Chapter 4
CAITLIN
" T hanks for coming out, Dr. Miller." Tom Henderson walked me back to my truck, his weathered face creased with worry lines that seemed deeper than the last time I'd seen him.
"Everything okay, Tom? You seem distracted."
He glanced toward the road, then back at me. "Just tired. Lot of pressure lately."
"The dairy business?"
"That, and..." He hesitated. "You hear things, you know? About folks selling out. Moving on. Sometimes I wonder if we're next."
"Is someone pressuring you to sell?"
Tom's expression shuttered. "Just talk. You know how it is." He forced a smile. "Thanks again for coming out. Give my best to Doc Peterson."
I drove away with an uneasy feeling in my gut. Something was going on in this valley. I just didn't know what yet.
Preston finally called on Saturday.
I was elbow-deep in a cow's rear end—checking for pregnancy, standard procedure—when my phone buzzed in my back pocket. By the time I'd finished up, stripped off my gloves, and washed my hands, I'd missed the call.
He didn't leave a voicemail. He never left voicemails anymore.
I called him back from my truck, parked outside the Hendersons' dairy farm, watching the sun sink toward the hills.
"Hey babe," he answered. "Sorry I missed you earlier. Crazy day."
"It's fine. I was working."
"On a Saturday?"
"Animals don't take weekends off."
"Right, right." I could hear the distraction in his voice—the tap of a keyboard, the rustle of papers. He was multitasking. Of course he was. "So what's new?"
What's new. Like we were acquaintances catching up, not two people who'd been together for three years. Not two people who were supposed to be building a life together.
"I delivered a breech foal earlier this week," I said. "Middle of the night emergency. Mare and baby both made it."
"That's great, babe."
"The owner helped. New guy—just inherited the place from his grandmother. He'd never even seen a birth before, but he stayed the whole time. Didn't panic. Did everything I told him."
"Mm-hmm."
He wasn't listening. I could tell by the rhythm of his responses—automatic, meaningless. He was reading emails or reviewing charts or doing whatever was more important than talking to me.
"And then I rode a unicorn to the moon," I said.
"That's great, babe."
I closed my eyes. Took a breath.
"Preston."
"Yeah?"
"Are you even listening to me?"
A pause. The keyboard sounds stopped. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm here. You were saying something about a... foal?"
"Forget it."
"Caitlin, come on?—"
"When are you coming to visit?"
Silence. The kind of silence that was an answer all by itself.
"Things are really busy right now," he said finally. "Dr. Markham is talking about making me a partner, and I need to be here, you know? Visible. Present."
"You've been saying that for six months."
"Because it's been true for six months."
"And it's going to be true for the next six months. And the six months after that." I stared out the windshield at the darkening sky. "When does it stop being temporary, Preston? When do we actually figure this out?"
"I don't know what you want me to say."
I wanted him to say he missed me. I wanted him to say he'd book a flight tomorrow, cancel his meetings, show up at my door with flowers and apologies and a plan. I wanted him to act like our relationship mattered as much as his career.
But I already knew he wouldn't say any of those things.
"I want you to say something real," I said quietly. "I want you to actually be here, even if it's just on the phone. I want to feel like I'm more than an item on your to-do list."
Another pause. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
"I'm doing the best I can, Caitlin. Long distance is hard. You knew that when you moved."
"I knew that. I also thought we'd both be trying."
"I am trying?—"
"Are you?"
The question hung there, heavy and honest. I hadn't meant to ask it. Hadn't meant to push this hard. But now that the words were out, I couldn't take them back.
And I wasn't sure I wanted to.
"I have to go," Preston said. His voice had gone flat. Distant. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Sure."
"I love you."
The words sounded hollow. Rote. Like something he said because he was supposed to, not because he meant it.
"You too," I said.
I hung up before he could respond.
I sat in my truck for a long time after that, watching the stars come out.
Then I did what I always did when my life felt like a mess. I called Jess.
