Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mountain Man (Wrong Number, Right Grump)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

HOLDEN

The calf is three days old, sixty pounds of bony legs and bad luck, and she won't stop bawling.

Her mother stands ten feet away in the Hendersons' barn, chewing cud with the vacant indifference of a cow who has decided this particular offspring isn't worth the trouble. Rejected. It happens. Some mothers look at what they made, decide no thank you, and walk away.

I crouch in the straw, run my hands along the calf's ribcage, count the spaces between her breaths.

Dehydrated. Mild hypothermia despite the heated barn.

Tom Henderson watches from the gate with his arms crossed, hat in his hands, looking at me like I'm supposed to perform a miracle with a stethoscope and a tube of electrolyte paste.

"She gonna make it, Doc?"

"Depends on whether you bottle feed her every four hours like I told you yesterday."

Tom shifts his weight. "I got up twice last night."

"Then get up four times tonight."

He doesn't like that answer. Nobody ever likes my answers.

That's fine. I didn't become a large animal vet in the Kootenay Rockies because I enjoy customer service.

I became one because animals don't require small talk.

They hurt, you find the hurt, you fix it or you don't. Clean math. No ambiguity.

The calf nuzzles into my palm, her nose wet, her eyes glassy. Something in my chest pulls tight. I ease the electrolyte syringe into the side of her mouth, hold her jaw steady. She fights for a second, then swallows. Good girl.

"Four times," I say again, standing. My knees crack. Thirty nine years of mountain terrain, logging roads, barbed wire fences, frozen pastures. My body keeps a ledger. "Or call me when she crashes and I'll come back. Your choice."

Tom nods. Doesn't argue. Most of my clients learn fast that arguing with me costs them time they could be spending actually following my instructions.

Outside, the June sun hangs low over the Selkirks.

Golden hour turning the valley into something a postcard company would put on a calendar.

I don't stop to admire it. Climb into my truck, a mud caked Tacoma with 340,000 kilometers and a passenger seat buried under vet supply catalogs, empty thermoses, and a copy of Large Animal Internal Medicine I've been meaning to return to the Cranbrook library for seven months.

The engine turns over on the second try. Better than yesterday's third.

Forty minutes back to my cabin. Gravel switchbacks, one section of washboard road that rattles my fillings loose, a creek crossing that'll be impassable by November.

I bought this property eight years ago because a realtor in Nelson described it as "remote but accessible" and I told her to show me the most remote thing she had.

She drove me up a logging road, pointed at forty acres of pine and granite with a cabin that needed a new roof, new plumbing, new wiring, new everything.

Perfect, I said. She thought I was joking.

Annika loved it. Said it smelled like the cabin her grandfather kept outside Troms?. She lasted three winters up here before the headache, and that's a thought I'm not going to finish because my hands are on the steering wheel and they need to stay steady.

Five years. Five years since she went to bed saying her temples were pounding, five years since I told her I'd bring her ibuprofen when I got back from a calving emergency at the Parsons ranch, five years since I came home at 4:17am to a body that was already cold.

The last text she sent me was at 9:42pm.

Head is really bad tonight. Come home soon?

I didn't see it until 4:18am. Stood in our bedroom doorway reading it on my phone while paramedics confirmed what I already knew from the color of her skin.

That text is still at the top of our thread. I've never opened another conversation above it. Five years of contacts, clients, brothers, friends, all stacked below Annika's name because moving her down the list would mean someone else's words are more important than her last ones.

My vet tech, Darren, says this is "maladaptive grief behavior." Darren is twenty six, recently engaged, and has a podcast about "holistic veterinary wellness" that gets eleven downloads per episode. I don't take psychological advice from Darren.

The cabin appears through the tree line.

No lights on because there's nobody home to turn them on.

The porch has a rocking chair I built three winters ago during a week when the loneliness got bad enough that I needed my hands occupied.

There's a woodpile stacked against the south wall, eight cords deep.

Enough to last two winters because I split wood when I can't sleep, which is most nights.

Inside smells like coffee and pine. I reheat the pot from this morning, pour it into a mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST VET, a gift from Darren that I kept because at least the mug is honest. Dinner is leftover elk stew from Sunday.

I eat it standing at the counter because sitting at the table means looking at the empty chair across from me.

Phone buzzes in my pocket.

Probably Tom Henderson with a question about dosage that I already wrote down for him.

Or Darren sending me another article about "compassion fatigue in rural veterinary practitioners" that I won't read.

Or Callum Ridge asking about his old gelding's hoof abscess, which I told him two weeks ago needs soaking, not texting me about.

I pull it out.

Unknown number. Toronto area code.

HELP. My best friend's golden retriever got bit by something, maybe a snake?? She called her vet and it went to voicemail and this was the emergency number on the card. He's drooling a lot and his gums look pale. What do I do??? Is he dying??? PLEASE.

I stare at the screen.

This is not my number. I am not a Toronto vet. I am standing in a cabin in British Columbia eating day old elk stew in my socks, and a stranger just texted me in all caps about a golden retriever.

The phone buzzes again.

His name is Mango. He's the sweetest boy alive. Please answer.

My thumb hovers. The smart move is to reply wrong number, put the phone down, finish my stew. Not my dog, not my province, not my problem.

But the gums. Pale gums on a golden after a possible snake bite is a ticking clock. If she's in the GTA, it's likely a Massasauga rattler, and the window for antivenom is smaller than most people think.

I type before the reasonable part of my brain catches up.

Stop panicking. Breathe. Where exactly on the dog's body is the bite? Don't try to suck the venom out. Don't ice it. Don't tourniquet it. Keep Mango calm, keep him still, and tell me what the swelling looks like right now.

Send.

I stare at the message. Set the phone on the counter. Pick up my stew.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Oh my god. Thank you. Thank you. Okay. Breathing. The bite is on his front left paw. It's swelling and hot. He's whimpering. My friend is freaking out. I'm freaking out. You're the only one answering.

Something shifts. Low in my chest, somewhere I stopped checking for signs of life around year three. This stranger is scared, she's alone with a dog in trouble, and I'm the only voice in her ear.

I put the stew down.

Listen to me. Mango needs a vet. Not tomorrow. Now. Take him to the nearest emergency animal hospital. Call ahead so they can prep antivenom. Keep him below your heart level in the car. Don't let him walk. Carry him if you can. He's going to be okay if you move fast. Go. Text me when you get there.

I send it. Lean against the counter. My kitchen is quiet. The coffee is cold. The rocking chair on the porch is empty.

The phone doesn't buzz again for forty seven minutes.

When it does, I'm in bed. Boots off, flannel still on, staring at the ceiling with both hands behind my head the way I do every night while I wait for sleep to decide whether it's coming.

We're at the emergency vet. Mango is getting antivenom. The vet says we got here just in time. You saved his life. I'm literally crying in a waiting room right now. I don't even know your name. Thank you. Also I just realized you're probably not Dr. Patel's emergency line, are you.

I almost smile. Almost.

No. I'm not. I'm a wildlife vet in British Columbia. You texted the wrong number.

Three dots.

...

I'm sorry WHAT.

You're in brITISH COLUMBIA??

And you just... helped me anyway? A total stranger? At 10pm on a Tuesday?

My thumb moves before I think about it.

Mango needed help. Go home. Get some sleep. Glad the dog's okay.

I put the phone on the nightstand. Face down. Like I always do. Annika's last text sitting at the top of her thread, and now a stranger's gratitude sitting at the top of mine.

The ceiling is the same ceiling it's been for five years.

But the quiet feels different tonight. Just a fraction. Just enough to notice.

I notice.