Chapter 2
Nate
One week later.
Five AM and I'm already on my third cup of coffee, which is two more than my usual quota. My hands are steady enough to perform surgery on a horse, but apparently choosing a shirt requires the kind of deliberation usually reserved for nuclear disarmament treaties.
The blue button-down makes me look like I'm trying too hard. The black polo is too casual—like I don't care that Harper Lane is walking back into my life today. The white dress shirt screams funeral, which might be accurate depending on how this first interview goes.
I settle on the gray henley. Professional but not stuffy. The same one I wore the day I came back to Willowbridge, when I decided to fight for everything I'd stupidly thrown away.
"You're pathetic," I tell my reflection. Duke, my German Shepherd, tilts his head from his bed in the corner like he agrees.
I should be preparing what to say about the sustainability program. The grant money. The innovations that saved three farms from bankruptcy. Instead, I'm standing in my bathroom practicing explanations for California that don't sound like the cowardly excuses they are.
"My father was dying"—true, but incomplete. "I didn't want to burden you"—sounds noble, was actually selfish. "I was twenty-four and stupid"—the most honest, but hardly sufficient for six years of silence.
My phone buzzes. Emergency call from the Johnson farm—sick calf, possible pneumonia. Thank God. Nothing clears your head like a two-hundred-pound animal that needs saving.
I grab my medical bag and keys, pausing at the door. Nine hours until Harper walks into my clinic. Nine hours to figure out how to explain that leaving her was the biggest mistake of my life, and coming back was the only thing I've done right since.
Duke follows me to the truck. I let him jump in—he's good with calves, and if I'm being honest, I need the emotional support. How's that for toxic masculinity: a veterinarian who needs his dog for courage.
The drive to Morrison's takes fifteen minutes of watching the sun rise over fields I grew up in, the ones I left behind with her. The radio's playing some pop song about second chances, because apparently the universe has a sense of humor.
I turn it off and drive in silence, practicing words I should have said six years ago.
"Harper, I'm sorry." "Harper, I never stopped loving you." "Harper, please forgive me."
None of them are enough. But then again, I've had six years to find the right words, and here I am—driving toward a sick calf at dawn, pretending I'm not counting down the hours until I see her again.
***
Two o'clock arrives like a sentencing.
I'm standing at my office window, pretending to review charts while actually watching the parking lot like Duke watches for squirrels—with an intensity that borders on pathological. Beth, my assistant, has caught me checking the window six times in the past ten minutes.
"She's a reporter, not a serial killer," Beth says drily, not looking up from her computer. "You can probably relax."
"I'm relaxed." My jaw is clenched tight enough to need dental work.
"Right. That's why you've reorganized the supply closet twice today."
I'm about to respond when I see it—Harper's silver Honda pulling into the lot. My heart does something medically inadvisable as I watch her park, then just... sit there.
One minute passes. Two. Five.
She's gripping the steering wheel, and even from here I can see her taking those deep breaths she used to do before big exams. Same ritual, six years later. Some things don't change.
Then she moves, and everything changes.
The red dress hits me like a physical blow. That dress. The one she wore to the faculty dinner where I first introduced her as my girlfriend. The one that made me forget my own name when she walked down her dorm stairs. She knows exactly what she's doing wearing it now.
Game on, Harps.
Harper exits her car with the forced confidence I recognize from her debate team days. Shoulders back, chin up, smile that could power half of Willowbridge. But I know her tells—the white-knuckled grip on her notebook, the way she touches her necklace for courage.
Our eyes meet through the window.
Time stops. Or maybe I'm having a cardiac event. Either way, the world narrows to this moment—Harper Lane standing in my parking lot, looking like every regret and every hope I've carried for six years.
She breaks eye contact first, and I remember how to breathe.
By the time she reaches the door, I'm behind my desk, attempting to look like a professional veterinarian instead of a man whose entire world just walked back into his clinic.
"Dr. Wilder!" Her voice is bright enough to perform surgery under. Fake as hell, but I'll take it over silence and death stares.
"Harper." I keep my tone neutral, gruff even. Can't let her see how much that dress—how much she—still affects me.
"Thank you so much for making time for this interview." She's using her reporter voice, all perky professionalism. "I know how busy you must be, saving farms and probably puppies and whatnot."
