Sneak Peek
Brooks - Back in the Saddle
Here's a sneak peak!!!!!
Buddy has ninety pounds of enthusiasm and exactly zero respect for medical authority. And apparently today, he has decided he is running the show.
“Buddy, no,” I say, bracing myself as claws skid against the tile.
The dog’s owner gasps. Buddy wags his tail harder. The thermometer clatters to the floor.
This is my life. Controlled chaos, animal hair on my scrubs, and exactly zero room for emotional surprises. I became a veterinarian for the animals, not the humans, and definitely not for whatever emotional ambush is happening in my exam room.
“Sorry,” the owner says for the third time.
“You’re fine,” I tell him, bending to retrieve the thermometer. “He’s just enthusiastic.” I say as I'm rethinking my life choices.
I straighten, heart pounding slightly from the near fall, and that’s when I hear it.
“Summer?”
The voice comes from outside the door. Female. Curious. Loaded.
I freeze.
I know that tone. River Bend has perfected it. The tone that means news has arrived and it is not going to be kind.
I finish with Buddy, open the door, and find Georgia Mae Watson planted in the middle of my clinic like she owns it, one manicured hand gripping her purse strap, the other holding a coffee cup she brought from her diner.
Georgia Mae runs the Round Spur Café, former rodeo queen turned full time keeper of River Bend’s secrets, and unfortunately for me, my best friend. If news exists, she already knows it. If it matters, she delivers it herself.
Her eyes light up when she sees me.
“Well, I’ll be,” she says. “You’re busy.”
“Georgia Mae,” I say carefully. “I’m with a patient.”
She waves that off. “Won’t take but a second, darlin'.”
That second stretches.
I feel it before she says it. The way my chest tightens. The way my skin prickles, like my body knows something my brain refuses to accept.
She leans in, lowering her voice even though the hallway is empty.
“He’s back.”
The words hit me like a misfired tranquilizer dart. Sharp. Stunning. Immediate.
I blink. “Who’s back?”
Georgia Mae studies my face, the way people do right before they break something delicate.
“Brooks McCallister.”
The name drops into the space between us and detonates.
I laugh. I can't help it. A short, disbelieving sound that scrapes my throat on the way out.
“That’s not funny.” Georgia Mae’s expression softens.
“I saw him this morning,” she says. “At the ranch, black truck, Travis County, Austin plates. . .Looks… well, looks like heaven on earth, er, I mean Brooks.”
The room tilts.
Seven years. Seven damn years and his name still has the power to knock the breath out of me.
“No,” I say. “Please say you’re mistaken.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t mistake McCallister boys.”
My stomach drops.
I grip the counter behind me, grounding myself in the cool laminate, the familiar smell of antiseptic and wet dog fur. This is real. Georgia Mae would not bring gossip into my clinic unless, she was sure.
Brooks is back. The cowboy who left without a goodbye. The man who vanished the night my world cracked open. The reason I learned how to build walls so high even I forget what’s on the other side.
“I have to get back to work,” I say, my voice too even, too calm.
Georgia Mae watches me like she expects me to shatter. “Thought you should know, sugar.”
“I know now,” I say.
She nods and finally turns away, retreating toward the door like she just dropped a match into dry grass.
I stand there long after she’s gone, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Brooks McCallister is back in River Bend. "Crap," I hear inside my head.
And nothing about my carefully constructed life is ready for that.
“Wyatt,” I call, forcing my voice back into professional calm as I step farther into the room. “Inside voice.”
My son’s head pops up from behind the reception desk like a prairie dog.
“I’m helping,” he announces.
That is never a good sentence. In my experience, it usually precedes either a noise complaint or a tetanus shot.
Mrs. Hart's cat screeches from its carrier on the counter. A Chihuahua in the waiting area responds with a shrill bark. Somewhere near the supply closet, something metallic clatters to the floor.
I close my eyes for half a second. Breathe in antiseptic and coffee. Breathe out Brooks McCallister.
“Helping how?” I ask.
Wyatt beams. He’s wearing his dinosaur rain boots even though it hasn’t rained in a week, his curls sticking out in every direction. He holds up a roll of gauze like a trophy.
“I fixed Mr. Whiskers,” he says proudly.
Mrs. Hart gasps. “You what?”
“I wrapped him,” Wyatt says, nodding seriously. “So, he doesn’t leak.”
“He doesn’t leak,” Mrs. Hart snaps.
I move fast. I always do when Wyatt is involved. One hand scoops the gauze from his grip, the other gently blocks him from reaching the cat carrier again. My brain suddenly goes to River Bend Jail where Mrs. Hart's husband is Deputy Quinn Hart. I will be going for animal abuse by my child.
“Buddy,” I say softly, dropping to his level. “Remember our rules.”
He frowns. “I’m not touching with my mouth.”
