Chapter 5 #2
"I was not that bad."
"Bro, you were that bad," Tre said.
"You said, and I quote, 'I had no idea that much fluid could come out of anything.'"
"Context matters!"
Caitlin was laughing now—really laughing, her whole face lit up with it. "In his defense, foaling is intense. And he did everything I asked."
"Thank you," I said pointedly. "See? Professional assessment. I was helpful."
"You were adequate," Caitlin said, but her eyes were warm.
"Adequate. I'll take it." I shot Jake a look. "Better than 'hopeless idiot,' which is what you two assholes called me last week."
"We said it with love," Tre said.
Tre was watching us with barely concealed amusement. "So this is the vet who turned our boy here into a ranch hand. I owe you a thank you—he's actually useful now."
"I was always useful," I protested.
"Hector told me you asked what hay was for."
"That was day one!"
Caitlin nearly choked on her wine. "Please tell me that's not true."
"It was a reasonable question at the time," I said with as much dignity as I could muster. "I've learned a lot since then."
"He has, actually," Jake said, taking pity on me. "He's out there every morning at five. Works harder than anyone. Hector's starting to come around."
"Hector grunted at me yesterday," I said. "I think it was approval."
"High praise," Caitlin agreed. "He doesn't grunt at just anyone."
Jake suddenly became very interested in his wine glass. Tre didn't bother hiding his grin.
"Anyway," I said, too loudly. "Dessert? We have ice cream. Store-bought, but still."
After dinner, I walked Caitlin out to her truck.
The sun had set, and the sky was that deep purple-blue of early evening. Stars were starting to emerge, faint at first, then brighter. Somewhere in the barn, I could hear the horses settling in for the night—soft nickers, the rustle of hay.
"Thanks for dinner," Caitlin said. "Your friends are great."
"They're something." I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep from doing something stupid, like reaching for her hand. "Thanks for coming. And for the vaccinations. And for not laughing too hard at Jake's stories about my incompetence."
"I laughed exactly the right amount."
"You laughed a lot."
"Like I said. The right amount."
I smiled. She smiled back.
And then we just stood there, in the growing darkness, neither of us moving toward her truck.
"Can I show you something?" I asked.
She hesitated. I could see her thinking it through—the line between professional and personal, the risks of blurring it. The boyfriend back east, maybe. The complications.
"Sure," she said finally. "What is it?"
I led her to Cisco's paddock.
He was standing by the fence, like he'd been waiting for us. When he saw me, he nickered softly and walked over, nudging my hand with his nose.
"Hey, buddy." I pulled a carrot from my pocket—I'd started carrying them everywhere, much to Hector's amusement—and let him take it. "Caitlin, meet Cisco. Cisco, meet the woman who told me—via text, I might add—that you're not sad, just contemplative."
Caitlin laughed. "I stand by my assessment."
She reached out to stroke his neck, and Cisco leaned into her touch with a contented sigh.
"He likes you," I said.
"He likes anyone with carrots."
"No, he's actually pretty picky. Hector says he doesn't trust easily." I watched her with the horse—gentle hands, soft voice. The moonlight caught her face, and something in my chest ached. "But he trusted you immediately."
"Horses are good judges of character."
"That's what I keep telling myself. He likes me too."
Caitlin glanced at me. In the dim light, I couldn't quite read her expression. "Maybe he's onto something."
The moment hung there, fragile and charged.
I wanted to kiss her. The realization hit me like a physical thing—this overwhelming, stupid, inconvenient want. I wanted to step closer and cup her face in my hands and find out if her lips were as soft as they looked.
I thought about the women I'd kissed before. The calculated ones, the ones who leaned in at exactly the right moment because they knew how the game was played. The ones where kissing felt like a transaction, a step toward something else.
This didn't feel like that. This felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall would change everything.
But she had a boyfriend. And she was my vet. And I barely knew her.
So instead, I said, "Probably just the carrots."
She laughed, and the moment broke.
"I should go," she said. "Early morning tomorrow."
"Of course. Yeah." I stepped back, giving her space. "Thanks again for everything."
"Thanks for dinner." She opened her truck door, then paused. "Blaine?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not adequate." She smiled—soft and real, nothing calculated about it. "You're actually pretty good at this. The ranch stuff. The learning. All of it."
Before I could respond, she climbed in her truck and drove away.
I stood there for a long time after her taillights disappeared, Cisco nudging my shoulder like he was asking what I was going to do about this.
"I don't know, buddy," I said, scratching behind his ears. "I really don't know."
But as I walked back to the house, I couldn't stop smiling.
She had a boyfriend. She was my vet. This was complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea.
And I didn't care. Not even a little bit.
Because for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt something real.