Chapter 2
CAITLIN
T he sun was barely up when I pulled into Doc Peterson's clinic, and I was already on my third cup of coffee.
Emergency calls were part of the job. I'd known that going into large animal work—horses, cattle, livestock. The animals were too big to bring to a clinic, which meant you went to them. On their schedule. At their farms. In the middle of the night.
Small animal vets had it easier—dogs and cats came to you during office hours.
But I'd never wanted to spend my life in a sterile exam room, looking at Labradoodles and tabby cats.
I wanted to be out in the field. I wanted to deliver foals and save colicky horses and do work that actually felt like it mattered.
The trade-off was nights like last night. Cows don't care that it's 2 AM. Horses don't check the clock before deciding to have a complicated delivery. You signed up for the lifestyle or you didn't sign up at all.
But man, I was tired.
I parked my truck—still mud-splattered from last night—and grabbed my bag. The clinic was a modest building on the edge of town, white clapboard with green trim, a small pasture out back for overnight patients. Doc Peterson had run it for thirty years. In three months, it would officially be mine.
Assuming I didn't screw it up before then.
Doc was already inside, moving slowly, one hand pressed against his lower back. He was seventy-two, built like a barrel, with a white beard that made him look like a country Santa Claus. He'd been talking about retirement for a decade. This time, he actually meant it.
"Heard you had an exciting night," he said, not looking up from the files he was organizing.
"Breech foal at Sierra Sol. Mare and baby are both fine."
"Sierra Sol." He paused, turning to look at me. "Mae Callahan's place?"
"Apparently she handed it over to her grandson. He's the new owner."
Doc's eyebrows rose. "Earl's grandson? The tech kid?"
"You know him?"
"Know of him. Earl used to talk about him—Blaine, I think. Smart boy. Made a fortune in computers or software or whatever it is they do out there in Silicon Valley." He shook his head. "Never figured him for a rancher, though."
"He's not," I said. "He's clueless. Didn't know the foal was breech until I told him. Looked at me like I was speaking another language half the time."
"But?"
I hesitated. That was the thing, wasn't it? There was a "but."
"But he showed up," I admitted. "Two in the morning, covered in hay, no idea what he was doing—and he still showed up. Didn't panic. Did what I told him. Stayed until it was done."
Doc smiled, that slow knowing smile that always made me feel like he could see right through me. "That's more than most."
"I guess."
"Earl was like that," Doc said, turning back to his files. "Didn't know a thing about horses when he started. Learned by doing. By failing. By getting back up." He glanced at me over his shoulder. "Maybe it runs in the family."
I thought about Blaine Hartley—the ruined Stanford shirt, the shell-shocked expression, the way he'd looked at that newborn foal like he'd just witnessed a miracle.
Maybe.
Or maybe he'd be gone in a month, back to his fancy tech job and his Silicon Valley life, and the ranch would end up sold to some developer who'd turn it into a subdivision.
I'd seen it happen before. City people came to the country with big dreams and romantic notions. They lasted one winter—sometimes less—before reality set in.
But something about the way he'd talked last night... I don't know what I'm doing. But I'm hoping I can figure it out. Protect the family legacy.
He'd sounded like he meant it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, already knowing who it would be.
Preston.
Hey babe. Slammed today. Talk later?
I stared at the screen. Third time this week. Third time he'd blown me off with the same two sentences. Slammed today. Talk later.
Later never came. Or when it did, it was a five-minute call between his meetings, his voice distracted, half his attention somewhere else. That's great, babe. Hey, I gotta run ? —
Three years we'd been together. Met at Cornell's College of Veterinary Medicine up in Ithaca—fell in love over late-night study sessions and cheap pizza in Collegetown.
After graduation, he'd gone into small animal practice in Manhattan—a sleek clinic on the Upper East Side, pampered pets and wealthy clients.
Good money. Great hours. A clear path to partner.
I'd followed him to New York. Took a job at a small animal clinic in Brooklyn because that's where the jobs were. Spent two years examining pugs with breathing problems and cats with hairballs and dogs whose owners swore they were "basically human."
It wasn't bad work. It just wasn't my work.
I'd grown up around farms. My uncle had a cattle operation in upstate New York, and I'd spent summers there, following the local vet around, watching him work.
That's when I knew—large animals. That was where I belonged.
The physicality of it. The stakes. The feeling of saving something that actually needed saving.
So when Doc Peterson's practice came up—a large animal clinic in California, a vet looking to retire, a chance to do what I'd always wanted—I took it. Packed up my life and moved across the country.
Preston had stayed in New York. "Long distance is temporary," he'd said. "We'll figure it out."
We hadn't figured anything out. He'd visited once—three months ago, for a single weekend.
I'd flown back twice, squeezed into his busy schedule like an afterthought.
And the calls got shorter and the texts got more distant and somewhere along the way, I'd stopped feeling like his girlfriend and started feeling like an item on his to-do list.
Talk later.
I should respond. Should say something. Sure, call me tonight or Miss you or When are you coming to visit?
Instead, I shoved the phone back in my pocket without typing anything.
"Everything okay?" Doc asked.
"Fine." I forced a smile. "Just tired. Long night."
He didn't push. That was one of the things I appreciated about Doc—he knew when to leave well enough alone.
"You should head home," he said. "Get some sleep. I can handle things here."
"I need to go back to Sierra Sol this afternoon. Check on the foal."
"This afternoon. Not this morning." He pointed toward the door. "Go. Sleep. Doctor's orders."
I wanted to argue, but my body had other ideas. A yawn escaped before I could stop it.
