Chapter 17
Sutton found the coffee before she found her footing for the day, warm and waiting on the counter like it had been expecting her. No note. No explanation. Just her name written along the side in blocky, unmistakable handwriting, the ink slightly smudged like it had been second-guessed.
Sutton took a sip and moaned at the shot of creamy goodness and caffeine pumping through her veins.
“I don’t see my coffee,” Irma said from the front desk.
“Um,” Sutton stumbled over the right words. “It was left for me.”
“Look at you, acting like you don’t know who left it.”
If Irma suspected even a sliver of the truth, it would spread through town faster than wildfire. And Bridlewood did not do subtle. Irma was the queen of gossip, and once she spilled the tea, there would be no stopping the flow, the whispers, or the questions Sutton was not ready to answer.
Assumptions about the coffee, anyway. The other secret was still safely locked in a vault Irma had no idea existed. Small mercies.
“I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
“I’m sure who it was.” Irma’s smile was all mischief and accusation. “I saw Dr. Callahan sneak in here and leave it on your desk.”
Her mind fumbled over what to say. Some people left flowers or texts, apparently Colter left proof that he paid attention because it was the exact order she got from Jo’s that morning she’d run into Colter—down to the specific coffee bean.
“He snuck?” For some reason that made her laugh. “What does Colter, uh, Dr. Callahan look like when sneaking?”
“Just what you’re thinking. Peeking around corners like he’s in some kind of Mission Impossible movie. Thinking he was being stealthy. No one gets anything past me.”
"You should charge for surveillance services," Sutton said. "You'd put the entire Bridlewood Sheriff's Department out of a job."
“I highly doubt that.”
She pictured it instantly—Colter lurking around a corner with all the subtlety of a man built like a linebacker, cowboy hat pulled low like it counted as a disguise. He probably thought he was being stealthy, too.
The mental image was ridiculous and unfairly attractive. Because somehow, he’d still make a pretty decent Ethan Hunt—tall, dark, dangerous, and exactly the kind of adventure she should absolutely not be auditioning for in her head.
“Just like how you two were all cozy at Ms. Kitty’s place yesterday.”
Her laughter stopped. “How did you hear about that?”
“Honey, you were having breakfast with a man who’s known for his nighttime activity. The town’s gonna talk.”
“But it was just breakfast. We both just happened to be in the same place at the same time. It wouldn’t have been neighborly not to invite him to our table. Plus, Lynlee practically shouted to the world her invitation that he join us!”
“Bringing you coffee seems more than neighborly, if you ask me.”
Sutton opened her mouth to argue the point further and then closed it again, because there was no version of that sentence that ended well for her.
Then the front door slammed open hard enough to rattle the bell and a woman rushed in, breathless and pale, clutching a bundled towel to her chest. Something inside it moved then whimpered. The sound cut straight through Sutton’s chest.
“Please,” the woman said, eyes wild. “He’s dying. I didn’t know where else to go.”
Colter was there in seconds, already peeling back the towel, his expression shifting with clinical speed. The warmth Sutton had clocked at the diner, the teasing ease from earlier, vanished. In its place was the man who ran this place and saved lives.
“Okay,” he said calmly, as if the word itself could slow time. “Let’s get him on the table.”
Sutton didn’t wait for further instruction. Hands steady, heart pounding, she jumped into action.
Ten strides and they were in the exam room, the towel being gently lowered to the stainless-steel table, already darkening in spots Sutton refused to catalog too closely.
The patient was small—too small for the panic filling the room—but breathing, shallow and uneven.
A dog, more like a puppy, with fur matted tight to his ribs, eyes glassy with pain and fear.
“Hit by a car?” Colter asked, already snapping on gloves.
“I think so,” the woman said, voice shaking. “He ran out of the yard and I heard—” She broke off, pressing a hand to her mouth.
“You did the right thing,” Colter said, steady as stone. “Irma, can you take Ms. Miller to the waiting room and get her some coffee.”
“I want to stay with Patches,” the woman said to Irma, frantic with fear.
“I know you do,” Irma said with a gentleness honed from years of dealing with people on the worst day of their lives. “But they need space to work. I promise you Patches is in the best hands in the state.”
The woman hovered near the doorway, wringing her hands. “Is he going to be okay?”
Colter didn’t look up. “We’re doing everything we can. I need you to take a breath for me, all right?”
Sutton felt it then. The shift. The way the room bent around him when things got bad. This wasn’t charm or confidence or that small-town golden-boy energy he used to distract people from the soft parts of him. This was purpose. This was who he was when nothing else mattered.
Irma placed a hand on Ms. Miller’s shoulder to guide her out of the room. “Now, why don’t you follow me.”
