Chapter 1
1
Whit Bowman
Present Day
I remember being a kid, and my biggest worry was whether I’d get to watch Bill Nye the Science Guy on television after school. I also remember how badly I wanted to grow up. Be an adult who got to do what he wanted, when he wanted. I could watch Bill Nye at midnight with no parents around to tell me that staying up late watching TV was bad for me. Hell, I could become Bill Nye if that was my dream.
And I did want that for many years.
The scientist who everybody thought was cool. It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized not everyone thought he was as cool as I did. In fact, most people thought he was kind of weird, and a good majority of the kids at school dreaded days when we had to watch his videos.
But I thought he was the coolest . Science was my favorite subject in school. Same with math. They came easily to me for the most part, and what didn’t come as easily challenged me, and there’s nothing I love more than a good challenge of the mind.
Growing up was so important to me as a child. I was in such a hurry, and now that I’m here, in my early thirties, with entirely too much on my plate, I’d rather go back to elementary school lunches and Bill Nye on PBS after my homework was done.
Those were simpler times. I had no idea what I was asking for. My meals were planned out for me, my laundry washed and folded, and I never had to worry about pesky adult things… like money. Or in my case, a lack thereof.
Sitting in my office at work, I stare at the unopened envelope on my desk. It’s taunting me. ‘LATE NOTICE’ is stamped on the front in big red letters. It’s not the first of these types of letters to hit my mailbox, and it probably won’t be the last.
I ran home on my lunch break because I forgot my food this morning, and I checked the mail on my way back into the office, but now I wish I hadn’t. These notices never fail to ruin my entire day. It’s a problem I don’t have a solution for, and as an Enneagram five, that drives me crazy.
A knock at the door pulls my attention away from the envelope in my hand. Quickly stuffing it in the drawer, I sit up straighter, adjust my cardigan, and call out, “Come in.”
Tasha, my veterinary technician, pokes her head in, a smile brightening her eyes as her gaze meets mine. “Sorry to bother you, Dr. B.”
“You’re not bothering me,” I interject, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose with my index finger. “What can I do for you?”
“Mrs. Stevenson is here with Macaroni.” Tasha winces. “She doesn’t have an appointment but is requesting to be seen.”
“What’s the issue today?”
“Macaroni swallowed some yarn that Mrs. Stevenson’s grandkids left out.”
Heaving a sigh, I brush my fingers through my hair. Macaroni is a ten-year-old tabby who has easily blown through at least seven of her nine lives at this point. She’s always getting into stuff she isn’t supposed to, or eating things she shouldn’t. It doesn’t help that Mrs. Stevenson is one of the most careless pet owners I’ve ever met. I’m talking, leaving a plate of brownies out on the coffee table and walking away, then being shocked when Macaroni scarfs down the chocolaty treats.
“Alright, get her checked in,” I tell Tasha. “We can see her.”
“Can do. Thanks, Dr. B.” With a mock solute, she closes the door.
Deciding to shove the late notice out of my mind for the rest of the day, I finish my lunch quickly before washing up. I’m too busy to dwell on things anyway. Just as I’m about to head out to check on Macaroni, my phone buzzes on the desk. Grabbing it, I notice a new text pop up from my buddy, Shooter.
Shooter: You’re bringing your bean dip tonight, right?
Shit. I completely forgot I had plans tonight. It’s my friend, Sterling’s, birthday on Monday, and we’re all getting together to do a BBQ tonight to celebrate. It’s being held at Grazing Acres Ranch, where almost every major celebration takes place in this town, and coincidentally enough, the ranch belongs to Conrad Strauss, also known as my ex-husband. I’m not really in the mood to celebrate anything, much less see my ex, but Sterling is one of my closest friends, and it would look shitty if I bailed.
Not to mention, being around my friends may be good for me. They always know how to cheer me up without even realizing it. They’re a bunch of bone-headed cowboys, who, on most days, are entirely too rowdy, but they’re basically my family. Going tonight will be good for me, even if that means I have to see my broody, grumpy ex-husband.
Texting Shooter back and letting him know I’ll bring the dip, I’m about to set my phone down until another message comes through, but this time, instead of it being from Shooter, it’s from Reggie, my boyfriend. My stomach drops at the sight of his name, which makes me feel guilty because what decent human being experiences dread when they see their partner has messaged them? The sight of his name should fill me with elation, or at the very least, a flicker of happiness. Something other than annoyance.
Reggie: Hey, babe. I got called in tonight to work the overnight shift at the hospital. I’m going to have to cancel on the party. I’m so sorry :( We’re short-staffed and our other night nurse is out with the flu.
What’s even worse than the dread from seeing his name across my phone is the way my shoulders relax and I exhale a breath of relief at the message. First of all, I completely forgot I even invited him to Sterling’s party tonight, and secondly, the idea of going without him sounds much more appealing than going with him, especially with the mood I’m in.