"Fine," I said. "But call me if anything comes up."
"I've been doing this for thirty years, Caitlin. I think I can manage a Tuesday morning."
I didn't sleep.
I tried. Went home to my little rental house on Maple Street, kicked off my boots, collapsed onto the bed. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw Blaine Hartley's face—the way he'd looked at that foal, the wonder and the terror and the pride all mixed together.
Something had finally gone right.
That's what his expression had said. Like he'd been waiting for something to go right for a long time.
I knew that feeling. I'd felt it myself, the first time I'd delivered a foal on my own. The rush of I did that. I actually did that. It was addictive. It was why I'd chosen this life, even when everyone told me I was crazy.
But Blaine Hartley wasn't a vet. He was a tech mogul who'd never worked a day on a ranch. Why would he care about one foal?
Protect the family legacy.
Maybe that was why.
I gave up on sleep around noon, took a shower, and made myself a sandwich I didn't really taste. Then I grabbed my bag and headed back to Sierra Sol.
The ranch looked different in daylight.
Last night, it had been all shadows and emergency—the dark barn, the laboring mare, the frantic energy of a crisis. Now, in the afternoon sun, I could see what it really was: a beautiful property that had seen better days.
The fences needed mending. The barn could use a new coat of paint. The pastures were a little overgrown, the equipment a little rusty. It wasn't neglected, exactly—more like tired. Like it had been holding its breath, waiting for someone to bring it back to life.
I parked by the main barn and grabbed my bag. Voices drifted from somewhere nearby—male, laughing, punctuated by the occasional curse.
I followed the sound around the corner and stopped.
Blaine Hartley was in the paddock, trying to fix a section of fence. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt—cleaned up since the sweats from last night, but something that looked like he'd actually bought them at a farm supply store. Work boots. A t-shirt that was already streaked with dirt.
He was holding a hammer completely wrong.
Hector stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with an expression that hovered somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
"No, no," Hector said. "You're choking up too much. Grip it at the end."
"I am gripping it at the end."
"That's the middle."
Blaine adjusted his grip, lined up the nail, and swung. The hammer glanced off the nail head and caught his thumb instead.
"Son of a—" He dropped the hammer, shaking his hand, and let out a string of curses that were surprisingly creative for a tech guy.
I probably should have announced my presence. Instead, I stood there, watching, waiting to see what he'd do next.
Because this was the moment. This was where most of them quit. The city people with their big dreams and soft hands—this was where they decided that ranch life wasn't for them, actually, and maybe they'd just sell the place after all.
Blaine stared at his thumb, which was already starting to swell. Then he looked at the fence, still broken. Then at Hector, who was very carefully not laughing.
And then he picked up the hammer.
"Show me again," he said. "The grip."
Hector's eyebrows rose. He glanced over and spotted me standing there, but didn't say anything. Just turned back to Blaine and demonstrated the proper grip, slow and patient.
Blaine copied him. Adjusted. Tried again.
This time, the nail went in.
"Ha!" He stepped back, grinning like he'd just won the lottery instead of successfully hammering a single nail. "Did you see that?"
"I saw it," Hector said. "Only forty-seven more to go."
"Way to kill the moment, Hector."
"I'm not here for moments. I'm here for fences."
Blaine laughed—a real laugh, warm and self-deprecating—and reached for another nail.
Something in my chest did a little flip.
I ignored it. Absolutely not. He was a client. A clueless city boy who'd probably be gone by Christmas. And I had a boyfriend.
Sort of.
Talk later.
"Dr. Miller!"
I looked up. Blaine had spotted me, was waving me over with his non-injured hand. He was smiling, that same open, slightly sheepish smile from last night.
"Hey," I said, walking toward the paddock. "I'm here to check on the foal."
"She's in the barn. Starlight's been a great mom." He fell into step beside me, Hector trailing behind. "I've been watching them all morning. Well, between fence repairs. Which, as you may have noticed, are not my strong suit."
"I noticed."
"Hector says I'm not completely hopeless."
"I said no such thing," Hector muttered.
"He heavily implied it."
"I implied you might not kill yourself with a hammer. That's not the same as not hopeless."
I bit back a smile. There was something unexpectedly charming about watching Blaine Hartley—tech billionaire, Stanford graduate, man who'd probably never gotten his hands dirty in his life—banter with a grizzled ranch hand like they were old friends.
We reached the barn. Inside, Starlight Maiden was standing in her stall, looking tired but content. And there, pressed against her side, was the foal.
She was standing on her own now—steadier than last night, though still a little wobbly. Her coat was dry and fluffy, a pretty chestnut color that would darken as she aged. She turned to look at us with those big curious eyes, and I felt the same thing I always felt when I saw a healthy baby animal.
This. This is why I do this.
"She's beautiful," I said.
"I've been calling her Sunrise." Blaine's voice was soft. "Because she came into the world just as the sun was coming up. Is that stupid? That's probably stupid."
"It's not stupid."
He looked at me, surprised. Like he'd expected me to mock him.
"It's a good name," I said. "Sunrise."
Something shifted in his expression. Gratitude, maybe. Or relief. Like he'd been waiting for someone to tell him he wasn't completely out of his depth.
I turned back to the foal before he could see whatever was happening on my face.
He's a client. He has soft hands and a Silicon Valley life and he'll be gone by Christmas.
But as I examined the foal and checked on the mare and answered Blaine's endless questions—genuine questions, curious questions, the questions of someone who actually wanted to learn—I couldn't shake the feeling that I might be wrong about him.
He wasn't what I'd expected.
And I wasn't sure what to do with that.