Chapter 2 - Marley
I can feel Tucker Hayes watching me as I prepare the nasogastric tube, and I'm trying very hard not to let it throw off my concentration because the last thing I need right now is to fumble a basic procedure in front of a client who's probably already looking for reasons to doubt my competence.
They always are, the men on these ranches. Watching, waiting, ready to jump in with "well, actually" or "back in my day" or my personal favorite, "are you sure you know what you're doing?"
I've been a veterinarian for eight years.
I graduated top of my class at Cornell. I've performed emergency surgeries in the middle of fields with nothing but a headlamp and my skills to guide me.
But put me in front of a rancher who's been working with animals for decades, and suddenly I'm supposed to prove myself all over again.
"This is going to look uncomfortable," I say, measuring the tube against Butterscotch's nose to estimate the distance to his stomach. "But it's necessary, and it won't hurt him."
Tucker doesn't respond, just keeps his hand steady on the horse's halter, his hazel eyes following my movements. He hasn't tried to tell me how to do my job yet, which is something, but I can feel the tension radiating off him—the worry, the protectiveness.
At least he actually cares about his animals. I've dealt with plenty of ranchers who see their livestock as nothing but dollar signs with legs.
I lubricate the tube and approach Butterscotch slowly, murmuring reassurances. "Easy, sweet boy. I know this isn't fun, but you'll feel so much better after, I promise."
The horse shifts nervously, and Tucker's grip tightens on the halter.
"Keep him still," I say, positioning myself at Butterscotch's shoulder. "Talk to him like you were before."
Tucker starts talking again. Something about his daughter Emma and pink boots, and his voice is low and soothing, and I can’t help but clench my thighs. Fuck. I need to focus.
I guide the tube gently into Butterscotch's nostril, advancing it slowly while monitoring his reactions. He tosses his head once, but Tucker steadies him, never stopping that steady stream of calm words, and the tube slides home without incident.
Thank God. The last thing I needed was to have to make multiple attempts with an audience.
I check the tube placement. Blowing gently to make sure I hear gurgling from his stomach, not air from his lungs, and then reach for the mineral oil. Three liters ought to do it, maybe four depending on how severe the impaction is.
"What's that going to do?" Tucker asks, watching as I attach the funnel to the end of the tube.
"Help lubricate everything in his digestive system so the impaction can pass." I start pouring the oil slowly, letting gravity do the work. "Think of it like... well, like a very effective laxative."
His mouth quirks up at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close, and I find myself noticing things I shouldn't be noticing.
Like how he's probably six-two, all lean muscle and weathered strength.
Like how his sandy brown hair is a little too long and looks like he cut it himself in the bathroom mirror.
Like how there are lines around his eyes that suggest he smiles more than he frowns, even though right now he looks like he hasn't slept in a week.
"How long have you had Butterscotch?" I ask, because talking helps me focus on something other than the fact that Tucker Hayes is objectively attractive and that's completely irrelevant to the situation.
"Three years. He belonged to Frank Delaney, the man who owned this ranch before he passed.
Frank left the place for me and five of my friends.
" He pauses, his hand moving to stroke Butterscotch's neck absently.
"This horse has been Emma's favorite since the first time she saw him.
She was four years old and barely came up to his knee, and she just marched right up to him and announced they were going to be best friends. "
Despite myself, I smile. "Sounds like a confident kid."
"That's Emma." His voice softens when he says her name. "She's seven now, and she still visits him every day after school. Brings him carrots, tells him about her day, brushes him even when he doesn't need it."
"She's going to be worried."
"Yeah." Tucker's jaw tightens. "She already was this morning. Asked me if he was going to die like Mr. Delaney did."
And now I understand the tension rolling off him. It's not skepticism or defensiveness like I usually encounter. It's fear. Fear that he's going to have to break his daughter's heart.
"He's not going to die," I say firmly, pouring the last of the mineral oil into the funnel. "The impaction is significant, but we caught it early. With proper treatment and monitoring, he should make a full recovery."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure," I say. "But I'm going to need you to follow my instructions exactly. No food until I clear him tomorrow. Small amounts of water only. Walk him every few hours to encourage gut motility. And if you see any signs of severe distress—"
"Call you immediately. You said."
