Chapter 13
Tammy
I stared at the inventory spreadsheet on my laptop, the cursor blinking at me like an accusation. I'd been trying to count the same box of gauze pads for the last ten minutes and kept losing track somewhere between forty-eight and fifty-two.
My mind refused to stay focused. It kept drifting back to yesterday afternoon when Ripplan had shown up at the clinic door with that look in his eyes, the one that made my pulse race and my knees weak.
He'd locked the door behind him, crossed the room in three strides, and had me bent over the exam table before I could even say hello.
Then last night, close to midnight. I'd been half-asleep when I heard his knock. He'd smelled like rain and horses and something darker that might have been need or hunger. We hadn't even made it upstairs that time.
Two days since the storm. Two days of him showing up, taking what he wanted, giving me exactly what I needed, and then leaving again without a word.
No conversation. No "how was your day" or "what are we doing here." Just sex. Incredible, mind-blowing, leave-me-boneless-and-satisfied sex, but still just sex.
I clicked the pen in my hand. The sound was sharp in the quiet clinic.
Outside, I could hear the ranch coming back to life after the storm.
The damage had been extensive. Downed trees, a collapsed section of fence, part of the stable roof torn off.
Ripplan had been working nonstop to get everything repaired.
Which was why he only had time to stop by for sex, I told myself. He was busy. That was all.
But even as I thought it, I knew I was lying to myself.
I'd seen how Ruka looked at Jordan. How he'd stop in the middle of whatever he was doing just to touch her hair. How he'd bring her coffee in the morning and sit with her while she drank it, not saying anything, just being there. Present. Connected.
I thought about the other mated Orcs I'd met in Franklin. The devotion. The tenderness mixed with the passion. The way they talked about their mates with this fierce, protective pride. The way they needed to be near them, like breathing.
Ripplan didn't do any of that.
He showed up. We had sex. He left.
And I was letting him. I was letting him treat me like I was just... available. Convenient. A warm body to work off stress with before he went back to his real life.
Maybe that was all this was to him, I thought, and my chest tightened painfully. Maybe I was just fooling myself thinking there could be more.
The worst part was that I'd come here wanting this. Wanting what Jordan had. What my other friends had found with their Orc mates. That deep, soul-level connection. That certainty.
And instead I'd gotten what? Great sex with a man who couldn't even stay long enough to talk to me afterward?
Maybe you should just be grateful for what you have, I told myself. Maybe this is enough. Maybe you're asking for too much.
But it wasn't enough. God help me, it wasn't enough.
I wanted him to look at me the way Ruka looked at Jordan. I wanted him to touch me just because he needed to, not because he wanted to fuck me. I wanted him to stay.
I wanted more than this.
The clinic door slammed open.
I jumped, nearly dropping my laptop. Thurlee stood in the doorway, her face flushed and her eyes wide with panic.
"Tammy! They're bringing John in. He's been gored."
The professional part of my brain kicked in immediately, shoving aside all the messy emotional turmoil. I was already moving, closing the laptop and crossing to the supply cabinet.
"How bad?"
"Thigh. Deep. There's a lot of blood." Thurlee's voice shook slightly.
"Okay." I pulled out sterile gloves, gauze, sutures. My hands were steady now, my mind clear. This I could do. This I was good at. "Help me get the exam table ready. I need clean towels, the irrigation kit, and—"
The door opened again. Ripplan carried John in, the ranch hand's face pale and twisted with pain. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage wrapped around his thigh, dripping onto the floor in thick, dark drops. The metallic smell hit me immediately, sharp and overwhelming.
"Set him on the table," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking through me. "Thurlee, I need those towels now."
Ripplan laid John down carefully, his massive hands surprisingly gentle. His eyes met mine for a brief second, concern flickering there, before he stepped back to give me room.
I cut away John's jeans with trauma shears, the fabric stiff with blood. The wound was immediately visible. Deep, maybe four inches long and gaping wide. The edges were ragged where the horn had torn through muscle. Blood welled up from the depths, dark and steady, pooling on the exam table.
"John, I need you to stay still for me," I said, pulling on gloves. The latex snapped against my wrists. "This is going to hurt, but I need to see how deep it goes."
