Sam’s Secret (Willowbrook #2)

Chapter 1

Chloe

I’d never seen Sam leave paperwork scattered across his desk before.

Sam was the complete opposite of me, meticulously organized with his business paperwork – receipts filed, invoices organized, everything in its proper place – and that’s precisely why I was in his office looking for the vaccination records he’d filed away for me a few days ago.

But today, his desk looked like a tornado had swept through it.

“Sam?” I called toward the kitchen, where I could hear him rattling around, probably making his third cup of coffee of the day. “Do you know where I can find vaccination records for the Morrison farm?”

“Check the filing cabinet,” he called back. “Second drawer down, under ‘M’ for Morrison.”

I gave myself a gentle mental headslap. Of course, it would be filed under M for Morrison. I moved toward the cabinet, but a white receipt caught my eye. It was sitting on his desk, partially hidden under a stack of invoices, but with enough visible to make my heart skip.

Hartwell & Sons Fine Jewelry

My breath caught in my throat. I glanced toward the kitchen, heard Sam still moving around, and carefully lifted the invoices to see the full receipt.

Hartwell & Sons Fine Jewelry - $6,500.00 - Diamond Engagement Ring

The paper trembled slightly in my hands as I read the date. Two weeks ago. While I’d been dealing with a difficult foaling, Sam had been at the jewelry store in the city, picking out an engagement ring.

I placed the receipt back exactly where I’d found it, my heart hammering against my ribs like an excited puppy.

Six thousand five hundred dollars. Sam had spent more on my ring than most people in Willowbrook made in several months.

The practical part of my brain - the veterinarian who calculated medication costs and surgical fees - wanted to tell him it was too much.

But the woman who’d been dreaming of this moment for months could only think one thing:

He’s going to propose.

My internal cheerleader was already doing backflips. I pressed my lips together to stifle a yelp, briefly bounced on the balls of my feet, and executed a triumphant fist pump at eye level.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Sam appeared in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, that crooked smile I loved spreading across his face.

“Found the Morrison records,” I said, grateful my voice sounded steady. I pulled the file from the cabinet and held it up. “Mrs. Morrison’s been calling every day about Princess’s vaccinations.”

“That woman treats that cow better than most people treat their children.” Sam moved into the office, and I held my breath as he approached his desk. But he didn’t seem to notice I’d been near it, just gathered up some loose papers and stuffed them into a folder.

“Princess is a prize-winning Holstein,” I said, focusing on the familiar topic to keep from grinning like an idiot. “She’s worth more than my truck.”

“Your truck isn’t worth much.” Sam leaned against the desk, his dark brown eyes warm with affection. “Maybe I should buy you a new one for your birthday.”

My birthday. Three weeks away. Maybe that’s when Sam would get down on one knee - probably at Rosewood Inn, where we’d had our first official date - and ask me to marry him.

Three weeks.

“My truck is perfectly fine,” I said, stepping closer to him. “It gets me where I need to go.”

“Which is usually to some farm at three in the morning for a cow emergency.” He reached out and tucked a strand of my dark blonde hair behind my ear. “You work too hard, Dr. Parker.”

“Says the man who owns a bar and works seven days a week.”

“Six days,” he corrected. “I promoted Kate to manage Sundays, remember? More time to spend with my favorite vet.”

His favorite vet. His future fiancée.

I stood on my toes and kissed him, tasting coffee. When we broke apart, I could see something in his expression I hadn’t noticed before. A hint of nervousness, maybe? Planning nerves?

I loved this man. Loved how he’d taken a struggling bar and turned it into the heart of Willowbrook.

Loved how he remembered everyone’s name and their usual order, how he’d send meals to families going through hard times and pretend it was a “kitchen mistake.” Loved how he’d shown up at 2 AM when I was dealing with a difficult calving, brought me coffee, and just sat there keeping me company even though he had to open the bar in a few hours.

I loved how he’d learned to cook my favorite meals because he wanted to make me dinner after long days at the clinic.

How he researched every veterinary journal article I mentioned so he could ask intelligent questions.

How he’d built a little meditation corner in his office at the bar because I’d mentioned wanting a quiet space when I visited him there on days work got overwhelming.

Sam wasn’t perfect. He had a tendency to do everything himself rather than delegating. He got stressed during inventory weeks and would snap before apologizing profusely. He had terrible taste in action movies and would defend them passionately despite my mockery.

But he was mine. And, if I was reading the signs correctly, he was going to ask me to be his forever in three weeks.

How the hell was I going to pretend I didn’t know for three whole weeks?

“I should call Mrs. Morrison,” I said, though what I really wanted to do was stay here in his office and study his face for more clues about when and how he planned to propose.

“Drive safe,” he said, the same thing he always said when I left for farm calls. “Chloe?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

The words hit me the same way they always did — like sunshine breaking through clouds. “I love you too.”

???

The three weeks that followed were the longest and most wonderful of my life.

