep him overnight," she tells Mr. Garcia after setting the leg. "For observation. You can pick him up tomorrow afternoon."
After the man leaves, promising to return with treats for the retriever, silence settles over the clinic. Emmy busies herself cleaning instruments, her movements sharp and efficient.
"Thank you," she says finally, not looking at me. "For understanding. About the emergency."
"It's what you do."
She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "The foal's medication is ready. You can pick it up at the front desk."
The dismissal is clear, but I don't move. "Emmy."
"Don't." She holds up a hand, finally looking at me. "Please. I need to think. About all of this."
The vulnerability in her voice stops any argument I might have made. She's right. This thing between us is spinning out of control faster than either of us expected. Maybe distance is what we both need.
But as I drive back to the ranch with a bag of medication and the taste of her still on my lips, distance feels like the last thing I want.
The snow keeps falling, covering the world in pristine white, and the Christmas lights on Main Street blur past my windows like stars. Inside the truck, the heater rattles against the cold, but it can't chase away the chill that settles in my chest.
Three encounters now, and each one leaves me wanting more. Wanting her with an intensity that scares the hell out of me. I've spent years building walls, keeping people at arm's length, telling myself I'm better off alone.
But Emmy Sinclair is making me remember what it feels like to want something more than just survival. Something warm and real and dangerous as hell.
And I don't know if I'm strong enough to keep walking away.