Chapter 5
Callie
Three days after the base tour, three different people have asked me about "that handsome pilot" before noon, and I'm seriously considering moving to a town where nobody talks to each other.
"So," Mrs. Patterson says, settling her ancient tabby on my exam table with the casual air of someone who definitely made this appointment just to fish for gossip. "I hear you've been spending time on base."
"I'm consulting on a kennel project." I keep my voice professionally neutral while I check Whiskers—not Mr. Whiskers, a different Whiskers, because apparently this town has a catastrophic lack of imagination when it comes to cat names. "It's work-related."
"Mmhm." Mrs. Patterson adjusts her glasses, which are thick enough to see the moon. "And the pilot? The handsome one who chased his dog through town?"
"What about him?"
"Jet says he's been asking about you at the Rusty Spur. Sophie says he walked past your clinic twice on Tuesday night. And Maggie says—"
"Maggie says a lot of things." I press the stethoscope to Whiskers’ chest, hoping the universal signal for I'm busy being a doctor will end this conversation.
It doesn't.
"She says he couldn't stop talking about you." Mrs. Patterson leans forward conspiratorially. "Said he had that look. You know the one."
"I don't know the one."
"The look men get when they've been hit by lightning. My Harold had it the first time he saw me at the church social in 1962." She sighs dreamily. "Couldn't string two words together for a week."
"Captain Mercer seems perfectly capable of stringing words together. Too many of them, actually."
"Oh, so it's Captain Mercer now?" Mrs. Patterson's smile could power a small city. "First-name basis already. That's fast."
"That's his rank. It's the opposite of first-name basis."
"You know his first name, though."
"Everyone in this town knows his first name. You all won't stop talking about him."
"Because he's handsome." She pats my arm with the condescending affection of a woman who's been married for sixty years and thinks everyone else's life would be vastly improved by following her example. "And single. And he has that dog. Women love a man with a dog."
I finish Whiskers’ exam—perfectly healthy, as I suspected—and hand him back to his owner. "Mrs. Patterson, your cat is fine. I'll see you in six months for his next checkup."
"Unless I need to bring him in sooner." She tucks Whiskers into his carrier with a wink. "For observation."
The door swings shut behind her, and I slump against the exam table.
Linda appears in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. "Mrs. Patterson pumping you for intel?"
"Mrs. Patterson is eighty-three years old and has more romantic interest in my love life than I do."
"That tracks." Linda takes a sip. "Also, Mr. Hendricks called. He wants to bring Buster in for a nail trim, but I'm pretty sure it's actually because his wife wants the full story about the base visit."
"How does Mrs. Hendricks even know about the base visit?"
"Small town." Linda shrugs. "Also, I think Sophie told Carla, who told Anya at Timberline, who told basically everyone who came in for coffee this morning."
"I'm going to kill Sophie."
"You say that every week."
"This week I mean it."
“You say that every week, too.”
The morning continues in the same vein. Two more patients with suspiciously vague symptoms, three more rounds of questions I deflect with increasing irritation. By lunch, I'm ready to barricade myself in the supply closet and pretend the outside world doesn't exist.
Instead, I make the tactical error of going to Maggie's Place for takeout.
The diner is half-full of the usual lunch crowd—retirees nursing coffee, a couple of soldiers from the base grabbing burgers, Tomás from the auto shop eating alone at the counter. The smell of bacon and fresh pie wraps around me like a guilty pleasure.
Maggie spots me the second I walk through the door.
"There she is." She emerges from behind the counter, coffee pot in hand, smile knowing. "Pine Valley's most talked-about veterinarian."
"I'm Pine Valley's only veterinarian."
"Makes you easy to talk about." She gestures toward an empty stool at the counter. "Sit. I'll get your usual."
"I was just going to grab something to go—"
"Sit."
I sit. When Maggie O'Rourke uses that tone, you sit.
She disappears into the kitchen, and I take the opportunity to pull out my phone and pretend to be busy. Maybe if I look occupied, nobody will try to—
"Hey, Callie."
A woman slides onto the stool next to me, wild auburn curls escaping from a messy bun, freckles scattered across her nose. She's wearing cargo pants and work boots, and there's a smudge of dirt on her cheek that suggests she's been doing something outdoors and practical.
Andrea O'Rourke—Andi to everyone who knows her—Maggie's daughter. We're not close, but we're friendly enough. She works out at the base doing something with wildlife management that I've never fully understood.