I’d managed to keep the secret locked away, though it took every ounce of professional composure I possessed.

A week after finding the receipt, I’d accidentally confirmed my suspicions when I overheard Sam talking to Jack at The Copper Fox.

I’d been walking toward his office after finishing my farm calls when his voice carried through the thin walls: “I’m going to do it on her birthday, Jack. It’s time. I’ve got the ring.”

I should have walked away, given them privacy. But my feet froze when Sam continued: “Chloe deserves everything good in this world. I want to give her that life. A big wedding, a family, everything she’s ever dreamed of.”

A family. Sam wanted children with me. We’d talked about it in abstract terms before, but hearing him say it with such conviction had made my eyes well up right there in the bar.

Every interaction with Sam after that took on new meaning.

When he suggested we drive to the city for dinner, I wondered if he was scouting proposal locations.

When he asked about my ring size, I nearly gave myself away by blushing.

When he mentioned wanting to make my birthday extra special, I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying I already knew.

My work became a welcome distraction. Spring was busy season for a veterinarian in farm country — birthing season for most livestock, which meant long days and emergency calls.

But even exhausted and covered in blood and dirt, I found myself humming while I worked.

Mrs. Morrison commented that I seemed especially cheerful lately.

The Williams family asked if I was taking vitamins because I was practically glowing.

If they only knew.

I managed to keep the secret from everyone except my mom, who lived four hours away in Portland and could be trusted to squeal with excitement over the phone without blowing my cover.

She immediately wanted to know about wedding dress shopping, venue possibilities, and whether Sam’s family liked me.

“Mom, he hasn’t proposed yet,” I reminded her during one of our nightly phone calls.

“But you said he bought the ring.”

“I saw a receipt. I shouldn’t have been snooping.”

“You weren’t snooping, honey. You were looking for work files in his office. Finding the receipt was an accident.”

“An accident I should probably feel guilty about.”

“Do you?”

“Not really,” I admitted. Though I probably should have felt guilty about discussing Sam’s proposal plans with my mom before he’d even met her.

I’d wanted to introduce them as soon as I’d realized that I was serious about Sam.

But coordinating visits had been a comedy of errors.

Our fall plans were canceled when Dad’s practice partner had an emergency.

Our winter trip was derailed by back-to-back emergency calls at the clinic.

Their spring visit was postponed when Mom’s community project needed her.

We’d finally settled on the summer holidays as our “no excuses” meeting.

But here I was, gushing to my mom about engagement rings when she’d never even shaken Sam’s hand. That probably said something about how confident I felt about our future together. Still, I made a mental note to push harder on those summer plans.

“Do you?” Mom asked again.

I considered this as I curled up on the couch in the house Sam and I had been sharing for eight months.

It was my house, technically — I’d bought it when I moved to Willowbrook — but Sam had made it ours with thoughtful touches.

His coffee mug is in the kitchen cabinet.

His work boots are by the back door. His terrible action movies are mixed in with my nature documentaries on the shelf.

He’d transformed the spare room into a proper home office for both of us, organizing all my scattered files into his meticulous filing system.

I’d started calling it “his” office because my chaotic approach to paperwork had been no match for his organizational skills.

He’d even installed better lighting and bought a second desk chair so we could work side by side on our respective businesses.

“No,” I admitted. “I don’t feel guilty. I feel excited.”

“Good. You deserve to be excited about marrying the man you love.”

Did I love Sam? Completely, overwhelmingly, with the kind of certainty I’d never felt about anything else in my life. He was everything I’d never known I was looking for — steady where I was impulsive, calm where I was anxious, rooted in community where I sometimes still felt like an outsider.

Sam had made Willowbrook feel like home in a way I’d never experienced.

In Portland, I’d been Dr. Parker, competent and respected but ultimately alone.

Here, I was still Dr. Parker, but I was more than that.

I was Chloe, Sam’s girlfriend, the woman who saved Mrs. Henderson’s barn cat and delivered the Petersons’ prize calf, and knew everyone’s animals by name.

Here, I belonged.

“I should go,” I told my mom as I heard Sam’s truck pull into the driveway. “He’s home.”

“Give him a hug from me. Chloe, I’m so happy for you, sweetheart. You found your person.”

Sam walked through the front door as I was hanging up the phone, his hair mussed from the wind and his shirt smelling like the bar — a combination of beer, wood polish, and something essentially him that I’d grown to love.

“How was your day?” he asked, the same question he asked every evening.

“Good. Routine checkups mostly. The Morrison cows are doing well.” I stood and moved toward him, studying his face for any signs of proposal nerves. “How was yours?”

“Busy. Had to order new glassware. Apparently, college kids don’t understand the concept of holding onto their beer mugs.” He pulled me into his arms, and I melted against him the way I always did. “Missed you today.”

“I missed you, too.”

Tomorrow is my birthday. Tomorrow, Sam Mitchell is going to ask me to marry him.