Chapter 3 Colt
Colt
Blood caked under my fingernails, whiskey still burning through my veins from last night's attempt to forget. But my hands stayed rock-steady through hours of surgery. That's what matters. That's all that ever matters anymore.
I settle Dusty into the recovery crate, careful not to jostle the fresh sutures running along his ribs.
Seven knife wounds, each one deliberate as hell.
Whoever carved him up knew what they were doing but got sloppy at the end.
Or maybe they got interrupted. Either way, they missed anything that would've killed him.
The border collie's breathing comes steady now, his black and white coat pristine after I scrubbed away the blood and matted fur. Beautiful animal. Too damn beautiful to die alone in some creek.
Too beautiful to belong to that bastard Beau Blackwell.
My gut twists at the thought. Of all the strays and farm mutts in this county, fate had to dump Beau's prize dog on my table. The universe's got one hell of a twisted sense of humor.
I slump against the metal examination table, exhaustion hitting like a sledgehammer to the skull. Surgery always drains me dry, but this one carved out pieces I didn't know I still had.
Maybe because I know this dog's bloodline. Maybe because every damn stitch dragged me back to summer afternoons when Beau and I were just kids, watching this same bloodline herd cattle on the Blackwell ranch.
Back when we were brothers in everything but blood. Before we let a woman tear us apart.
Sophia.
Her name scrapes raw against my throat.
Beautiful, laughing Sophia with her wild dark hair and promises that felt real as gospel at the time.
For six perfect months, the three of us had something I'd have died defending. Something that worked like magic, unconventional as hell but ours.
Then Beau torched it all. No warning, no fight, just brutal, final rejection.
Said he was done, like those six months meant less than dirt.
Probably got too messy for the almighty Blackwell name, too complicated for his precious family legacy.
And when Beau walked, Sophia shattered right along with him. Said that what we'd built only worked with all three of us.
She was destroyed, lost. Christ, so was I.
Within a week, she'd vanished like smoke, like the whole beautiful thing had been some fever dream that Beau's selfishness twisted into pure hell.
Seven goddamn days. That's all it took to watch my world collapse into ash. The woman I'd have moved mountains for, gone. My brother since we could walk, gone. Everything we'd built sacrificed on the altar of Beau's fucking pride.
I shake my head violent enough to rattle my teeth, cramming those memories back into their cage. Dusty whimpers soft in his crate, and I reach through the bars to gentle his ears.
"You're gonna be fine, boy," I mutter. "More than I can say for your asshole owner."
The bitter words roll off my tongue like an old song. I've said worse about Beau Blackwell these past two years, usually when Jack Daniel's loosens my mouth at the Drunken Spur. Hell, half the county's heard my thoughts on that particular subject.
A soft knock cuts through my brooding like sunshine through storm clouds. "Dr. Mercer? Everything okay in there?"
Lucy.
Just the sound of her voice hits me somewhere below the belt. Sweet as honey but with that New York bite underneath that promises she's got claws when she needs them.
"Coming," I call out, taking one last look at Dusty before heading for the door.
I push through into the reception area and stop dead.
Holy hell.
Lucy's standing behind my desk wearing a pair of my surgical scrubs that are about three sizes too big. The pants are rolled up at her ankles, the top hanging off her small frame like a tent. She looks like she's playing dress-up in her boyfriend's clothes.
Seeing her wrapped in my things sends heat straight to my groin.
The reception area looks like someone waved a magic wand over it.
What was a disaster zone when I went into surgery is now organized within an inch of its life. Files sorted by color and date, appointment book open with Lucy's neat script filling the margins, even the dying plant by the window looks like it might survive another day.
Mrs. Cross perches in the waiting area with her bear-sized rottweiler sprawled at her feet, chatting with Lucy like they've been friends since childhood.
"Dr. Mercer!" Mrs. Cross lights up like Christmas morning. "Praise Jesus you found yourself some real help. This little angel's been worth her weight in pure gold."
Lucy's cheeks flush rose-pink, and I have to clench my fists to keep from stepping closer to see how far down that blush travels.
"Mrs. Cross, I'm not really—"
"Nonsense, sugar. Look what you've accomplished." The old woman sweeps her arm around the reception area. "Poor Dr. Mercer's been drowning in his own mess since Emma went on leave. High time someone with actual sense stepped in to save him."
