Chapter 3 Annie
ANNIE
The day starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way.
By midafternoon, the air inside the medic tent has gone thick and sour. The two fans at either end are working themselves to death and barely keeping up. Outside, the crowd roars whenever a rider lasts longer than expected, and in between rides, the music blasts so loud the ground shakes.
Jaden’s crouched by the far cot, wrapping a barrel racer’s knee, while I clean up after a calf roper who split his lip.
I’ve gotten good at small talk that keeps my patients from fainting—questions about horses, the weather, and who they think will take the purse this weekend.
Most of them are polite, grateful, and eager to get back out there before they lose their nerve.
This guy isn’t so bad. He keeps saying, “Don’t tell my wife I bit through my lip,” which makes me smile even though I’m melting. I finish the last stitch, wipe his chin, and send him on his way with a warning about infection and alcohol.
I’m labeling a tube of antibiotic when the flap to the tent jerks open. Hot air laced with sweat and whiskey tumbles in.
A tall man in a denim jacket ducks through the opening, half guiding, half dragging another man who’s barely upright. The drunk’s boots scuff the ground, and his words are slurred nonsense.
The man helping him walks with a limp. I know the gait before I see the face. My stomach drops out.
Reno Wyatt.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up with my eyes.
He’s older, thicker through the chest and shoulders, hair longer than he used to wear it.
There are streaks of gold in the brown from the sun, and his skin’s rougher around the edges.
His jaw is still too square for its own good.
I can tell he’s been drinking less—maybe—but still enough to leave faint shadows under his eyes.
He’s steadying the drunk man with one arm, cane missing but limp still clear, his bad leg dragging just a little. The drunk’s head lolls forward, a string of half-coherent curses spilling out.
“Afternoon,” Reno says, his voice that same low drawl that used to slide under my skin. “Got a live one for you.”
The drunk man blinks blearily. “He hit me.”
Reno’s mouth tilts up. “After you swung first. Don’t rewrite history, bud.”
I freeze for one heartbeat, then force my hands to move. “What happened?”
“Festival idiot got mouthy near the beer tent,” Reno says with a shrug. “Tried to pick a fight. I figured I’d keep him from getting arrested. He’s drunk, not mean.”
I step around the table, gloves snapping into place. “Sit him down. Slow, please.”
Reno lowers the man onto a cot. The movement’s careful, deliberate. He still has the reflexes of an athlete, even with the damage. His bad leg trembles once before he catches his balance.
I can feel him watching me as I lean over the drunk. The man reeks of liquor and sweat, his shirt soaked through, his eye already swelling purple. I grab a cold pack, crack it between my palms, and press it against his skin.
He winces, groaning. “That hurts.”
“Hold it there.”
The man stares at me like I’m a mirage. “You’re pretty.”
Reno chuckles, quiet but sharp. “Don’t flirt with the help, pal. She bites.”
I glare at him. “Still charming, I see.”
“Still a biter, I see.”
“Professional,” I correct.
He grins. It’s infuriating how familiar that grin feels.
I glance over at Jaden, hoping he’ll come save me, but he’s elbow deep in elastic wrap and can’t look up. Great. I turn back to the drunk. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Couple beers,” he slurs.
“Try again.”
“Five?”
Reno snorts. “Try closer to twelve.”
I roll my eyes. “You going to stand there offering commentary or let me work?”
“Just making sure he doesn’t puke on your shoes,” he says, leaning on the edge of the table. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”
I take the drunk’s pulse, quick but steady, and check his pupils. “No signs of a concussion. Just drunk and bruised.”
The man blinks up at me again. “You’re a doctor?”
“Yes.”
He seems impressed. “You’re too young.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Wasn’t one.” He tries to laugh and chokes instead. Reno steadies him again.
I hand the drunk a paper cup of water. “Sip, not chug. You’ll thank me later.
” Then I dig through the cabinet for the little prepack I keep for nights like this—two naproxen, a cold pack, a single-dose eye drop sample.
I hand it all over with a stern smile. “When you sober up, use the drops every few hours to keep the swelling down. Don’t rub it.
Don’t touch it. Don’t pick fights with strangers. ”
He nods, half-conscious. “You’re nice.”
“Professional,” I say.
Reno smirks again. “She was never nice.”
The drunk man mutters something about needing air. Reno helps him up, slow and careful, and for a moment, I see the faint tremor in Reno’s leg when he shifts his weight. He hides it fast, but I catch it anyway.
“You could’ve called security,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Why play the hero?”
He shrugs. “Guy was being stupid, not dangerous. He reminded me of someone.”
I know exactly who he means. He sees himself in the drunk. He always did—any man who used anger as armor, any man who thought liquor could quiet the noise in his head. Any man who was a mirror to him.
He glances around the tent, taking in the setup, the cots, the supplies. “You always hated the rodeo. Too much blood, you said.”
“It pays.”
His eyes flick back to mine, something softer there now. “Good to see you working, though. You were always the smart one.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek. “That’s new. You giving compliments?”
He laughs again, quieter this time. “Don’t get used to it.”
