Chapter 6 #2
I made it to the ranch in twenty minutes, breaking at least three traffic laws on the way.
Blaine met me at the barn, his face tight with worry. "It's Starlight. She's been rolling, pawing at her belly. Hector says it started about an hour ago."
Starlight Maiden. Sunrise's mother. The mare I'd helped deliver three weeks ago.
"Show me."
She was in her stall, clearly in distress. Rolling, getting up, lying down again. Classic colic symptoms. Sunrise was in the next stall, whinnying anxiously, sensing something was wrong with her mother.
I did a quick examination. Listened to her gut sounds. Checked her vitals. Asked Blaine the standard questions—when did she last eat, any changes in feed, signs of distress earlier today.
"I don't think it's surgical," I said finally. "Probably gas colic. We need to walk her, keep her moving. I'll give her something for the pain and to help things pass."
"What can I do?"
"Help me walk her. It might take a while."
So we walked. Back and forth through the barn, out to the paddock and back, around and around in slow circles. Starlight was resistant at first, wanting to lie down, but we kept her moving.
Blaine was quiet, focused. He held the lead rope when I needed to check on her, talked to her in a low, soothing voice when she got agitated. He didn't panic, didn't pepper me with questions, didn't get in the way.
He just helped.
An hour in, I saw the first signs of improvement. Her gut sounds were returning to normal. She was less restless, more willing to walk.
"I think we're through the worst of it," I said.
Blaine let out a breath. "Thank God." He looked at me in the dim light of the barn. "Thank you. For coming so fast. For knowing what to do."
"It's my job."
"It's more than that." He held my gaze. "You care. About the animals. About..." He stopped himself. "You just care. It shows."
Something shifted between us. The same charge I'd felt Monday night, standing by Cisco's paddock. The same pull.
"Blaine," I said quietly.
"I know." He looked away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to?—"
"You didn't do anything wrong." I took a breath. "I like you, Blaine. I do. But I have a boyfriend. Back in New York."
"He's a lucky guy."
"Long distance. Three years." I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Although lately it feels more like long distance and no relationship."
Blaine didn't say anything. Just waited.
"He forgot to call me this week," I heard myself say. "Preston. He made partner—or he's about to—and he celebrated with his colleagues instead of calling me. I found out through a text message with a heart emoji."
"That sounds lonely."
Three words. Simple and honest. Not judgment, not advice, just acknowledgment.
My throat tightened. "Yeah. It is."
We stood there in the quiet barn, Starlight finally calm between us, and I felt something crack open in my chest. Something I'd been holding together with denial and determination and the stubborn belief that if I just tried harder, things would get better.
"I should go," I said. "She's stable now. Keep walking her another thirty minutes, then let her rest. I'll come back tomorrow to check on her."
"Caitlin—"
"I'll see you tomorrow, Blaine."
I left before he could say anything else. Before I could say anything else. Before I did something I couldn't take back.
I didn't go home.
Instead, I drove to the overlook on Miller's Ridge—the one Doc Peterson had shown me my first week here, where you could see the whole valley spread out below. I parked, killed the engine, and sat there in the darkness.
What was I doing?
I had a boyfriend. A complicated, distant, increasingly absent boyfriend, but a boyfriend nonetheless. I'd built my whole life around the assumption that we'd figure things out eventually. That long distance was temporary. That love was enough.
But was it love anymore? Or was it just habit? Just the fear of starting over, of admitting I'd wasted three years on someone who saw me as an afterthought?
I thought about my parents. How my mom had called tonight, just to check in, just because she missed me. How my dad had sent his love through her, the way he always did—gruff and understated, but real.
When I'd told them I was moving to California, my mom had cried.
Not the dramatic, guilt-trip kind of crying—just quiet tears she'd tried to hide while she helped me pack.
"I always knew you'd end up somewhere far away," she'd said.
"You were never meant to stay small, Caitlin.
But that doesn't make it easier to let you go. "
My dad had been more practical. He'd checked my truck's tires, changed the oil, made sure I had emergency supplies for the drive. At the end, standing in the driveway, he'd pulled me into a hug—rare for him—and said, "You call us if you need anything. Anything at all. We'll be there."
They'd never liked Preston. They'd never said it outright, but I could tell. The polite questions that never went deeper. The way my mom's smile didn't quite reach her eyes when I talked about our future plans. The way my dad found reasons to be in the garage whenever Preston visited.
Maybe they'd seen something I hadn't wanted to see.
I thought about Preston's text. Talk soon.
I thought about Blaine's face in the barn. That sounds lonely.
I thought about Jess's question. What do you actually want?
I thought about my mom's voice on the phone tonight. You'd tell us if something was wrong, right?
Something was wrong. Something had been wrong for a long time. I just hadn't been brave enough to admit it.
I didn't have all the answers. Not yet. But sitting there under the stars, looking out at the valley that had become my home, I realized something.
I was tired of being someone's afterthought.
And I was starting to wonder what it would feel like to be someone's priority instead.