"I'm serious, Tucker. Colic can go from manageable to surgical emergency very quickly. I need to know you're going to be vigilant."
"I will be." He doesn't look away, doesn't flinch. "Whatever he needs, whatever Emma needs, I'll do it."
I believe him. Which is dangerous, because believing clients means caring about their outcomes more than is professionally advisable, and I learned a long time ago that caring too much is what gets you hurt.
The tube is empty, so I remove it and reach for my IV supplies. "I'm going to place a catheter now so we can keep him hydrated. The fluids will help soften everything up internally."
Tucker nods and keeps holding Butterscotch steady while I clip a section of the horse's neck, clean it with antisone, and slide the catheter into place. Butterscotch barely reacts. He's too tired, too uncomfortable, and I get the fluids running and then step back to assess my work.
One bag of saline hanging from a portable IV stand. Check.
Catheter secured and flowing properly. Check.
Horse still standing, breathing normally, not in acute distress. Check.
"Okay," I say, pulling off my gloves and reaching for my bag to grab the pain medication. "Last thing. I'm going to give him some banamine for the pain and inflammation. It should help him feel more comfortable while we wait for the mineral oil to do its job."
I draw up the medication and administer it quickly. One smooth injection into the muscle, and then I'm done. The hard part, anyway.
"He'll need to stay on fluids for at least six hours," I say, checking my watch. It's 10:23 AM now. "I can set up a second bag before I leave, but someone's going to need to be here to monitor him and switch it out when it's empty. Can you do that?"
"Yeah. I'll stay with him."
"All day?"
"All day." Tucker's voice is firm. "I'm not leaving him alone, and I'm sure as hell not letting Emma come home to bad news."
I adjust my glasses. They've slipped down my nose again, which they always do when I'm working, and stare at him for a moment.
Most ranchers would delegate this kind of monitoring to a hand or a stable worker.
But Tucker Hayes looks like he's prepared to camp out in this stall until Butterscotch is fully recovered.
It's... actually kind of sweet. In a rugged, overprotective, handsome father kind of way.
"All right," I say, pulling out my phone. "I'm going to give you my cell number. If anything changes, and I mean anything, you text or call me immediately. Don't wait, don't try to handle it yourself, just contact me. Understood?"
"Understood."
I recite my number and watch as he programs it into his phone, his fingers moving over the screen with surprising dexterity for someone with hands that look like they spend most of their time wrapped around fence posts and rope.
"Got it," he says, showing me the screen. "Dr. Marley Williams."
"Just Marley is fine." The words are out before I can stop them, which is stupid, because I maintain professional boundaries with my clients and that means Dr. Williams, not Marley, not ever.
But he's already smiling, a real smile this time, not just that quirk at the corner of his mouth. It makes him look younger, less tired, like the weight he's carrying just got a little lighter.
"Marley," he says, testing the name out. "Thanks for coming so quickly. And for... all of this." He gestures at Butterscotch, at the IV setup, at the tube and supplies scattered around the stall.
"It's my job."
"Still. Emma's going to be relieved when I tell her."
"You can tell her he's going to be okay, but make sure she understands he needs rest for the next few days. No visiting, no treats, no excursions to the pasture. Just quiet recovery time."
Tucker's face falls slightly. "That's going to be tough for her. She's not great at staying away when something she loves is hurting."
I know the feeling. Which is exactly why I shouldn't be standing here noticing how Tucker Hayes looks when he talks about his daughter, or how his voice gets all soft and protective, or how he hasn't once questioned my competence or second-guessed my decisions.
"Kids are resilient," I say, more sharply than I intended. "She'll manage."
I start packing up my supplies. Shoving things into my bag because I need to get out of this stall, out of this stable, away from Tucker Hayes and his worried eyes and his gentle voice and the way he's looking at me like I just saved the world instead of treating a fairly routine case of colic.
"I'll be back tomorrow morning around nine to recheck him," I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Make sure you walk him every few hours, and remember—no food, minimal water, and call me if anything changes."
"Got it." Tucker shifts his weight, like he's not sure whether to follow me out or stay with Butterscotch. "What do I owe you for today?"