Whatnot. She's nervous. Good. At least I'm not the only one feeling like I'm about to jump out of my skin.
"Just doing my job." The words come out dismissive, cold. Perfect, Wilder. Real smooth.
Her smile tightens. "Of course. Your job. Shall we begin?"
She sits across from my desk, crosses her legs, and I absolutely do not notice how the red fabric shifts. I'm professional. I'm composed. I'm completely focused on sustainable farming practices.
I'm also a terrible liar, even to myself.
"So," Harper clicks her pen with unnecessary force, "tell me about your revolutionary farming program, Dr. Wilder."
The way she says my title—like it's a curse word she's too polite to say properly—almost makes me smile. Almost.
"It's fairly straightforward. Preventative care reduces costs by—"
"I've read your website." She interrupts, pen poised like a weapon. "What I want to know is why. Why come back to Willowbridge? You had a prestigious position in California. Why trade that for..." she gestures vaguely at my small clinic, "this?"
There it is. The real question hiding behind the professional one. Why did you leave, and why are you back?
"Sometimes what looks like success isn't what you actually need."
Her laugh is sharp. "How philosophical. Did they teach you that at UC Davis, or was that wisdom earned through abandoning people who loved you?"
The gloves are off then.
"Interesting angle for an article about sustainable farming." I lean back, matching her energy. "Should I expect the same hard-hitting journalism when you write about the Morrison's new milk production rates?"
"I'm establishing context." Her smile could freeze hell. "Our readers like to know the background of the people they're trusting with their livestock."
"The background. Like how a journalist from a small town chose a prestigious DC internship over—"
"That was different." The words snap out before she can stop them.
"Was it?"
"I told you about DC. We discussed it. We made plans around it. You just—" She stops, recomposes her fake sunshine smile. "But that's ancient history, isn't it? Let's focus on your current work."
Ancient history. Right. That's why she's wearing that dress and I reorganized my supply closet twice.
"The preventative care program has shown a forty percent reduction in livestock mortality." I go along with her redirect. For now.
She scribbles notes with violence. "Impressive. And this was developed during your time in California?"
"Actually, no. It's based on observations from growing up here. Understanding the specific needs of small farms versus industrial operations."
Her pen stops moving. "So you're saying your big innovation came from... here? From Willowbridge?"
"Some of us never really leave, Harper. Even when we try."
The words hang between us like a challenge dropped. She looks up from her notebook, and for a second—just one second—the mask slips. I see the hurt, the anger, the questions she's carried for all these years.
Then Beth knocks. "Dr. Wilder? Emergency call from Morrison farm. They need you immediately."
Of course they do. The universe has timing like a bad comedian.
Harper's mask snaps back into place. "Duty calls. Should we reschedule?"
"No." The word comes out too fast, too desperate. I moderate my tone. "I mean, this is part of the story, right? Come with me."
"Come with you?" Her voice pitches up. "To a farm? In this dress?"
"You wanted the full story." I grab my medical bag. "This is it. Unless you're afraid of a little mud?"
It's a challenge, and we both know it. Harper Lane never backs down from a challenge. It's one of the thousand things I loved about her.
Love. Present tense. Damn it.
"Fine." She stands, chin raised like she's heading into battle. "Lead the way, Dr. Wilder."
The way she says my name still sounds like profanity. Somehow, that gives me hope.
Harper follows me to the truck, her heels clicking against the pavement like a countdown to disaster. She knows about the shadowing—Bill would have told her—but she doesn't know everything.
"Need help?" I try not to sound amused as she eyes the step up to my truck.
"I'm fine." She's absolutely not fine. She's attempting some sort of gymnastic maneuver that defies both physics and the structural integrity of that dress.
I don't help. She doesn't want my help. We're both too stubborn to admit this is ridiculous.
Finally, she makes it into the passenger seat, face flushed, dignity somewhat intact. The dress, however, has ridden up just enough to be distracting. She tugs it down with a glare that dares me to comment.
I don't. But I do hand her the spare coveralls from behind the seat.
"You might want these at the farm."
She looks at them like they might bite. "How thoughtful. Did you pack them specially for me?"
"Always prepared." I start the engine. "Speaking of which, there's something Bill might not have mentioned about the shadowing."
Her head snaps toward me. "What else could there possibly be?"