The Plan and the Truth #2
He walks around the table, his eyes locking onto mine with a fierce intensity. “It’s a sanctuary. And it’s the only thing keeping these dogs alive. The only thing keeping Jason alive. If you want to sell it for a clean slate, that’s your choice. But don’t ask me to tell you it’s okay.”
He walks to the sink and turns the faucet on. The rush of water fills the space between us, a loud, cold barrier.
I leave the exam room, my chest tight.
By afternoon, the sky outside has turned slate-gray. The light is flat, draining the color from the pines on the ridge. Jason finishes shoveling and leaves for the bunkhouse, his boots crunching through the crust of the snow.
Atlas lies by the wood stove in the clinic waiting room, his chin resting on his paws. I sit on the floor beside him, my back against the brick hearth, my fingers buried in his thick neck fur. He lets out a long sigh, his ribs expanding against my leg.
Wyatt comes out of the back corridor, a mug of black coffee in his hand. He stops when he sees us. For a moment, he looks like he might turn and walk back to the office. Then he crosses the room and sits in one of the plastic chairs opposite the stove.
He doesn’t look at me. He stares at the flames behind the glass door of the stove.
“Jesse didn’t tell me about you.” My voice is quiet. “Not your name. Not your face. I only knew he had a partner up here. A veterinarian he trusted. He called you Doc.”
Wyatt takes a sip of his coffee. The steam rises, dampening his eyelashes. “Jesse kept his life in pockets. Now that you’re here, it makes sense. He wouldn’t have wanted the dust from downrange settling on you.”
“Why?”
“You work a crisis line.” Wyatt sets the mug on the floor beside his boot.
“You spend your days listening to people who want to die, trying to keep them here. Jesse never told me about you—never even mentioned he had a cousin. But looking at you now, I think he was trying to protect you. He probably feared his darkness would drag you under. He thought you were clean, and he wanted to keep you that way.”
The words hit my chest, a quiet ache opening behind my ribs. “He didn’t let me save him.”
“No.” Wyatt looks at me, his grey eyes open and raw in the dim light. “He didn’t. He made his choice before he drove downstate for Christmas. But he left you Atlas. He knew this dog. He knew what Atlas could do. I think he left him to you because he knew you’d need him.”
“Need him for what?”
“To hold onto.” Wyatt leans back slightly. “Jesse was a handler. He knew that when you’re slipping, you need something solid to sink your fingers into. Atlas is that solid.”
I press my forehead to Atlas’s head, my eyes burning. Jesse’s tags under my wool sweater feel heavy against my collarbone.
Jesse knew. He knew I was running, even then. He knew I was hiding behind my calm counselor voice, terrified of letting anyone close enough to hurt me if they left.
“He built this place for people like us.” Wyatt’s voice is very low, the gravelly grit returning. “Not just for the vets. Not just for me. He thought if we had a place where we didn’t have to pretend we were whole, we might actually get there.”
I look up, my hand still resting on Atlas’s neck. Wyatt is leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his face inches from mine. The anger from the morning is gone, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
“Wyatt.” My voice cracks. “I don’t want to sell. I don’t want to see this place cleared for a resort. But I don’t know how to stay. The debt is real.”
“We can find a way.” He reaches out, his large, scarred hand hovering over the floorboards between us before he presses his palm flat against the wood, inches from my knee. “If you stay, we’ll find a way to carry it. Together.”
The word hangs in the quiet room. Together.
It’s a promise I want to make. It’s a path I want to choose, even with the terror of the cliff edge rising up in front of me. I lift my hand, my fingers touching the edge of his palm. His skin is warm, the scar tissue rough against my fingertips.
I’ll stay, I want to say. We’ll figure it out.
A sharp, digital chime cuts through the air.
I flinch, dropping my hand. The phone in my coat pocket is vibrating, a rapid, insistent buzz that indicates returning service. The tower on the ridge must be back online.
I pull the phone out. The signal strength indicator shows three bars of solid reception. A flood of notifications lights up the screen. Missed calls and text alerts stack up. Voicemail transcripts from my landlord and collections agency clutter the screen.
I tap the top notification. The automated transcript from the credit agency makes my stomach drop.
Final Notice: Account ending in 4902. Outstanding balance of $30,000 remains unpaid. Continued failure to establish a payment plan will result in legal escalation and garnishment proceedings.
The cold reality of Denver washes over me, heavy and unyielding. The notifications are a ticking clock, a reminder of the financial throat-hold I left behind.
I lock the screen, my heart hammering. Admitting that I’m drowning, that my credit is in ruins, is humiliating. It lays bare the mess I’ve been trying to outrun, and it would prove to him that I’m just a liability bringing trouble to his mountain.
Then, a new email notification banner slides down the screen.
Sender: Brock Sterling (Cascade Development)
Subject: Final Agreement - Angel’s Peak Land Parcel
I tap the screen, the blue light reflecting in the dim room.
Dear Ms. Coleman,
We have revised our final acquisition offer, increasing the payout by ten percent to reflect the urgency of our development timeline. Please find the attached final contract.
This offer is firm and will remain active until tomorrow at 12:00 PM. If we do not receive your electronic signature by noon, the offer is withdrawn, and we will proceed with our alternative parcel options on the north ridge.
Your signature is the final step to closing this matter and securing your wire transfer.
I stare at the glowing text. The contract PDF is attached at the bottom, a tiny icon representing the clean slate, the paid debts, and the return to a life I can control from a safe distance.
I look up, but Wyatt is already standing. He has picked up his coffee mug. He doesn’t look at the screen in my hand, but he knows the sound of the world breaking back in.
His boots click against the floorboards as he walks back into the clinic corridor, the latch of the exam room door clicking shut a second later.
The silence returns, heavier than before.
I look down at the screen. The deadline clock is ticking.
Twenty-four hours. And my signature is all they need.
The night comes down in a heavy, freezing quiet. Without the wind clawing at the pine siding, the silence in Wyatt’s bedroom is almost suffocating, thick with a tension that has been building between us for days.
The storm is fully dead, leaving a clear sky of cold, piercing stars outside the windowpane—a silent, cruel promise that the plows will clear the switchbacks by morning, cutting my time with him down to mere hours.
I sit on the edge of Wyatt’s bed, my hands locked so tightly in my lap that my knuckles are white.
I couldn’t bring myself to go back to Jesse’s old room.
The ghost of my cousin is too heavy in there, a painful, hollow echo of everything I’ve already lost. But here, in Wyatt’s space, the air is thick and intoxicating.
It’s filled with the scent of him—sharp cedar, rich woodsmoke, and the clean, primal musk of his skin. It settles into my lungs, making my pulse flutter in my throat.
The door hinges groan softly.
Wyatt stands in the threshold, and the breath leaves me all at once.
He’s stripped down to a faded grey t-shirt that clings to the broad, heavy muscle of his chest and shoulders, filling the frame.
In the dim, amber wash of the hallway light, his grey eyes are dark, almost black, holding a raw, turbulent focus that makes my chest tighten until it hurts. He doesn’t look away from me.
Not even to breathe.