I scan the space again, cataloging details. Phone messages sorted by crisis level. Appointments juggled with detailed notes explaining every change. Hell, even the ancient magazines are lined up like soldiers.
"You did all this?" I ask, and the amazement in my voice is real as dirt.
Lucy tugs at the sleeves that hang past her fingertips. "Hope that's all right. People kept showing up for appointments, and the phone rang off the hook.” She glances down at the oversized scrubs.
"Had to change out of my clothes…they were covered in blood from Dusty. Found these in your supply closet, hope you don't mind..I didn't want to interrupt your surgery, so I just..."
"Just what? Performed miracles?"
Her blush spreads like wildfire, and something primitive and possessive roars to life in my chest, demanding I stake a claim right here, right now.
"How's Tyson doing?" I ask Mrs. Cross, forcing my brain back to safer territory before I do something stupid.
"Still got the bellyache. Been off his feed for two solid days." She frowns down at her mountain of a dog. "Lucy here thinks it's something he's been eating out in my flower beds."
I swing my attention to Lucy, caught off guard. "You know about dogs?"
"Not much." She lifts one shoulder in a way that makes my scrub top shift enticingly. "But Mrs. Cross mentioned he's been tearing up her garden. Some plants are toxic to dogs, aren't they?"
Smart girl.I would've wasted time running through the usual checklist, but she zeroed in on the real culprit like a natural.
"Damn good instinct," I tell her, watching her whole face transform at the praise. Makes me want to discover all the different ways I can put that glow there.
I guide Mrs. Cross and Tyson into the exam room, every nerve ending aware that Lucy's eyes are tracking my movements from the desk.
The rottweiler's exam confirms what she suspected. Textbook dietary indiscretion, nothing that'll kill him.
"Keep him on rice and chicken for a few days," I advise as we head back out. "And throw up some fencing around whatever patch he's been excavating."
"You're absolutely right. Should've figured that out myself." Mrs. Cross pauses to squeeze Lucy's hand.
"Thank you, honey. You've got the gift."
After they head out, the clinic settles into peaceful quiet except for soft animal murmurs from the back rooms. Late afternoon sun slants through the windows, bathing everything in golden light that makes the whole place feel warmer than it has in months.
Lucy hovers behind the desk, suddenly skittish now that it's just the two of us in all this golden quiet.
"How's Dusty?"
"He'll pull through." I watch relief wash over her like a breaking wave.
"Surgery went smooth as silk. Needs to camp out here a few days, but he'll be good as new."
"Thank God." Her voice breaks on the words, thick with emotion that hits me square in the chest.
Makes me wonder what kind of woman throws herself into danger for a dog that isn't even hers.
"I should probably get going," she says, already angling toward the door like a spooked deer ready to bolt.
"No." The word explodes out of me like a gunshot, raw and desperate enough to startle us both.
Her eyes whip to mine, wide and startled.
Hell. Sounded like I was barking commands at a subordinate.
"I mean," I add, moving closer to the desk, "Mrs. Cross was right. You are a natural at this."
Lucy shakes her head. "I just answered phones and organized some files. Anyone could've done it."
"Anyone could've answered phones," I correct, leaning against the counter. "You turned weeks of chaos into something that actually makes sense. In just a few hours."
She worries a pen between her fingers, gaze fixed somewhere around my boots. "I don't do well with chaos. Makes me... twitchy."
There's weight behind those words, like there's a story she's not telling.
It's been a long time since I felt this magnetic pull toward someone. This urge to flirt and tease just to watch her blush.
Maybe it's selfish. Maybe I'm thinking with the wrong part of my anatomy. But watching Lucy organize my disaster, seeing her gentle hands on Dusty, the way she handled Mrs. Cross with natural grace... it all makes me want to find reasons for her to stay.
Smart thing would be to let her walk away. She's probably early twenty to my thirty-six. I'm a bitter bastard who drinks too much and holds grudges like they're family heirlooms.
But since when have I ever been accused of being smart?
"You got a job?" The question tumbles out before I can rope it back. "I mean, you working somewhere else, or..."
She shakes her head. "No. Just traveling. Pick up work here and there when I need to."
Traveling alone. There's definitely a story there, and I'm betting it's not a good one.
"Lucy," I say, making a decision that's definitely gonna complicate my life. "I got a proposition for you."
Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "A proposition?"