22. Josephine
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Josephine
By ten seventeen in the morning, I’ve misplaced the same thermometer twice.
This is concerning for three reasons.
One, I’m not a person who misplaces medical equipment.
Two, the exam room has exactly six surfaces, which means there are only so many places a thermometer can realistically hide.
Three, I find it in my own pocket both times.
I stand beside the stainless steel table, staring down at the offending object like it has betrayed me personally, while Mrs. Wilcox’s elderly spaniel pants patiently at my elbow.
“Right,” I say, far too brightly. “Temperature.”
Mrs. Wilcox tilts her head. “You already took it, dear.”
I freeze.
The spaniel blinks at me.
I look at the chart.
Temperature: 101.4.
In my handwriting.
Of course.
“Yes,” I say, because professional women do not combust in exam rooms. “I was confirming.”
“Very thorough.”
“Always.”
That’s a lie today.
Today, I’m many things. Nauseous. Exhausted. Too warm under my veterinary coat. Painfully aware of every tiny pull in my abdomen. Still replaying the barn dance night in a highly inappropriate loop. Still replaying Clay’s phone call interruption from breakfast two days ago when I’d almost told him.
Almost.
Almost is becoming a very dangerous word.
I write follow-up instructions for Mrs. Wilcox’s dog, smile in the appropriate places, and make it all the way through the appointment without crying or fainting, which I decide counts as a triumph.
A low, suspicious triumph, but still.
When the door closes behind her, I turn to clean the exam table and forget what I’m holding.
A bottle of disinfectant. A pen. The thermometer. Again.
“Josephine?”
I jolt hard enough that the pen clatters onto the floor.
Dr. Harris stands in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his expression calm in a way that immediately makes me nervous.
“Sorry,” I say too quickly. “I was just cleaning.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m behind on charting, but I’ll catch up during lunch.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Yes, I do. We have the Brennan appointment at eleven, then vaccinations at eleven thirty, and the Johnson calf check this afternoon if you still want me to—”
“Josephine.”
I stop. He steps inside and closes the exam room door.
My stomach sinks. “Is something wrong?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lift just slightly.
I set the disinfectant bottle down. “I’m tired. Pregnancy does that. Apparently.” The first tear falls before I can stop it. Then another. There’s no controlling it into something manageable.
I’m crying at work. In an exam room.
Beside a table I have already cleaned twice.
“Oh,” I whisper, horrified. “No. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Josephine.” Dr. Harris stays calm.
“I don’t do this.”
“I know.”
“I’m not…” I press both hands over my face. “I’m not someone who does this.”
“You’re someone who’s overwhelmed.”
“I don’t have time to be overwhelmed.”
“That has rarely stopped anyone.”
A laugh breaks out of me, but it’s ugly and wet and immediately turns into another sob.
He doesn’t crowd me. He just reaches for the box of tissues on the counter and sets it beside my hand.
I take one. Then three.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say, the words spilling out before I can organize them. “I was going to tell him,” I admit softly. “I just… every time I try, something happens, or he pulls away, or I lose my nerve.”
Dr. Harris is quiet. “The father?”
I nod.
“Is he local?”
I wipe my cheeks, then laugh once without humor. “Very.”
“Does he know?”
“No.”
“Do you want him to know?”
“Yes.” The answer is immediate and terrifying. “He deserves to know.”
“But?”
“But he’s complicated.”
“Most people are.”
“No, I mean…” I close my eyes again, trying to turn Clay into something that makes sense in words. “He’s restless. Injured. Angry sometimes when he thinks no one is watching. And lately…”
I hesitate, trying to explain something that barely makes sense even to me.
“Lately he acts like he’s already halfway gone before anyone can decide they don’t want him there.”
Dr. Harris studies me quietly. “That sounds lonely.”
The word lands harder than I expect. Because underneath all Clay’s charm and recklessness, that’s exactly what I think he is.
“I was going to tell him,” I say quickly. “At breakfast. It’s just… the timing has never been right.”
He smiles faintly. “The right moments are a myth. There are only honest ones.”
That makes my chest ache. “I don’t want to trap him.”
His expression softens. “Telling someone the truth isn’t trapping them.”
“It can feel that way.”
“Maybe. But hiding the truth to manage his reaction isn’t fair to either of you.”
I look down at the tissue twisted in my fingers.
That’s exactly the sort of reasonable statement I would appreciate if it were about literally anyone else.
“I know I could do it alone,” I say quietly.
He leans back against the counter, arms folded loosely. “I don’t doubt your capability, Josephine. You’re one of the most capable people I’ve ever hired.”
“Then—”
“But capability isn’t the same as support. You’re allowed to have both.”
The words settle into the room.
