Chapter 18 - Tessa
By Monday, I’ve almost stopped wincing when I roll out of bed. Almost.
The shoulder still pulls when I reach too high, my ribs still complain when I twist wrong, but I can get my own shirt on without swearing, and that feels like victory.
The morning smells like hay dust and the kind of humidity that warns you it’s going to be a long day. The sunrise is soft, almost apologetic, but the barn is already alive, the low bellow of cattle, the metallic creak of a gate, the clatter of the feed scoop against the bin.
Dr. King was waiting by the truck when I got to the clinic, thermos in hand, ball cap pulled low, the brim worn white from sweat. “You good to be back on the truck?”
“I’ll manage,” I say, and I mean it.
He eyed me like he was debating if he should argue, but we’ve been through this before. I’m not the type to sit still.
Our first stop is the Maddens’ dairy farm, where the calf we pulled last week is already chasing shadows and trying to eat bootlaces. Her mother’s doing better, too, eating, steady, a little defiant. It’s the small victories that fill you back up.
After that, it’s a blur of dust and sweat: vaccines, hoof checks, two goats that refuse to be civilized. Dr. King laughs when one headbutts my hip, and I pretend it doesn’t hurt.
By noon, the truck smells like iodine and feed.
I’m sticky and tired, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
For some reason, I think of him all day.
A feeling is settling in, like maybe I miss seeing him, but I am not sure how to handle that revelation.
So I do the mature thing and try to ignore the feeling, but by mid-afternoon, I can't help it.
I have to share in the joy of my day, so I text Nate.
Me: Just pulled a tick off a bull’s ass. Feeling really glamorous today.
Nate: You say that like I’m not into strong women doing unglamorous things.
Me: You’re twisted.
Nate: You’re hot, so I am willing to ignore that you are crazy. You are on the right side of the scale.
Me: (sends a photo: mud-spattered boots next to a bucket of tools, captioned “#ruralchic”)
Nate: Gonna need a full outfit pic for… research.
Me: I bet. ????
Tuesday starts early, I’m out before sunrise, checking on a mare about to foal. The world is quiet at that hour, that kind of sacred quiet where you can hear the horses breathing and the first sparrows testing their voices.
When the foal finally comes, it’s messy and beautiful. She unfolds into the world like she’s been here before, legs too long, eyes bright. The farmer’s teenage daughter cries when she takes her first shaky steps, and I pretend not to wipe at my eyes, too.
Afterward, I sit in the truck for a minute before heading to the next call. My shoulder throbs, and my ribs ache in the same dull rhythm as my heart.
I check on Rex when the coast is clear. Not because I am avoiding seeing a certain Hockey Captain who has been starring in my nightmares turned X-rated dreams... because I have a tight schedule and can't be held up.
But because I love to mess with him when I am safely at my next stop for the day, I send him a picture of Rex glaring at the camera with the caption “Me watching you make bad life choices.”
Nate: Where are you?
Me: Working
Nate: Are you fucking with me, Red?
Me: You said it, not me.
Nate: Such a tease. And by the way, I make great life choices. Exhibit A: texting you.
Me: You’re skating dangerously close to charming, Captain.
Nate: A girl who works in horse shit all day and can throw around a good hockey play. I scored. ??
I leave him on “read” for that, and he sends me a picture of McKenna and a player I haven't met yet with thumbs up, with the caption “even they think that was good.”
By Wednesday, we’ve added a few equine clients, a trail-riding camp on the outskirts of town, a horse rescue that’s forever underfunded but overflowing with heart.
I help wrap a gelding’s leg and end up staying late to clean stalls because the owners short-handed.
My ribs protest every shovel, but the smell of hay and leather is oddly soothing.
Nights are harder. My body’s tired, but my mind doesn’t shut off.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that moment in the paddock, the gate, the dust, the sound of my name breaking out of Nate’s throat.
It mixes with the steamy dream version of him, the one who’s all warmth and command and quiet, careful hands.
I tell myself it’s just adrenaline and proximity, that it doesn’t mean anything. But the lie tastes stale.
I toss and turn until my phone lights up, and so does my smile
Nate: You still awake?
Me: Define awake.
Nate: Texting me. Fantasizing about me. Thinking about me.
Me: Two out of three.
Nate: Which one’s missing?
Me: The second. Don’t let it go to your head.
Nate: Too late.
He sends a photo: feet propped on his deck railing, the moon making the lake look like silver ice, captioned “wish you were here to tell me it’s bedtime.”
Me: You wouldn’t sleep. You’d talk my ear off.
Nate: That wouldn't be the reason that we wouldn't sleep.
Thursday morning, I woke up to a text from him.
Nate sends a mirror photo: post-run, shirt off, shorts low on his hips, sweat-damp hair. No caption.
Me: New phone who dis?
Nate: You know who
Me: You fishing for a compliment, Carson?