The drunk sways between us. Reno catches him easily, his hand steady on the man’s shoulder. I remember those hands—the way they used to feel, calloused and sure, the way they once trembled when he realized what he’d lost.
I clear my throat. “He’s fine. Just keep him out of the sun.”
Reno nods, but he doesn’t move yet. “You look good, Annie.”
I keep my focus on the chart I’m pretending to fill out. “You look…vertical. That’s progress.”
He grins at that, but there’s a flicker of something behind it. “Still funny.”
“Still stubborn.” I shake my head and hand him the packet of naproxen for the drunk. “He can take these once he’s sober. You can take him now.”
Reno’s smile fades into something tired. “Yeah. Okay.” He helps the man to his feet, steadying him again before turning back to me. “It’s good seeing you.”
I didn’t expect that. Not after the bite in his voice, the teasing. For a second, I almost believe he means it. “You too,” I manage. “Enjoy the rodeo.”
He mumbles something I can’t make out, then ducks out of the tent with the drunk in tow. Sunlight spills through the flap before it falls shut behind him.
The air feels heavier once he’s gone. I’m left standing with the clipboard and the echo of a voice I haven’t heard in years.
I try to focus on paperwork. Jaden finishes with his patient and glances over. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Something like that.”
He studies me a beat longer but decides not to push. “I’m getting more gauze from the supply truck. You want anything?”
“Water,” I say automatically.
He nods and heads out.
As soon as he’s gone, I sit on the stool and press my palms against my thighs until the tremor in them settles. Seeing Reno hit harder than I wanted it to. He’s a walking reminder of the line between saving someone and losing yourself in the process.
Back then, I thought love could fix the parts of him that were broken. I thought being patient would teach him to be kind. I thought maybe if I stayed long enough, the drinking would stop being the thing that came first.
I was wrong.
The sound of laughter outside pulls me back. I stand, shake my hands out, and start tidying up the counter again, stacking what doesn’t need stacking just to feel busy. The flap opens again, and this time I brace myself—but it’s not Reno. It’s Mac.
She sweeps in like a storm of sunshine, sunglasses perched on her nose, camera slung across her chest, and two paper cups clutched in her hands. Her hair’s twisted into a messy knot that somehow looks intentional, and her grin is all teeth.
“Dr. Pearl in her element,” she says, setting one cup on the table. “Look at you, saving cowboys and melting in the process.”
“Don’t make fun of the sweat. It’s part of the look.”
“I call it hot disaster chic. Works for you.”
The coffee’s still warm. I take a sip, nearly groan in relief, and give her a grateful look. “You’re a saint.”
“I know.” She takes a slow drink of her own. “So, what’s new? Besides you looking like you just saw the ghost of rodeos past.”
I blink. “You saw him?”
“Reno? Yeah. Hard to miss. He was half carrying some drunk guy earlier. I filmed a bit of it for B-roll. He looked…responsible, which was weird.”
“Responsible’s a stretch. He brought the guy in here.”
Mac leans on the counter, curious. “Why?”
“He said the drunk guy needed help.” I blow out a slow breath. “It was…weird. He’s still him. Just older. Still has that smirk that makes you want to punch him and kiss him at the same time.”
“Classic problem,” she says, amused. “Did he flirt?”
“Kind of. I think. Mostly insulted me, then told me I looked good.”
“That’s flirting in cowboy.”
I laugh. “You might be right.”
“So, how do you feel?”
I shrug. “Like I should’ve taken a different job.”
“Liar.”
“Fine. Like I’m stuck in a time loop. Every smell, every sound—it’s all the same as when I used to wait in the stands for him. Only now, I’m stitching people instead of cheering.”
Mac studies me quietly for a moment, then bumps my shoulder. “You’re doing good, Annie. You’re building something. You left for a reason. Don’t let nostalgia rewrite the ending.”
“I’m not nostalgic.”
“Sure.”
I give her a look. “I’m not.”
“Okay, okay.” She grins. “Anyway, your ex aside, this place is wild. The footage I’m getting is incredible. Did you see Brick Wyatt ride earlier? The crowd lost their minds.”
“I heard.”
“The man’s like fifty and still looks like he was carved out of a whiskey barrel. Total fox.”
“Silver fox,” I correct automatically.
Her grin widens. “You have been listening.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not blind. Just busy.”
Mac takes another sip of coffee. “You’ll like him. He’s charming. All the Wyatts are.”
My heart gives a traitorous twist at the name. “Apparently.”
She notices. “Sorry. Too soon?”
“It’s fine.” I set my cup down, take a deep breath. “It’s just strange, you know? Seeing him again, here of all places. I thought I was past all that.”
“You probably are,” she says gently. “You’re just human. He’s the one who couldn’t keep up.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
We stand there for a while, listening to the muffled cheers outside. The sunlight coming through the tent flap turns everything gold, and for a few quiet seconds, it almost feels peaceful.
Mac breaks the silence first. “So. After this month, promise me you’ll do something fun. No rodeos. No cowboys. Maybe a beach trip.”
I smile. “Deal. But only if you go with me.”
“Done.” She raises her cup in a mock toast. “To the end of rodeo season and ex-boyfriends who stay gone.”
I clink my cup against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”