I hate how many people keep saying some version of that to me.
Penny, Dr. Harris, the quiet, treacherous part of my own mind.
“I don’t know how,” I admit.
“That’s alright. You don’t have to know all at once.”
“I really prefer knowing things all at once.”
“Yes,” he says dryly. “I’ve noticed.”
I almost smile. He picks up the chart from the counter and closes it. “You’re going home.”
“I have appointments.”
“I’ll cover them.”
“You can’t cover everything.”
“I ran this clinic before you arrived.”
“That was clearly before you understood proper vaccine fridge organization.”
His mouth twitches. “I’ll survive.”
“I’m fine now.”
“You cried for six minutes.”
Mortifying.
“Was someone timing me?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “No. But I’m a veterinarian. I estimate suffering for a living.”
Against my will, another laugh slips out.
He smiles then, small and warm. “Go home. Sleep. Eat something with nutritional value that isn’t a cracker. It’s doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I’m your boss. Worse.”
I take a breath. It trembles on the way in. “If I leave, it’s not because I can’t handle my job.”
“I know.”
“And it doesn’t mean I’m unreliable.”
“I know that too.”
“And you won’t regret hiring me?”
His expression changes. The softness deepens, becoming almost paternal, and I wish it didn’t make my eyes sting again.
“Josephine,” he says quietly, “you’re not a problem I’m waiting to be inconvenienced by.”
The room blurs. I look away fast. “Thank you.”
“You and these babies have a place here. At this clinic. In this town.”
My hand goes instinctively to my abdomen.
I nod because words are unsafe. Then I gather my things. My bag. My notebook. The emergency kit I always carry. My water bottle.
Dr. Harris walks me to the front. “Text me when you’re home.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Then I step outside before I cry again.
The July heat hits gently, warm and dry, carrying the smell of dust from Main Street and a sweetness from Buttercup Bakery.
Buckhorn moves around me in its usual small town rhythm.
A truck rumbles past. Two women outside the feed store pause mid-conversation and look in my direction with casual curiosity.
I lower my head and walk.
Home. That’s the plan.
Drink water, eat actual food, rest, and make no major life decisions.
I make it half a block before I hear my name. “Dr. Wright?”
I stop.
Tessa McCoy stands outside Rusty Mug Cafe, one hand on the handle of a stroller, the other lifting in a tentative wave. Baby Hailey sleeps inside beneath a pale yellow blanket, impossibly tiny and peaceful.
My stomach does a strange flip.
“Tessa,” I say, then immediately wonder if using her first name is too familiar.
She smiles like it isn’t. “Hi. I thought that was you.”
“Yes. Hi.”
Excellent. Very eloquent.
Her gaze flicks over my face. “Are you alright?”
I consider lying.
I’m good at lying when the lie is small and useful. I’m fine. I’m tired. Everything is manageable. No, I’ve not been crying in an exam room like a Victorian widow with access to disinfectant wipes.
But Tessa’s voice is gentle. She has Hailey with her. She looks at me without suspicion. That combination is apparently lethal.
“I’m…” I stop. “I’m having a day.”
Her expression softens. “Do you want to sit for a minute?”
“No, I shouldn’t—”
“There’s a bench in the shade. I was about to sit anyway.”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer fully, which saves me from refusing. She guides the stroller toward a bench beneath the awning, and I follow because my body has accepted what my pride hasn’t.
The shade helps.
I sit carefully, hands folded over my bag.
Tessa sits beside me and checks on Hailey, smoothing the blanket with the kind of tenderness that makes my throat tighten.
“She’s beautiful,” I say.
Tessa’s whole face changes. “Thank you. I still can’t believe she’s here half the time.”
“She came early?”
“A little. Scared us all senseless.” Her smile turns wry. “Especially Nash. He tries to pretend he’s recovered, but he checks if she’s breathing every twelve minutes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” She looks down fondly. “And sweet.”
Hailey makes a tiny sound in her sleep.
My chest aches again.
I don’t touch my stomach.
I won’t.
Tessa glances at me, then back at the stroller. “I saw you at the barn dance.”
“Yes.”
“With Clay.”
There it is.
Heat climbs my neck. “Briefly.”
Her smile says she doesn’t believe briefly is the right word. “He looked happy.”
I look down at my hands.
“He doesn’t always,” she adds gently.
“I’ve noticed.”
“Nash worries about him.”
“Everyone seems to.”
“He makes it easy.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “That’s true.”
Tessa’s eyes warm. “You like him.”
I freeze.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “That was too direct. I’ve spent too much time with McCoys. They ruin subtlety.”
“No, it’s…” I take a breath. “Complicated.”
Her expression shifts into understanding. “Yes. These things often are.”
I should stop there.