Nate: Just giving you an excuse to send a pic back.
I send a photo back: baseball cap backward, braid falling over one shoulder, a coffee mug hiding half my smile that has nothing to do with him, my green scrubs are in full view.
Me: Here. Fully clothed. Calm down, Carson.
Nate: Now I gotta imagine the rest.
I am like an addict with my cell phone. As soon as I have a break, I want to text him.
When did that happen?
Me: Just stitched a calf that tried to escape mid-procedure. My scrubs look like a crime scene.
Nate: You sure you’re not secretly a Marvel Hero origin story?
Me: Please. I’m one bad day away from becoming the villain.
Nate: As long as I get to be the morally conflicted hero who’s obsessed with her.
Me: You already are. You just hide it behind your practiced smile.
Nate: You’ve been watching my interviews?
Me: Only the ones where you look like you need a hug.
Nate: Or a kiss.
Me: You wish.
But an image of Nate kissing me flashes through my mind, and I have to squeeze my thighs together and focus on my day.
An emergency call quickly extinguishes my good mood. A young dog was hit by a truck on a back road. By the time we get there, it’s clear we can’t save him.
The owner, a little boy with a missing front tooth and a broken heart, holds the dog’s paw until the very end. I keep it together until we’re back in the truck. Then I have to roll the window down and breathe, because the ache isn’t just from the ribs anymore.
When I get home that night, I mean to shower and crash, but instead I find myself texting.
Me: You ever have one of those days where you just want to sit on the porch with someone and not talk?
Nate: Yes.
Me: Does it help?
Nate: Sometimes. Depends on who’s sitting next to you.
I stare at that for a long time.
Then my phone buzzes again.
Nate: I want to see you. Maybe publicly, like a weird thing they call a date.
Me: Bold of you to assume I’d want to be seen with you in public.
Nate: You love me.
Me: Keep dreaming, Carson.
Nate: Oh, I do.
Another smile for Captain Carson.
Friday breaks me a little.
A heat wave rolls through, 33 degrees before lunch, and by midafternoon, I’m drenched, headache pounding behind my eyes. We lose another animal, a calf born too early. The mother cries for hours after. It’s the sound that undoes me.
By the time I pull into my driveway, the light is gold and warm, but it feels cruel. I sit there with the truck off, the silence pressing in. I know I could call Kenzie. Or Chase. Or Adam. Or Eli... But I don’t.
I call Nate.
He answers before the second ring.
“Tess?” His voice is rough, like I woke him.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Sorry. I just… needed to hear someone’s voice.”
He’s quiet for half a second. Then: “Where are you?”
“Home.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
I tell him he doesn’t have to, but he’s already hung up.
I rush through a shower because I need to try to clean the day away.
He shows up, hair damp, wearing a gray tee that clings in all the right ways and jeans that look older than both of us. His eyes catch the lamplight, blue gone dark.
“You okay?” he asks, but his tone already knows I’m not.
I shake my head, and that’s all it takes. He pulls me in, slow and certain, one hand on the back of my head, the other steadying me at the waist. I can feel the warmth of him through my tank top, the way his breath catches like he’s afraid to press too hard.
The dam breaks, and I cry quietly into his chest, not the pretty kind of crying, the raw, shaking kind. He doesn’t try to fix anything, just lets me get it out.
We end up on my bed, the one I haven't had time to move back upstairs. He kicks off his boots, pulls me down beside him, and it feels natural, like he’s been here before. Like we’ve done this a hundred times.
He traces slow circles through my hair and down my back, and the world shrinks to the sound of our breathing.
We are so close, I can feel his breath on my lips.
His eyes say so many things. I still don't know what to expect from him.
But I think I want to find out. Let him in.
Explore this chemistry and the connection we have.
I break the silence and tension, "What are you guys doing tomorrow?"
"Recovering from working with my brother." He smiles, and it does funny things to me. "Thinking of taking me up on that date?"
He tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear, and I shiver. I lick my lips, suddenly feeling nervous, "I am working at a rodeo tomorrow and thought maybe the guys would like to go."
He studies me for a moment, then asks, "Would I get to spend any time with you?"
My stomach does that stupid somersault thing again, "After the events, there's a dance."
"You wanna see my moves, Tessa?" The way he says my name is intoxicating, his scent surrounds me, and I suddenly can't speak.
He gives me another smile, "We will be there. The guys will get a kick out of it."
My eyes are drawn to his lips and the scruff he's grown since coming back from the city. I think maybe he is going to kiss me, but then something shifts in his expression, and he tucks me under his chin. “Sleep,” he murmurs.
“You’re not in charge in my bed,” I mumble.
His chest rumbles with a laugh. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Then a light swat against my right ass cheek, teasing, maybe a warning and then the warmth of him pulling me even closer. Our legs tangle like this is natural, and I fall asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat.