Chapter 2 - Marley #2
"I'll send you a bill." I'm already moving toward the stall door, needing space, needing air, needing to not be in close proximity to a man who's making me feel things I have absolutely no business feeling. "Standard farm call fee plus treatment costs."
"Marley."
I stop, my hand on the latch, and turn back reluctantly.
"Thank you. Really. I know you probably hear that a lot, but... Emma loves this horse. You just saved me from having to see my daughter's heart break, and that's worth more than any bill you could send me."
And there it is. The crack in my professional walls that I've been trying to prevent.
Because he's not just another rancher treating his animals like investments.
He's a father who loves his daughter so much that a horse's health matters because she matters, and that kind of devotion is exactly the sort of thing that makes me want to believe in people again.
Which is dangerous.
Which is why I need to leave.
"Just follow my instructions and he'll be fine," I say, my voice coming out cooler than I intended. "I'll see you tomorrow."
I'm out of the stall and halfway down the stable aisle before he can respond, my bag bouncing against my hip, my heart doing something erratic and unhelpful in my chest.
*Professional boundaries, Marley. Remember professional boundaries.*
I'm almost at my truck when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Hey, wait up!"
I turn to see another man jogging toward me. He’s shorter than Tucker, darker hair, and an intensity in his expression that suggests he's the type who sees more than he says.
"Boone Sullivan," he says when he reaches me, offering his hand. "I'm the one you talked to on the phone this morning."
"Right." I shake his hand briefly. "The horse expert."
"Something like that." He glances back toward the stable, then at me. "Tucker staying with Butterscotch?"
"Yes. I told him the horse needs monitoring for the next several hours."
Boone nods slowly, like he's processing more than just my words. "He'll stay all day if that's what it takes. Probably all night too if you'd let him."
"That's not necessary—"
"For Emma, it is." Boone's expression softens slightly. "That little girl is his whole world. Has been since her mom left when she was three."
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. Just adjust my bag on my shoulder and hope Boone gets the hint that I need to leave.
He doesn't.
"Tucker's a good man," Boone continues, "Best man I know, actually. Hasn't had an easy go of it, but he never complains. Just keeps showing up, keeps taking care of everyone around him, keeps putting Emma first no matter what."
"That's... nice," I manage, because what else am I supposed to say?
"Just thought you should know." Boone takes a step back, giving me space. "In case you were wondering."
"I wasn't wondering."
His mouth quirks up at one corner: a smile that suggests he doesn't believe me for a second, and then he's walking back toward the stable, leaving me standing next to my truck with my face heating up and my heart doing that stupid erratic thing again.
I climb into my truck, throw my bag onto the passenger seat, and sit there for a minute with my hands on the steering wheel, trying to compose myself.
This is fine. This is completely fine. Tucker Hayes is a client, Butterscotch is my patient, and the fact that Tucker is attractive and devoted to his daughter and didn't once try to mansplain veterinary medicine to me is completely irrelevant.
I have professional boundaries for a reason. I've been burned before.
I came to Blackwater Falls for a fresh start. To build my practice, to prove I can make it on my own, to focus on my work and my career and not on men who look at me with worried eyes and talk about their daughters with voices full of love.
I start the truck and pull out of the driveway, forcing myself not to look back at the stable, at Tucker, at any of it.
Tomorrow I'll come back, I'll recheck Butterscotch, I'll maintain my professional distance, and everything will be fine.
Everything will be absolutely fine.
My clinic is a converted barn on the outskirts of Blackwater Falls.
Nothing fancy, but it's mine. I bought it six months ago with every penny I'd saved from working at that practice in Denver, the one owned by Dr. Richard Chambers and his two condescending partners who spent more time explaining basic veterinary procedures to me than actually letting me do my job.
The fact that I slept with Richard for eight months before discovering he had a wife and three kids in the suburbs is something I try not to think about.
The fact that I was stupid enough to believe him when he said he loved me, that we'd build a practice together, that I was different from all the other women he'd worked with…
That's something I think about constantly, usually at three in the morning when I can't sleep.
But that's over now. He’s in Denver, probably explaining to some new veterinarian how to perform a spay while secretly texting his wife that he'll be home late. And I'm here, in Blackwater Falls, Montana, building something that's entirely mine.
The clinic is quiet when I pull up. I don't have any other appointments until this afternoon, thank God, because I need time to write up Butterscotch's file and order more supplies and maybe eat something that isn't gas station coffee and granola bars.
I let myself in through the side door, flipping on lights as I go.
The exam room smells like disinfectant and dog shampoo.
I had a golden retriever in yesterday for a routine checkup and the owner insisted on bathing him here because apparently their bathtub at home isn't big enough, and I make a mental note to open some windows later to air the place out.
My office is in the back, a small room with a desk, a filing cabinet, and a window that overlooks a field where someone's cows graze occasionally. I drop my bag on the desk and sink into my chair, which squeaks because I bought it at a yard sale and it's approximately a thousand years old.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting it to be the Patterson ranch calling about their mare's ultrasound results, but instead it's a text from a number I don't recognize.
*This is Tucker. Just wanted to let you know Butterscotch is resting quietly. No signs of distress. Still not interested in food but I'm following your instructions about that.*
I stare at the message for longer than is reasonable, my thumb hovering over the screen.