Not bothering to respond, I lock my phone, setting it on my desk, before I leave my office and get to work. Poor Macaroni had to have some x-rays done, but luckily didn’t require any surgery. The rest of my afternoon is busy with patients and paperwork, and by the time five o’clock hits and I’m leaving the office, I’ve barely had a single moment to stop and think about my money or boyfriend problems, thankfully.
I stop at the market, grabbing the items needed to make my bean dip. It’s honestly the simplest dip on the face of the planet, but Shooter acts like if anybody other than me were to make it, it wouldn’t taste as good. It’s literally cream cheese, refried beans, taco seasoning, shredded cheese, and jalape?os. Anybody could make it, but I don’t mind. I like feeling useful and needed.
Getting home, I prepare the dip before hopping into the shower and getting ready. By the time I pull up to the ranch, it’s almost seven o’clock, and the sun has nearly set, casting the sky in a beautiful pink and orange glow. I park my truck in front of the big red barn that is filled with so many memories—both good and bad—and I can’t help the pang of emotion that feels an awful lot like sadness that hits me in my chest as I turn off the ignition.
So many firsts took place on this property. So many places tucked away on the hundreds of acres of sprawling land that hold significance to me.
My first job as a teenager was at this ranch. Every single day of the week, I’d come and go from this exact barn multiple times a day. Under the scorching sun and in the frigid winter temperatures, I was here, getting my first taste of taking care of animals. This ranch is the reason my dream of becoming Bill Nye switched to becoming Dr. Doolittle instead.
My first time getting drunk.
My first crush.
My first kiss.
My first home away from my parents’ house.
Out by the creek on the edge of the property was where I realized I was in love for the first time. Watching a man who was not only much older than me, but far more experienced than me, cool off in the shallow water after a long, hard day of work. The droplets cascading down his wide, burly chest is a sight burned into my memory for all of eternity. If I close my eyes right now, I can see it clear as day, like it was yesterday, and not well over a decade ago.
Blowing out a shaky breath, suddenly feeling not at all ready to socialize, I grab the dip off the passenger seat, put my well-practiced extroverted mask on, and I climb out.
Social settings, even those with only my closest friends around, are so mentally taxing for me. Even though I’m probably going to end up having fun, I’ll get home tonight and feel drained. I’ve been like this since I was a kid, and for many years—well into adulthood, actually, when I got my official autism spectrum disorder diagnosis—I thought it was like this for everybody. The dread and anxiety that come with knowing I’m about to have to socialize, the constant need to make sure I’m doing all the right things; making enough eye contact—but not too much because people will think that’s weird. Making sure to contribute to the conversation and help it flow—but don’t make it too much about myself, otherwise people will think I’m self-absorbed. Smile—but not too much. Making sure to react to things the right way—don’t laugh too hard, but don’t be too serious either.
It’s exhausting. All of it. Which is why, most of the time, I prefer to stay home. There’s no great performance inside the four walls of my own home. No mask that needs to be in place.
Setting my bean dip down on one of the long card tables holding food near the barn, I unwrap the tin foil, folding it up nicely and placing it underneath the casserole dish so I can use it again later when it’s time to go home. Scanning the table, I take in all the delicious food already here, deciding to load up a plate since I haven’t eaten since lunch.
“About time you get here.”
When I glance up, I’m met with a crooked grin and gleaming eyes as they take me in. “You act like I’m late, Shooter.”
“No, but I’ve been craving this dip, and you took your sweet-ass time getting here. I could’ve scarfed this entire tray down by now.” Furthering his point, Shooter grabs a tortilla chip from the bag, swiping it through the dip, and grabbing an absurd amount before shoving it into his mouth like a caveman.
“So sorry to have inconvenienced you,” I drawl, placing croissant-wrapped smokies on my plate, followed by cheese, deli meats, and crackers. The scent of barbecued hamburgers is heavy in the air, and a quick glance to my left shows Conrad working the grill, a Bud Light bottle in hand. I look away before he spots me watching him, bringing my attention back to Shooter.
“Fuck, this is good,” he hisses, reaching for another tortilla chip. Glancing over at me, he arches a brow before asking, “You okay, man?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
Shooter shrugs. “I don’t know, you just seem more gloomy than usual. Rough day?”
“Something like that,” I murmur, then shove a smokie in my mouth, desperately wanting the conversation to get off of me. “Where’s the birthday boy?”
“Playing corn hole with Cope,” he answers with a mouthful of bean dip. “Want a beer? I’m going to grab another, and it looks like you could use a little alcohol to cheer you up.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe a little alcohol in my system will help me forget all the stress plaguing my mind. My money issues, my boyfriend issues, my ex-husband issue that isn’t even a true issue, but every time I’m at this ranch, it becomes one, even though I’m certain it’s one-sided. Conrad is never anything other than cool, calm, and collected around me. My presence clearly doesn’t affect him the same way his affects me.
Good for him, I bitterly think as my eyes flit over to where he’s at one more time without my permission. He’s now chatting with Will, one of Copper Lake’s doctors and one of Conrad’s best friends.
“Yeah, I’ll take one,” I finally mutter.
I’m going to do everything in my power to cheer myself up tonight. Every issue I’m stressed about can be tomorrow’s problem.