Chapter 4 - Marley #2
We walk past the fence toward a large metal building I didn't notice yesterday.
"New equipment barn," Tucker continues, and there's pride in his voice now.
"Had to store everything in the old barn before, which meant half our equipment was exposed to the elements and the other half was buried under hay bales.
Now we've got proper shelter and organization. "
He opens the door and I follow him inside. The building is spacious and well-lit, with tractors and machinery lined up neatly along one wall, tools organized on pegboards, everything clean and accessible.
"This is impressive," I say, running my hand along the side of a tractor that looks significantly newer than the ancient equipment I saw yesterday. "This must have cost—"
"A lot. But Sierra understood that we needed to invest in infrastructure if we're going to make this place sustainable. Can't keep limping along with equipment from the eighties."
We step back outside and Tucker leads me toward the pastures, pointing out other improvements as we walk. New water troughs. Repaired barn roof. A whole section of irrigation system that's been replaced.
"My father taught me that good ranching is about more than just cattle," Tucker says, stopping at a fence that overlooks rolling hills dotted with grazing Angus. "It's about the land, the equipment, the infrastructure. Everything has to work together or nothing works at all."
"Your father was a rancher?"
"Worked at the Double R Ranch about thirty miles from here.
Started as a hand when he was sixteen, worked his way up to foreman.
He taught me everything: how to read the land, how to manage herds, how to fix things with whatever you have on hand because buying new isn't always an option.
He even supported me when I decided to work for Frank. "
There's something complicated in Tucker's voice, and I find myself asking, "Is he still there? At the Double R?"
"No. Ranch closed about five years ago. The owner died and his kids sold it to developers." Tucker's jaw tightens. "My dad had worked that land for thirty-five years. Poured everything into it. And then it was just... gone. Turned into vacation homes for rich people from California."
"Where is he now?"
"Dead. Heart attack two years after the ranch closed.
" Tucker's voice is flat, but I can hear the pain underneath.
"Doctor said it was genetic, bad cholesterol, all that medical stuff.
But I think he died of a broken heart. He didn't know how to be anything other than a rancher, and when that got taken away. .."
He trails off, and I don't know what to say. I don’t know how to acknowledge that kind of loss without sounding trite or pitying.
"My mom died when I was young," Tucker continues, still staring out at the cattle. "Cancer. So, it was just me and Dad, and this life. Ranching, working the land, taking care of animals, that was all we had. All we knew how to do."
"Is that why you're so determined to make this place work? For him?"
Tucker looks at me then, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just terrified that if this ranch fails, I'll end up like he did. Broken and lost and not knowing what to do with myself." He pauses. "That's probably too heavy for a ranch tour, huh?"
"No," I tell him. "It's honest."
We stand there in silence for a moment, the fence rails solid under my hands, the sun warm on my shoulders, Tucker's presence beside me both comfortable and electric.
"Come on," he says finally. "There's more to show you."
He leads me past the main barn where I met Mason and Garrett yesterday, toward a section of the ranch I haven't seen yet. There's new fencing here too, and what looks like the beginnings of a riding arena.
"This was Sierra's idea," Tucker explains. "She thinks we should diversify. Not just rely on cattle. Maybe offer riding lessons, horse boarding, agritourism stuff. Wade was resistant at first, but she's got him convinced now."
"And you? What do you think?"
Tucker shrugs. "I think it's smart business. Scary as hell to change things, but smart. We can't keep doing what we've always done and expect different results." He grins slightly. "That's what Sierra keeps telling Wade anyway, and she's usually right."
"She sounds impressive."
"She is. She's also terrifying when she gets an idea in her head.
But in a good way." He pauses at the fence line, looking back at the ranch buildings.
"Wade fought her investment at first, you know.
Fought it hard. Didn't want some outsider coming in and changing everything.
But she proved herself, and now..." He trails off, shaking his head with a smile.
"Now he looks at her like she hung the moon. "
I've heard this story too, in various forms, from various gossipers at the diner. But hearing Tucker tell it, with affection and amusement instead of judgment, makes it sound different. Real. Like something worth believing in.
"You don't sound skeptical," I say.
"About Wade and Sierra? Nah. When you see them together, it makes sense. They just... fit." He glances at me. "I haven't seen Wade that happy in years. Maybe ever. Makes me think that sometimes taking a risk on something, or someone, unexpected can be worth it."
There's something in the way he says it, the way he's looking at me, that makes me want to kiss him. Makes me want to be the person he takes a risk on.
But I can’t. I need to remember my professional boundaries.
"I should probably get going," I say, even though I don't want to. Even though I could stand here all day listening to Tucker talk about the ranch and his father and his friends who are finding happiness in unexpected places.
"Yeah. Of course." But he doesn't move, and neither do I, and we're standing there at the fence line with the ranch spread out behind us and something fragile and terrifying hanging in between us.
"Tucker—"
"I know," he says. "You're the vet. I'm the client. This is probably a terrible idea."
"Definitely a terrible idea."
"But I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since yesterday. Since you walked into that stable and saved Butterscotch and didn't treat me like I was an idiot for being worried about a horse."
"You weren't an idiot. You were a good father."
"And you were—are—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm not good at this. Haven't done this in seven years. Haven't wanted to do this in seven years."
"Why now?"
"I don't know." But he's still looking at me like I'm something precious, something worth the risk.
"Maybe because Emma drew you a picture with a unicorn in it.
Maybe because you texted me back about horse urination.
Maybe because you're standing here looking at this ranch like it's something worth saving instead of something broken. "
"It's not broken," I say. "It's loved. There's a difference."
His expression softens, and he takes a step closer.
Not touching, not crossing any lines I haven't invited him to cross, but close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, the stubble along his jaw that he missed when he shaved this morning, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
"I should go," I say, but I don't move.
"Yeah. You should."
"I have paperwork. Other clients."
"I know."
"And boundaries. Professional boundaries that exist for very good reasons."
"I know that too."
"Call me at five," I finally say, forcing myself to take a step back. "About the catheter."
"I will."
"And keep monitoring Butterscotch. Small amounts of hay, plenty of water, watch for any signs of distress."
"Got it."
"And Tucker?"
"Yeah?"
I adjust my glasses, buying myself a moment to find the courage to say what I'm thinking. "Thank you for the tour. Emma was right to be proud of this place. Your father would be proud too."
For a moment I think he might reach for me, might close that distance between us and make this real instead of theoretical. But he doesn't. Just nods and says, "Thank you for saying that."
I start walking back toward my truck, my bag bouncing against my hip. I can feel Tucker following a few steps behind me, and it takes everything I have not to turn around, not to go back to that fence line, not to cross every professional boundary I know I shouldn’t.
When I reach my truck, I risk one glance back.
Tucker's standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching me with an expression that makes my walls crumble just a little bit more.
"Drive safe," he says.
"I will."
I climb into my truck and sit there for a moment, my hands on the steering wheel, trying to compose myself.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I gave him instructions for Butterscotch's continued care, I'll check in this evening about the catheter, and tomorrow I'll come back for a final recheck and that will be the end of it.
Professional boundaries intact. Heart protected. No stupid decisions made.
Except I'm already counting the hours until five o'clock.
Already planning what I'll say when I call.
Already knowing that tomorrow morning at nine, I'm coming back to Promise Ranch.
And it won't be just for Butterscotch.