Jessica Tamblin had been my roommate freshman year at Cornell, my sorority sister, my study partner through vet school, and my best friend for going on twelve years.
She was also the only person who'd known Preston as long as I had—they'd been in the same organic chemistry class sophomore year, back before he and I started dating.
She picked up on the second ring. "Hey stranger! I was just thinking about you."
"Yeah? How are you? How's the new job?"
Jess had just started at a veterinary specialty hospital in Boston—small animals, oncology focus. Her dream job.
"Exhausting but amazing. I'm learning so much. And my attending actually remembers my name now, so that's progress."
"Wow, that's so great, Jess. I don't know how you do it, though. Oncology? I think it would be so sad... watching them go through that."
"It is, sometimes. But it's also—I don't know—hopeful? Like, we're giving these families more time with their pets. Good time. And when we catch something early..." She paused. "Anyway, it feels meaningful. Even the hard days."
"I'm really happy for you."
"Thanks, Cait." I could hear her settling in—the creak of her couch, the clink of what was probably a wine glass. "But enough about me. Saturday night call from Caitlin Miller? What did he do?"
"Why do you assume he did something?"
"Because you only call me on Saturday nights when Preston's done something stupid." She paused. "Spill."
So I spilled. The missed calls. The distracted "that's great, babe." The silence when I'd asked when he was coming to visit. By the time I finished, I was gripping the steering wheel like it had personally offended me.
"Cait," Jess said slowly. "I love you. You know I love you. But I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to actually think about the answer."
"Okay..."
"When's the last time you were actually happy in this relationship?"
The question hit me like a punch to the chest.
"That's not—" I started.
"Think about it. Not content. Not comfortable. Actually happy."
I opened my mouth to answer. Closed it. Tried again.
I couldn't remember.
"It's the distance," I said finally. "Long distance is hard. Once we figure out the next step?—"
"You've been saying that for six months. He's been saying that for six months. And from where I'm sitting, the only person doing any actual figuring is you." Jess sighed. "Preston is a good guy. He is. But he's also the guy who forgot your birthday junior year because he had a big exam. Remember?"
"He sent flowers the next day."
"He sent flowers because I reminded him." A pause. "He's always been like this, Cait. Work first, everything else second. You just used to be close enough that the scraps felt like enough."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't.
"I'm not telling you to break up with him," Jess said, gentler now. "I'm telling you to be honest with yourself about what you're getting out of this. And what you're not."
We sat in silence for a moment. Then Jess's voice shifted—lighter, curious.
"So. What about you? Any guys in this new town of yours? Have you made any friends there?" She paused. "It's important you find a life besides taking care of those large four-legged friends of yours, Cait."
"I've been busy. Building the practice. Learning the area."
"That's not an answer."
"There's Doc Peterson—he's been great. And some of the other farmers are nice..."
"I said friends. Not clients." Jess waited. "Anyone? Anyone at all you've actually connected with?"
I hesitated. And that hesitation was my downfall.
"Oh my God," Jess said. "There's someone. Who is he?"
"He's a client. It's nothing."
"Your voice just went up an octave."
"I hate you."
"You love me. Tell me about this client who's definitely nothing."
I groaned. "He just inherited a ranch from his grandmother. He's from San Francisco. Tech money. Knows nothing about horses."
"And?"
"And nothing. He's a client."
"A cute client?"
"Jess—"
"You didn't say no."
"He helped me deliver a foal last week," I admitted. "Middle of the night, total chaos, and he just... showed up. Did everything I asked. Didn't panic." I shook my head even though she couldn't see me. "He named the foal Sunrise because she was born at dawn."
A long pause. "Oh, honey."
"Don't."
"You like him."
"I don't know him. I've seen him twice."
"You like him," Jess repeated. "And Preston barely remembers to call you back."
"That's not—it's not like that."
"Maybe not yet." Another pause. "Just... be careful, okay? With your heart. It's the only one you've got."
