Chapter 28 Wyatt
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wyatt
Tuesday
If there’s one universal truth about Dusty Spur Ranch, it’s that no animal here has ever respected my personal space.
The second truth is that every man who works here has an opinion about everything, whether you ask for it or not.
I’m elbow deep in a mildly irritated heifer before I’ve even finished my first cup of coffee, one boot braced against the chute rail, sweat already trickling down my spine, when I realize, again, that my brain has wandered.
It should be on lung sounds. Temperature. Mucous membranes. Respiration rate.
Instead, it’s on honey jars.
Which feels medically irresponsible.
“Easy,” I murmur, adjusting my stance. “I know. I don’t love this either.”
The heifer shifts her weight, muscles bunching under her hide. I feel it before she does anything else. The tightening, the warning tremor that says she’s deciding whether to tolerate me or make a point.
I shift with her, calm palm firm against her flank.
“Don’t,” I say quietly.
Her tail flicks anyway, smacking my forearm hard enough to sting.
“Duly noted,” I add.
“See?” Willy Kane says from where he’s perched on the fence, hat tipped low, chewing on a piece of straw. “She’s tellin’ you what she thinks.”
“I’m listening,” I reply, moving the scope again, counting breaths under my own. “I just don’t agree with her treatment plan.”
I listen longer than most people think is necessary. Through the crackle and wheeze, the faint rasp that wasn’t there a week ago.
Smoke irritation leaves a signature if you know how to hear it. Subtle, uneven, not deep enough to panic over, but not something you ignore either.
Red stands a few feet back, arms crossed, scar cutting down one side of his face catching the sun. He doesn’t crowd. Never does. Red gives animals and people the same courtesy: space unless invited closer.
“How’s she sound?” he asks.
“Upper airway congestion,” I say immediately. “Not wet. No rattle. Breathing’s fast but steady. She’s compensating, which tells me we caught it early.”
I pull the stethoscope free and reach for her lower lip, lifting it gently to check gum color. Pink. Healthy. Capillary refill solid.
“Smoke irritation more than infection,” I continue. “I’ll give her an anti-inflammatory and keep her hydrated. If she spikes a fever or starts coughing, we reassess. But she’s not going downhill.”
Red nods once.
It’s a small thing, that nod. But from him, it’s worth more than a dozen thank-yous.
Emmett wanders over from the barn, grin bright, hair sticking up because he forgot mirrors exist. He’s got a feed scoop in one hand and optimism radiating off him like heat.
“You look tired,” he says.
I glance at him without missing a beat as I reach for the syringe. “You ever thought about becoming a diagnostician?”
He squints. “Is that a real job or one of your fake doctor words?”
“Very real,” I say, flicking the syringe to clear air bubbles. “Pays poorly in Dusty Spur.”
“Hard pass.”
Willy snorts. “Kid wouldn’t last a week. He’d apologize to the cows for pokin’ ’em.”
Emmett looks genuinely wounded. “I do apologize to the cows.”
“That explains everything,” Red mutters.
I administer the injection clean and quick, barely earning a flinch from the heifer. She settles almost immediately, sides easing as the pressure in her lungs starts to loosen.
“Good girl,” I murmur, giving her flank a firm pat before stepping back. “You’re gonna feel better soon. Don’t make a liar outta me.”
I step out of the chute and jot notes in my pocket journal. Dosage, symptoms, and follow-up window, because memory is useful, but documentation is safer.
My back pops when I straighten, loud enough that Willy winces in sympathy.
“Fire crews say the land’s still stressed,” he says, more serious now. “Animals too.”
“No kidding,” I reply. “Stress hormones hang around. They mess with immunity, appetite, and healing times. We’ll see ripple effects for weeks.”
“Even with the rain?” Emmett asks.
“Especially with the rain,” I say. “Bodies don’t reset just because the danger passes.”
That thought lands hard.
Abilene.
She’s been lodged in my head, a loose splinter since the cabin. Showing up in the pauses between heartbeats. In the moments when my hands know what to do but my mind drifts somewhere softer.
I’ve even been writing about her.
Which is deeply unsettling.
My journal is supposed to be for case notes, emotional processing, and the occasional rant about people who think duct tape is a medical solution.
Somewhere along the line, her name started appearing between entries about tendon strain and feed ratios.
Red watches me longer than feels comfortable.
“You’re distracted today,” he says finally.
I blink. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“That was very concise feedback.”
“You walked past the sorrel with the off hind leg,” Emmett adds helpfully. “Didn’t even comment.”
I grimace. “Okay. That is concerning.”
Willy grins. “Someone’s got a woman on the brain.”
I consider denying it. But before I can, a sound hits.