He nodded, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping. His skin was clammy. Shock setting in.
I irrigated the wound with saline, watching the blood clear enough to see the damage.
The horn had gone deep into the quadriceps muscle, tearing through layers of tissue.
But miraculously, it had missed the femoral artery.
If it had hit that, John would already be dead.
They'd have never gotten him here in time.
"Thurlee, I need pressure here." I guided her hands to the wound edges. "Firm but not too hard. I need to prep the sutures."
She nodded, her face pale but determined. Her hands shook slightly as she applied pressure.
I worked quickly, my hands steady despite my racing heart. Local anesthetic first. I injected it around the wound edges in a ring, watching John's face as the medication took effect. His breathing eased slightly.
Then I began cleaning the wound thoroughly. The smell of blood was overwhelming now, mixing with the antiseptic. I removed debris. Dirt, bits of fabric, damaged tissue that wouldn't heal properly. My fingers were slick inside the gloves, the heat of the wound radiating against my skin.
"You're doing great, John," I murmured. "Almost done with the worst part."
The suturing took time. I worked in layers.
Deep sutures first to close the muscle, using absorbable thread.
Each stitch had to be precise, pulling the torn tissue back together without creating too much tension.
The needle slid through flesh with a resistance I could feel in my fingers, that particular give of living tissue.
Then the superficial sutures for the skin. These had to be neat, close together, minimizing scarring. My back ached from bending over the table. Sweat gathered at my hairline despite the cool air.
Thurlee assisted perfectly, anticipating what I needed before I asked. Gauze. More irrigation. A fresh needle when the first one dulled.
When I finally tied off the last suture and stepped back, my hands were shaking slightly from the adrenaline comedown.
My shoulders burned with tension. I could feel exhaustion creeping in at the edges, the crash that always came after the crisis.
John's breathing had evened out, the pain medication I'd given him finally taking hold.
I crossed to the medication cabinet, my legs feeling slightly unsteady. I pulled out a vial of antibiotics, the same broad-spectrum antibiotic I'd been using since I arrived. As I drew up the dose, Jordan's words echoed in my head. I checked the measurement twice before administering it.
Ripplan stayed the entire time, standing against the wall with his arms crossed. Silent. Watching. I could feel his presence like a physical weight, steady and grounding even as my hands moved through the delicate work.
"He'll need to stay off it for at least two weeks," I said, stripping off my gloves. "And I want to see him every day to check for infection. If there's any redness, swelling, fever, anything, let me know immediately."
Thurlee nodded, already moving to clean up the blood-soaked towels.
Ripplan pushed off the wall. "I'll carry him to the bunkhouse. Make sure someone's with him tonight."
"Good." I rinsed my hands in the sink, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. My heart was still racing, the professional calm starting to crack at the edges.
He lifted John again with that same careful strength, cradling the ranch hand like he weighed nothing. But before he headed for the door, Ripplan paused. Turned back to look at me.
"You did good," he said quietly.
Our eyes met across the small clinic space.
There was something in his expression I couldn't quite name.
Not just concern or gratitude. Something deeper.
Something that made my chest tighten and my breath catch.
His jaw was set, his dark eyes intense, searching my face like he was trying to memorize it.
Or maybe trying to tell me something he couldn't put into words.
I wanted to ask what he was thinking. Wanted to close the distance between us and—
"I have to get back," he said, his voice rougher than before. "Brylan will want a report."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He held my gaze for one more heartbeat. Two. Then he turned and carried John out into the fading afternoon light, leaving me standing there with blood on my scrubs and questions I didn't know how to ask.
I stripped off my gloves, the latex peeling away from my damp skin.
"That's exactly how we treated Seth." Thurlee spoke quietly behind me.
I froze, the used syringe hovering over the Sharps container.
"What?"
"Seth." Thurlee's voice was soft, almost hesitant. "When he got gored. We did exactly this. Cleaned the wound, stitched it up, gave him antibiotics."
I turned to look at her slowly. "And?"
"He died anyway." Her eyes were troubled, haunted. "Four days later."
My heart started beating faster. "Tell me exactly what happened."