"I know."
"And call me after you see him Monday. I want details."
"There won't be any details."
"Uh huh. Love you."
"Love you too."
I hung up and stared at the stars again.
Three years. We'd been together for three years. We'd talked about marriage, about kids, about building a life. And now I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt like we were actually partners instead of two people going through the motions.
When had it started falling apart? When I'd moved to California? Earlier? Had it always been like this, and I'd just been too in love to notice?
My phone buzzed. A text.
For one stupid, hopeful second, I thought it might be Preston—apologizing, saying he was sorry, saying he'd do better.
It wasn't Preston.
How do you know if a horse is happy? Asking for a friend. (The friend is me. I'm the friend.)
I stared at the screen. Blaine Hartley. Texting me at 8 PM on a Saturday with a ridiculous question about horse emotions.
I should ignore it. He was a client. I was in a relationship. Sort of.
I typed back before I could stop myself.
Ears forward, relaxed posture, soft eyes. Why? Is one of your horses unhappy?
Three dots. Then:
Cisco seems sad. He keeps staring at Sovereign Sun's paddock with this look like "that could have been me, man."
I laughed out loud—a real laugh, startling in the quiet cab of my truck.
Cisco is a teaser. That's literally his job. He's not sad, he's just... contemplative.
Contemplative. Right. I'm going to tell him you said that. He'll feel very validated.
Please don't talk to your horses about their feelings. It makes my job harder.
Too late. Cisco and I have already had several heart-to-hearts. He's surprisingly insightful.
I was smiling. Actually smiling, for the first time all day.
You're ridiculous.
I prefer "charmingly eccentric."
I prefer "ridiculous."
Harsh but fair.
I should stop. I should put down the phone and drive home and figure out what I was doing with my life and my relationship and my future.
Instead, I typed:
How's Sunrise doing?
Perfect. Amazing. The best horse in the history of horses. I'm not biased at all.
You're completely biased.
Absolutely. But she really is great. Strong, curious, not afraid of anything. Hector says she's got champion potential.
Hector said that?
I know, right? I nearly fell over. I think it's the closest he's come to being impressed by anything since I got here.
I could picture it—Blaine's face lighting up at Hector's grudging praise, that boyish enthusiasm he got when something went right. I'd seen it the night of the foaling, when he'd looked at Sunrise like she was a miracle.
Speaking of Hector, Blaine continued, he mentioned you're coming by Monday for vaccinations?
Routine visit. Should be quick.
Want to stay for dinner after?
I stared at the screen.
As a thank you , he added quickly. For the foaling. And for answering my ridiculous horse questions. My friend Jake is actually a decent cook.
It was an innocent invitation. A client thanking his vet with a meal. Totally normal. Totally professional.
So why did my heart rate pick up?
I don't usually have dinner with clients.
Is that a no?
I thought about Preston. That's great, babe. I thought about the hollow "I love you" and the silence when I'd asked when he was coming to visit.
I thought about Blaine Hartley, who texted me on Saturday nights about horse feelings and named his foal Sunrise and looked at that baby like she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
It's a maybe , I typed. Ask me again on Monday.
That's not a no. I'll take it.
Goodnight, Blaine.
Goodnight, Caitlin.
I set the phone down and stared at the stars.
What was I doing?
I had a boyfriend. A complicated, long-distance, increasingly distant boyfriend, but a boyfriend nonetheless. I had no business getting butterflies over a client's dinner invitation. No business smiling at his stupid texts or looking forward to Monday's vaccination visit more than I should.
He was a city boy playing rancher. He'd probably be gone in six months, back to his Silicon Valley life, and I'd still be here—building my practice, delivering foals, figuring out whether my relationship was worth saving.
But as I drove home through the dark country roads, I couldn't stop thinking about him.
Charmingly eccentric. That's what he'd called himself.
Ridiculous , I'd said.
Both were true. And somehow, that made it worse.