“That is a very low bar,” I say, pressing my forehead briefly to his. “And I appreciate it. But you still can’t do medical stuff without me.”
He considers that, then points toward the back. “I was going to get you, but the dog was loud and Mrs. Hart said cats don’t like strangers and then the lady asked me if my dad was coming.”
My stomach twists.
“Who asked you that?” I say.
Wyatt shrugs. "Mrs. Hart" Of course.
“I told her I don’t have a dad,” Wyatt continues, completely unbothered. “I have you.”
Something in my chest tightens. Not pain exactly. Pressure. Town gossip never stops.
“That’s right,” I say, brushing a curl back from his forehead. “And you’re doing great today, but I need you to sit in your chair and color, okay?”
He sighs dramatically, the way only a five-year-old can. “Can I use the green marker?”
“Yes.”
“And the sparkly one?”
“Yes.”
“And the one that smells like blueberries?”
I pause. “That one is mine.”
He grins and scampers off, boots thudding against the tile.
I straighten slowly and find three sets of eyes watching me. Mrs. Hart. The Chihuahua’s owner. And Maggie, my receptionist, who I cannot afford to replace.
“Sorry,” I say automatically.
Mrs. Hart’s expression softens. “He’s a handful.”
“He comes by it honestly,” I say with a little bit of snark leaning towards, yes, he has a father.
As I turn back toward the exam room, the clinic phone rings. The Chihuahua barks again. Wyatt hums loudly while coloring. The cat yowls.
Normal. This is normal.
I cling to that thought as I answer the phone, my hands steady even though my mind keeps replaying one impossible truth.
Brooks McCallister is back.
And my son just told half of River Bend he doesn’t have a dad.
By the time I lock up the clinic and herd Wyatt into the truck for my lunch break, River Bend already feels louder.
That is how gossip works in this town. It doesn't run, it spreads.
The Round Spur Café is packed when we walk in, the lunch crowd still lingering even though the clock on the wall says it is well past one. The place smells like coffee, grease, and fresh pie, the good kind of heavy that settles into your clothes and tells you you’re home.
Weathered wood lines the walls, darkened by decades of elbows, boots, and spilled stories. Old rodeo posters hang in mismatched frames, faded cowboys frozen mid ride.
A longhorn skull is mounted above the register, flanked by horseshoes nailed up for luck. The booths are cracked red vinyl, patched and repatched, and the tables wobble just enough that everyone knows which corner to brace with a sugar packet.
The bell above the door jingles as we walk in, and I swear every head turns at once.
Georgia Mae stands behind the counter, all bright lipstick and practiced calm, sliding plates across the worn wood like nothing in the world is happening. She catches my eye and winces. Just a little.
Too late.
Wyatt makes a beeline for the corner table where the Maple Sisters hold court like it is a full time job. Elaine, Patty, and Loretta sit shoulder to shoulder, identical purses lined up beside them, coffee cups in hand.
“Well, if it isn’t Dr. Summer and her little sidekick,” Loretta says, peering over her glasses.
Wyatt grins. “I’m not little. I’m five.”
Patty clucks. “Five already. Time flies.”
Elaine’s eyes flick to me. Sharp. Interested. “We were just talkin’ about the McCallisters.”
Of course you were. If gossip were an Olympic sport, these women would already have the gold, the silver, and matching warmup jackets.
I slide into the booth beside Wyatt, my smile polite and brittle. “I’m sure you were.”
Georgia Mae appears with a glass of sweet tea before I ask for it. Best friend or not, she knows when to provide backup.
“Brooks is back,” Elaine says, lowering her voice like the café is not listening anyway. “Drove in this mornin’.”
Patty nods. “Looks like he stayed in Austin too long.”
Loretta hums. “City does that to boys.”
Wyatt perks up. “I met a Brooks once.”
I choke on my tea.
Georgia Mae shoots me a look that says we will discuss this later.
The Maple Sisters lean closer, delighted. “You did?” Patty asks.
“No,” Wyatt says thoughtfully. “Maybe not. But Mom knows one.”
My pulse spikes. “Wyatt, eat your grilled cheese.”
He takes a dramatic bite, cheese stretching. The Maple Sisters exchange knowing looks.
Elaine taps her spoon against her cup. “Funny thing is, Brooks McCallister was askin’ around about the vet.”
That lands.
Georgia Mae freezes mid step. The hum of the café dims in my ears.
“Askin’ how?” I ask, hating how steady my voice sounds.
Loretta smiles. “Just curious.”
Curious. In River Bend, that word is a weapon, usually sharpened over pie and served with a side of judgment.
Georgia Mae finally exhales and plants her hands on the table. “All right. Enough. Summers had a day.”
The Maple Sisters sit back, satisfied. They have what they came for. Confirmation. Reaction. Fuel. I couldn't seem to stop my face from giving them what they wanted.