Chapter 10 Lucy
Lucy
The late afternoon sun slants gold through the clinic windows, casting long shadows across the kennel area where I'm making my evening rounds with dinner bowls.
Outside, the Montana sky is painted in shades of amber and rose with the kind of sunset that makes this place feel like a painting I'm not supposed to be part of.
A tabby cat recovering from dental surgery barely lifts her head as I refill her water dish. Two kennels down, Bear, the German Shepherd mix with a bandaged paw, watches me with those intelligent brown eyes that seem to see straight through to my soul, his tail thumping weakly against his blanket.
This has become my routine over the past week.
Staying late while Colt spends dawn to dusk at ranches delivering calves during the height of spring birthing season, our conversations limited to terse exchanges about medications and feeding schedules.
Both of us pretending that night never happened. Both of us avoiding eye contact like teenagers who got caught making out behind the barn.
I talk to the animals like they're old friends, telling them about my day, asking about theirs. It's easier than facing the thoughts that circle my mind like vultures picking at roadkill.
"How are we feeling today, Bear?" I ask, slipping him a piece of the chicken jerky I keep in my pocket. "That paw getting better, boy?"
He takes the treat with the gentle precision of a dog who's learned to be careful with his teeth, and something in my chest loosens.
Animals don't lie. They don't manipulate or scheme or gaslight you into questioning your own sanity.
They don't tell you you're broken when you're just trying to survive. They just are what they are. Honest, uncomplicated, no masks, no hidden agendas.
Unlike me, apparently.
I finish the feeding rounds and sink into the worn leather chair behind the reception desk, staring at the wall calendar with its cheerful Montana landscape photos.
Six more weeks until I can petition the court to end uncle Richard's guardianship. Six weeks until I can reclaim my inheritance, my identity, my life.
So why does the countdown that used to comfort me, that used to be my lifeline through the darkest moments, now feel like a ticking bomb?
Because you're getting attached, you idiot.
And I am. God help me, I am getting attached.
To this place with its peeling yellow paint and the way afternoon light makes dust motes dance like tiny miracles.
To these animals who trust me with their pain and healing. To the way Mrs. Peterson waves at me from across Main Street like I'm a neighbor instead of a stranger just passing through.
To the way Gabriel looks at me like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once, his blue eyes holding secrets that match my own. To the way Colt's rare smiles feel like small victories hard-won, like sunshine breaking through storm clouds.
To the way Beau almost kissed me yesterday in that barn that smelled of hay and possibility.
The memory slams into my chest like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making my skin burn. His thumb tracing my cheek with callused gentleness, his voice rough as gravel when he breathed my name, the way his gray eyes went dark with want in the golden light filtering through the barn windows.
For a moment, one perfect, impossible moment, I'd forgotten everything except the heat building between us, the way my body leaned into his like it had been waiting for his touch all my life.
Until reality crashed back in the form of ranch emergencies and the harsh reminder that I don't get to have this. Any of this.
I'm Lucy Reid, temporary assistant, not Lucinda Kensington-Reid, heiress with a target on her back and an escape plan.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to push down the panic that's been building like flood water behind a dam. This isn't supposed to be happening. I'm supposed to keep my head down, earn enough money to keep moving, and disappear again.
I'm not supposed to be fantasizing about three different men, wondering what it would feel like to kiss each of them, to be held by them, to wake up safe in their arms instead of alone in a van.
"Three men. One broken girl," I mutter to the empty clinic, my voice echoing off the sterile walls. "That's not a love story. That's a country song. And probably a bad one."
But the worst part, the part that makes my hands shake and my chest tighten, is uncle Richard's voice echoing in my head, cold and clinical as a scalpel: You're unstable, Lucinda. Prone to delusions and inappropriate attachments. You're incapable of making rational decisions.
Maybe he was right. Maybe normal people don't feel this overwhelming pull toward multiple people at once. Maybe I really am losing my mind, just like he told the doctors, the lawyers, everyone who was supposed to protect me.