"Hey, Andi." I pocket my phone. "How's work?"
"Busy. Bird strike season's picking up." She waves at her mother, who's emerging from the kitchen with two plates. "Trying to keep the runways clear so pilots don't end up with geese in their engines."
"Sounds glamorous."
"It's mostly just me yelling at birds and filing paperwork." She grins. "But I hear you've been spending time on base too. Kennel consultation?"
"Does everyone in this town know my schedule?"
"Pretty much. Mom's been updating everyone." Andi accepts a plate of pie from Maggie with a grateful nod. "Also, the pilot's been asking about you."
I close my eyes. "Not you too."
"I'm just the messenger." She takes a bite of pie. "For what it's worth, he seems nice. A little lost, maybe. But nice."
"Lost?"
"You know how some people look like they're exactly where they're supposed to be, and some people look like they're still figuring it out?" Andi shrugs. "He's got that second energy. Like he's waiting for something to make sense."
Before I can respond, Maggie reappears with a plate she definitely didn't order for me. A thick slice of cherry pie, still warm, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on top.
"On the house." She slides it across the counter. "You look like you need it."
"I look fine."
"You look like someone who's been answering questions about a man all morning and pretending she doesn't like him.
" Maggie plants her elbows on the counter, fixing me with the stare of a woman who's been reading people for decades.
"That boy's been moping since you left the base yesterday.
Came in here last night looking like someone kicked his puppy. "
"He has a dog. Maybe someone actually kicked his puppy."
"Ranger's fine. I sent him home with a patty, same as always." Maggie's expression softens. "He's a good one, that Dean. Lonely, though. Don't let the smile fool you."
The words land differently than I expect. I think about the way Dean deflects with humor, the charm that's just slightly too practiced, the moments when his grin doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Maybe she's right. Maybe the smile is armor.
"There's nothing going on," I say, stabbing my fork into the pie. "I did a consultation. He showed me around. That's it."
"Mmhm."
"It's professional."
"Of course it is."
"I'm not interested in dating anyone, and I'm definitely not interested in dating someone in the military."
Maggie just smiles—the patient smile of a woman who buried a soldier husband and spent thirty years watching other soldiers fall in love in her diner.
"Honey," she says gently, "I've been watching men and women dance around each other since before you were born. I know the signs." She pats my hand. "Eat your pie. You'll feel better."
She moves off to refill coffee cups, leaving me alone with Andi and a dessert I didn't ask for.
"She's not wrong, you know," Andi says quietly. "About the lonely thing."
I look at her. "You know him?"
"We've crossed paths on base. He's friends with Dev—Master Sergeant Porter, runs the K9 unit." She pushes her pie around the plate. "Lost people recognize each other, I think."
There's something in her voice that suggests she's speaking from experience, but I don't push. We all have our stories.
Andi glances at her watch and winces. "I should get back. Runways don't clear themselves."
She slides off her stool, dropping cash on the counter. "Good luck with the consultation. And with the pilot."
"There's nothing—"
"Sure." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "See you around, Callie."
She's out the door before I can respond.
I eat my pie in silence, letting Maggie's words settle uncomfortably in my chest. Lonely. It's not a word I would have associated with Dean Mercer; with his easy grin and quick jokes and the way he fills up every room he walks into.
But I think about the way Ranger leaned against his leg in my clinic. The way his smile faltered when I mentioned his family's business. The way he lingered at my door like he was hoping for an excuse to stay.
Maybe loneliness doesn't always look like what we expect.
I pay my tab—Maggie refuses to charge me for the pie—and head back to the clinic with a takeout container of the soup I actually came for.
The afternoon is blessedly quiet. A dog with an ear infection. A hamster that turns out to be pregnant. A rabbit that bit its owner and now the owner is more traumatized than the rabbit. Normal, manageable, blissfully free of questions about handsome pilots.
And then, at three-thirty, the bell over the door chimes.
I'm in the back, finishing up notes, when Linda pokes her head in. Her expression is carefully neutral, which means she's working very hard not to smile.
"You have a visitor."
"Is it Mrs. Patterson with another 'emergency'?"
"Not exactly."
I follow her to the front, already composing polite ways to tell whoever it is that I'm very busy and can't possibly—
Dean Mercer is standing in my waiting room, holding two cups of coffee.