A sharp clatter of metal on metal from the far end of the barn, followed by the unmistakable thud of hooves scrambling for traction. It’s the kind of noise that snaps every head up at once.
Including mine.
Before anyone can swear or shout, a chestnut gelding explodes sideways out of his stall, whites of his eyes flashing, rope halter dragging loose behind him. A bad idea waiting to happen.
His ears are pinned, breath coming fast, every muscle locked into flight.
Smoke memory.
Doesn’t matter that the air’s clear now. His body remembers.
“Hey—” Emmett starts, already stepping forward.
“Don’t,” I say sharply.
He freezes mid-step.
Good.
The horse swings his head, nostrils flaring as he searches for an exit that doesn’t exist. Willy shifts his weight instinctively, ready to bolt if the horse charges.
Red doesn’t move at all.
I take one slow step forward. Then another. Angled, not direct. No eye contact yet. My hands are loose at my sides, posture open, breathing deliberately slow so he can mirror it if he chooses to.
“Easy,” I murmur. Same tone I used with the heifer. Same tone I use with people who are two seconds from making a bad decision. “You’re alright. Nothing’s chasing you.”
The gelding snorts, tosses his head. His hooves slide again.
I stop.
Wait.
Let him notice that nothing happened when he panicked.
“That’s it,” I continue quietly. “Good. You found your feet.”
I glance briefly toward Red without turning my head. He reads it instantly, shifts one step to the left to block the open aisle without making it obvious.
Willy subtly moves the other direction, giving the horse space but removing options.
The gelding’s breathing stutters, then slows by a fraction. His ears flick toward my voice.
Now.
I lift one hand, palm out, low and non-threatening. “Come on, big guy. Let’s reset.”
I take a single step back. He hesitates.
Then tentatively takes one step toward me.
“That’s it,” I say softly. “Good choice.”
Another step.
I don’t reach for him until his neck drops, just a little, tension easing out of the line of his back. When I do, my hand settles against his shoulder. I’ve been there all along.
His breath huffs warm against my arm.
“It’s over,” I murmur. “You made it.”
Red steps in only when I nod, retrieves the dangling halter, smooth and unhurried. The gelding barely reacts as it’s slipped back into place.
Emmett lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding. “Holy shit.”
Willy grins. “That was pretty.”
I finally exhale.
“Smoke stress,” I say, giving the horse one last steadying pat. “They don’t forget for a while.”
Red studies the gelding, then me. “Didn’t raise your voice.”
“No need,” I reply. “He was listening.”
Red’s nod hangs there, a period at the end of a sentence nobody’s quite ready to move on from.
Then Willy ruins the moment, because of course he does.
“So,” he says casually, hopping down from the fence and dusting off his jeans, “you gonna tell us about the woman now, or we pretend that was all just professional adrenaline?”
Emmett perks up immediately. “So there is a woman?”
I close my eyes.
This is what I get for competence. People assume intimacy follows.
“I didn’t say there was—” I start.
Willy arches a brow. “Doc, you just soothed a half-feral gelding with your voice. You don’t get to lie badly on top of that.”
Red doesn’t smile, but his gaze sharpens. “You’re not usually this scattered.”
“That’s not true,” I mutter. “I’m frequently scattered. It’s part of my charm.”
I scrub a hand over my face, fingers catching on sweat-damp hair. The barn smells of hay and leather and warm animal bodies, but it’s not enough to keep my thoughts where they belong.
Abilene’s face flickers behind my eyes anyway. Soft smile. Careful hands. The way she listens and expects the world to answer back.
Red tilts his head, waiting.
“It’s… someone I know,” I say finally, aiming for neutral and landing somewhere near helpless honesty. “From town.”
Willy grins. “Narrowed it down to half the population.”
“She keeps bees,” I add, before I can stop myself.
Emmett blinks. “Like… actual bees?”
“Yes, Emmett,” I say dryly. “The flying kind. With stingers.”
“Oh,” he says, visibly impressed. “That’s badass.”
Red’s eyes flicker with recognition. “Kentwood.”
I nod. “Abilene,” I add quietly.
There it is.
Willy lets out a low whistle.
“She’s sweet,” he says unapologetically. “And terrifying. I saw her stare down a swarm once like she was negotiating a treaty.”
Red studies me the way he studies horses before a ride. “What’s got you tangled up?”
I hesitate. Because the answer isn’t simple. And because saying it out loud makes it real.
“She’s quiet,” I say slowly. “But not empty. She pays attention. To everything. And she’s been through a lot recently. More than she lets on.”
Willy folds his arms, expression uncharacteristically serious. “That’s not tangled. That’s interest.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s the problem.”
Emmett frowns. “Why’s that a problem?”