I should respond professionally. Something brief and clinical. "Good. Continue monitoring and I'll see you tomorrow."
Instead I type: *That's great news. Make sure to walk him in about two hours to encourage gut motility.*
His response comes almost immediately: *Will do. Thanks again for everything.*
I set my phone down and tell myself that the warm feeling in my chest is relief that my patient is doing well, not anything to do with Tucker Hayes.
My phone buzzes again.
*Emma wanted me to tell you thank you for helping Butterscotch. She drew you a picture. Can I give it to you tomorrow when you come back?*
And now the warm feeling is spreading to my face, my throat, everywhere I don't want it to spread, because apparently seven-year-old girls who draw pictures for the veterinarian who helped their favorite horse are my kryptonite.
*Of course,* I type back. *I'd love to see it.*
I set the phone down again. Firmly this time, and open my laptop to start on Butterscotch's file.
Patient name: Butterscotch. Species: Horse. Breed: Quarter Horse. Age: 15 years. Sex: Gelding.
Chief complaint: Anorexia, lethargy, suspected colic.
Diagnosis: Large colon impaction.
Treatment: Nasogastric intubation with 3L mineral oil, IV fluid therapy, banamine for pain management.
Prognosis: Good with proper monitoring and follow-up care.
I'm typing up my notes on the physical exam when my phone buzzes a third time, and I tell myself I'm not going to look at it, but I look anyway.
It's a photo.
Of Tucker Hayes sitting on an overturned bucket in Butterscotch's stall, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hand on the horse's neck, both of them looking peaceful and calm despite everything.
The message underneath reads: *He's doing better. I think he knows Emma's worried about him.*
I shouldn't respond. I should put my phone away and finish this file and maintain my boundaries like the competent, independent veterinarian I'm supposed to be.
But I'm looking at that photo, at Tucker's gentle hand on Butterscotch's neck, at the worry lines around his eyes, at the way he's sitting there like he's prepared to stay forever if that's what it takes, and something in me cracks just a little bit more.
*Horses are perceptive animals,* I type. *They pick up on human emotions more than most people realize.*
*Emma says that all the time. Says Butterscotch always knows when she's had a bad day at school.*
*She sounds like a smart kid.*
*She is. Smarter than me, that's for sure.*
I smile at that despite myself, and then I'm typing before I can stop myself: *I doubt that.*
There's a longer pause this time, and I watch the three dots appear and disappear and appear again, and I wonder what he's writing that requires so much consideration.
Finally: *You're easy to talk to. I wasn't expecting that.*
My fingers freeze over the keyboard.
That's... not a professional observation. That's personal. That's the kind of thing someone says when they're thinking about you as more than just the veterinarian who's treating their horse.
And I should shut this down right now. I should send a brief, clinical response that reestablishes the boundaries I'm supposed to be maintaining.
Instead I write: *What were you expecting?*
*Honestly? Someone who'd talk down to me and act like I don't know anything about horses because I'm just some rancher who inherited a struggling property and doesn't have a degree on the wall.*
Oh.
*Has that happened before?*
*More times than I can count.*
I think about all the ranchers I've dealt with who've done exactly that to me—assumed I don't know my job, questioned my decisions, mansplained procedures I could perform in my sleep.
I think about Richard and his partners, about the way they'd introduce me to clients as "our associate" instead of "Dr. Williams," about the way they'd step in to "help" with surgeries I didn't need help with.
I know exactly what Tucker's talking about. Just from the other side.
*I'm sorry,* I type. *That's not fair. You clearly know your animals and care about them deeply.*
*Thanks. And I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier. Boone said I can be intense when it comes to Emma.*
*You weren't uncomfortable. You were worried. That's different.*
*Still. I appreciate you not treating me like I'm overreacting.*
I stare at that message for a long moment. This is how it starts, I think. A few friendly text messages. Some mutual understanding. The slow erosion of professional boundaries until you're in too deep and you've forgotten why those boundaries existed in the first place.
I should stop this now.
But when I look at that photo again, at Tucker sitting in that stall, devoted and patient and kind, I don't want to stop it.
Which is dangerous.
Which is exactly why I need to.
*I should let you go,* I type. *You need to focus on monitoring Butterscotch, and I have paperwork to finish.*
*Right. Of course. Sorry for texting so much.*
*Don't apologize. I'm glad he's doing well.*
*See you tomorrow at nine?*
*See you tomorrow.*
I set my phone down and close my laptop and sit there in my squeaky chair, staring out the window at nothing.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I'll go back tomorrow, I'll check on Butterscotch, I'll maintain my professional boundaries, and I won't think about Tucker Hayes or the way he talks about his daughter like she's the center of his universe.
I won't think about how he said I was easy to talk to, or how he sent me that photo, or how something in my chest cracked open when I read his messages.
I won't think about any of it.
My phone buzzes one more time.
*Emma says the picture she drew for you has a unicorn in it because Butterscotch told her he always wanted to be a unicorn. Just thought you should be prepared.*
And despite everything, despite my boundaries and my past mistakes and my determination not to get emotionally involved with clients, I laugh.
A real laugh, the kind I haven't had in months.
I pick up my phone and type: *Can't wait to see it.*
And I mean it.