“Okay,” Ms. Miller sniffled.
“Sutton, we’ll need oxygen and the crash cart,” Colter said calmly.
Sutton moved before the words fully landed and the part of her that had learned how to be calm when everything inside wanted to panic kicked in.
She fit the mask gently over the dog’s muzzle, murmuring softly.
Not words, exactly. Just low and soothing sounds that a mama makes when consoling a baby in pain.
“That’s it, buddy,” Colter whispered. “Stay with us.”
Colter was already palpating the abdomen, fingers precise, expression unreadable except for the tight set of his jaw. “Heart rate’s weak. Pupils sluggish. We’re losing time.”
Dr. Porter barreled in from the hallway like a man half his age, gray whips of hair standing up, glasses sliding down his nose. “Are the IV is ready and the fluids primed?”
“Porter,” Colter asked, doing a double take. “What are you doing here?”
Porter lifted a brow, clearly taken aback. “What do you think I’m doing here?” he said, as if the answer were so obvious it barely warranted words. “Ms. Miller called me on the way over. I told her I’d scrub in.”
“We’ve got this,” Colter said.
“I know you do, but Ms. Miller would feel more comfortable with me here.”
“I’ve got it handled,” Colter said tightly.
“Never discount a patient’s request,” Dr. Porter said as if it were rule number uno.
A rule Porter had apparently written, filed, and was now personally enforcing, whether Colter liked it or not.
“I swear, if this day throws one more thing at me—” Colter’s jaw clenched. “Scrub in.”
“Atta boy.” Dr. Porter pulled on a scrub top and latex gloves.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Colter said. “I’m going to need X-rays and blood. Sutton, can you—”
“Already on it,” Sutton said, reaching for the IV.
He glanced up, just for a beat. Not to check her credentials or question her, but to confirm what he already knew—that she had his back. He gave a single sharp nod and turned back to the dog.
She slid the needle in cleanly, flushed the line, taped it down. “IV’s in.”
“Good,” Colter said. “Let’s move.”
They wheeled the table down the hall, the lights above blurring into a tunnel of white. Sutton jogged alongside, keeping the oxygen steady, calling out vitals as Dr. Porter monitored the machine.
“BP’s dropping.”
“Come on, stay with us,” Sutton murmured again, thumb brushing fur she shouldn’t have been touching, but needing to give him the soft reassurance that someone had him.
In the surgery suite, everything narrowed and the outside world ceased to exist. No coffee or happenstance breakfasts. No questions about boundaries or bosses or things she wasn’t ready to name. There was only the dog, splayed carefully on the table, and Colter at the center of it all.
“Prep the abdomen,” he said. “We’re going in.”
A beat of silence followed—too long for an operating room. Then Dr. Porter cleared his throat. “You’re sure that’s necessary?”
Colter didn’t look up from the table. “Blood pressure’s unstable, abdominal distension, pale gums. He’s bleeding internally.”
“Hm.” Porter stepped closer, peering over Colter’s shoulder like he was the attending doctor. “Could be shock. Fluids might stabilize him without cracking him open.”
Sutton saw Colter’s spine go rigid beneath his scrubs. Not with hesitation but annoyance.
“We’ve already pushed fluids,” Colter said evenly. “It’s not holding.”
Porter folded his arms. “You’re jumping to surgery awfully fast.”
Colter finally looked at him then, his gaze calm and focused—steel under the politeness. “With respect, if we wait any longer, we’ll be operating on a corpse.”
The words were sharp, slicing through the hum of the machines.
Porter’s mouth thinned. “I trained you better than to rush.”
“And you trained me to trust my gut,” Colter shot back. “This dog doesn’t have time for a committee decision.”
Sutton stayed quiet, hands already moving, prepping for the incision like the call had never been in question. Because Colter wasn’t guessing, he was reading the room, the vitals, the patient. He knew the best course of action.
Porter watched her for a moment, then Colter again. “You’re certain?”
“Yes,” Colter said firmly, with no qualifiers.
Another long second passed. Then Porter stepped back with a dismissive wave. “Fine. It’s your call.”
It wasn’t permission Porter was giving, it was a challenge. One Colter didn’t react to. He just turned back to the table. “Scalpel.”
Sutton placed it in his hand without comment, their fingers brushing for half a second longer than necessary. His grip was steady but hers was too.
Sutton could see it in him—the way once he committed, there was no space left for doubt. No room for second-guessing or ghosts from the past whispering that he didn’t know what he was doing. When he chose something, he chose it fully, and that kind of certainty was impossible not to notice—or fear.
As he moved, Sutton watched him for a second longer than necessary. The man from the diner and the man from the operating table were the same person, she realized.
And that might be the most dangerous part of all.