Page 9 of Home Hearts Hooves

Atlas shakes his head.

“Romeo did it once, then died for real.”

“Loki dies for real,” Skye responds, and Atlas drops his fork.

“You better be lying,” he says, and I can tell by the thin smiles around the table that there are more than a few of us holding back our amusement. Atlas only just started in on the Marvel Universe films and clearly hasn’t gotten that far yet. Not exactly a lot of time to watch television out here, at the end of the day, we’re bout ready to drop the second we’re clean and fed.

“Umm, sure. I’m just kidding. Loki doesn’t really die,” Skye backtracks, shoveling a chunk of pie into his mouth from the plate in front of him. Surprisingly, there is still a decent amount on the plates and in the tray.

“He doesn’t die, does he?” Atlas asks, his eyes pinging from one person to another around the table. Sally-May stands and starts collecting the other plates.

“Now, no more talk of Loki dying, poor thing tossed at his brother’s feet like a rag doll, had both me and Perry in tears.”

Perry is shaking his head at Atlas.

“Now, finish up your pie and get on cleaning. I’ll be in the kitchen,” she says, and we watch Atlas watch her go, his mouth wide open in disbelief.

Nial breaks first, and then Connor, and once those two get going, there’s no hope for the rest of us. Laughter is contagious, after all. As I hold my stomach busting at the seams in hysterics along with the rest of them, I can’t help but notice Preston keeps glancing my way. I don’t mind, because when he laughs, his green eyes crinkle at the outer corners, and his nose scrunches in the most adorable way.

Inviting him to dinner wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Chapter four

PRESTON

I SWEAR IT TASTES LIKE MEAT

PRESTON:Thanksagainfordinner. I meant to talk to you about a tech trial that a friend of mine is running. I think it would be great for the ranch. Did you have time to chat this week?

I shoot off the message and start unpacking the box RED Tech sent over. The trial they are running is small, only a few ranches even fit the criteria, but when Bradford, an old friend of mine from Vet School, reached out to see if I knew any ranches that fit the specs, I was a little too excited to confirm I had one out this way that did. He express-shipped the pack out to me the following day. I meant to ask Dean if he’d be interested yesterday, but with the horse and then the dinner, it just slipped my mind. My phone chimes.

DEAN: I am always interested in anything great for the ranch. I can come over this afternoon if you like.

PRESTON: Sure. My last appointment is at six, though, so did you want to meet at the diner at about seven, and we can grab a burger while we chat?

I click send, and immediately, my heart is racing. Shit. I hope he doesn’t think I’m using the tech trial as a lame excuse to invite him to dinner. Maybe I should message back and tell him I’ll just head over to the ranch after my appointments tomorrow; I’ve only got a few in the morning. I should have just said that to begin with. As long as the trial starts this week, it will be on track for reporting to RED Tech. I click the little box to start typing, but his reply pops up on the screen before I can send anything.

DEAN: Sounds good. See you at seven.

Okay, no going back now. The door to the clinic opens, and Mrs. Patmore walks through.

“Is Mr. Pickles ready?” she asks.

“Yes, perfect timing. He’s all set. Let me just go grab him.”

I head out to the back to where we have the boarding kennels. Mr. Pickles, her Cavalier King Charles, is sleeping, and lets out a soft whine when I lift him out.

“That will be forty dollars,” I say, and she hands over cash and then takes Mr. Pickles and kisses him right on the nose.

“Look at my pretty boy,” she coos.

“I’ll just grab your change,” I say, rummaging in the drawer for the right mix of notes and coins.

Most of the older generations in town still prefer cash. I don’t mind, but after a break-in last year, I had to install a safe upstairs and put in a camera to deter thieves. I don’t think they were after money or medication, because they left both alone, and only took a giant bag of cat litter and a case of wet cat food.

“Same time again in two weeks?” I confirm, and she nods.

“Thank you, dearie,” she says, leaving the clinic.

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