The irony makes me laugh a short, bitter sound that bounces off the clinic walls like a gunshot. After two years of being told I was crazy for fighting back, maybe I actually am going crazy now. At least this time it would be on my own terms, in my own way.
The bell above the front door chimes, cutting through the evening quiet, and I look up to see Colt pushing through the entrance, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe.
His hands are occupied by what appears to be a small, very fluffy cloud that's somehow managed to look personally offended by the entire world.
"Oh." He freezes when he sees me still sitting behind the desk, surprise and something that might be guilt flashing across his green eyes. "You're still here."
"Last feeding of the day," I say, standing slowly and trying to ignore the way my pulse picks up just from seeing him. "I didn't think you'd be back until tomorrow morning."
"I wasn't planning to be." His voice is rough, uncertain in a way I've never heard from him before, like he's not sure of his welcome here. "I was just going to drop off Gucci and head back out, but—"
"Gucci?"
He shifts the fluffy bundle carefully, and I realize it's actually a chicken.
The most ridiculously adorable chicken I've ever seen, with white silk-like feathers that catch the clinic's fluorescent lights and a tiny face that somehow manages to look both dignified and deeply offended by her current circumstances.
"She's a Silkie," Colt explains, and there's actual color rising in his cheeks. A sight that shouldn't be as endearing as it is.
"Fractured wing. Mrs. Kowalski's prize hen. Needs overnight observation, and she specifically requested the 'fancy animal hospital'."
I fight the smile tugging at my lips, but it's a losing battle.
The sight of Colt Mercer, all rough edges and brooding intensity, the man who can wrestle a bull and stitch up a horse without breaking a sweat, holding a chicken named Gucci like she's made of glass is doing things to my heart that I can't afford.
"I'm sorry, but it's hard to take you seriously when you're holding such a fluffy chicken."
"Hey, don't let her hear you call her fluffy. She's got an attitude problem bigger than a prize bull."
But there's relief in his voice, like he was expecting me to shut him out or pretend he didn't exist. "And don't underestimate her. She rules Mrs. Kowalski's coop with an iron beak."
I move closer to examine Gucci's wing, and suddenly I'm in Colt's orbit, close enough that his scent hits me like a physical force. Leather and soap and something that's uniquely him, something that makes my mouth go dry and my hands unsteady.
When I reach out to gently probe the injury, careful not to stress the fractured bone, the air between us seems to thicken with everything we're not saying, everything that happened on those metal stairs outside his apartment.
"Lucy." His voice is lower now, rough with something that might be nerves. "About the other night—"
"You don't need to—"
"I do." He meets my eyes over Gucci's fluffy head, and there's something raw and honest in his green gaze that makes my breath catch in my throat. "I should have apologized before now, but I was too ashamed to face you. What I did, how I acted... you didn't deserve that."
"Colt, really, it's fine—"
"It's not fine." His jaw tightens, and I can see the muscle jumping beneath the stubble.
"I was drunk and lonely and pathetic, and you were just being kind, trying to help me, for Christ's sake, and I nearly.
.." He stops, shakes his head like he's disgusted with himself.
"I took advantage of your kindness, and that's not who I want to be. Not with you."
The honesty in his voice, the way he's forcing himself to look at me despite the shame clearly eating at him, it's stripping away every defense I've built since that night.
This is vulnerability in its rawest form.
Beautiful and terrifying and completely unexpected from someone who wears his walls like armor.
And it slices straight through every reason I have for leaving, cuts right to the heart of why staying might be worth the risk.
"Colt—"
The door chimes again, this time with enough force to rattle the frame, and a woman's voice cuts through the charged air like a machete through tall grass. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
I turn to see a woman in her early thirties standing in the doorway like she owns the place, dark hair escaping from what was probably once a neat bun, wearing faded jeans and a red flannel shirt that's seen better days.
She's got striking green eyes and sharp cheekbones, with an expression that's pure Montana mischief and small-town confidence.
"Emma," Colt says, and there's a warning in his voice that could stop a charging bull. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Language," she tsks, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind her with deliberate slowness.