Page 3 of Fool Me

My friends from Houston know I grew up in the country, but I don’t think the rustic cabin behind me and an actual ass screaming at me for food is what they pictured when I told them I was moving home to take over my hometown practice.

When they think western ski town, they liken it to the opulence of Vail or Aspen, not Timberline Peak, where the population barely reaches sixteen hundred but swells during the summer months and ski season. Where the buildings downtown have wood porches and facades reminiscent of old western movies. Or where the crowds gather in Summit Square because that’s the heart of the community. Where they can bump into their friends getting pizza at Gondoughla Pizzeria, or grab flowers for someone special from Peaks & Petals. A place where farms and ranches dot the valley, and rugged mountains stretch toward the clouds untamed. It’s the most beautiful placein the world, if you take it at face value. It’s hard to believe anyone would voluntarily leave this place and never return, but Timberline Peak’s beauty can’t mask the ugliness of the betrayal I experienced here.

Dirt crunches under my feet as I approach Muley’s pen, and a cloud of dust rises as she stomps impatiently. Keeping my eyes glued to her, I open the enclosure. The last thing I need is a hoof to the dick in her excitement to get to food.

With the latch on the gate clicking behind me, I set down the fresh bowl next to her old one. I give Muley my back only long enough to twist the knob on the water to refill her metal trough.

A sharp pain shoots up my spine from my left ass cheek. “Goddamn!” I shout, glaring over my shoulder to find her looking all too pleased at having bested me. I turn tail and hop over the fence, wishing I would’ve changed out of my scrubs before I came out here. Denim would have protected me better from the chunk she just tried to take out of my ass. As it is, that bite is going to bruise.

“You’re hell-bent on making a meal out of me when I’m out here feeding you. Doc didn’t tell me you were such a stubborn ass—I’d have let him take you to Florida with him,” I rant at the donkey, making her ears twitch at my empty threat, then reach over the fence to cut the water before yanking my hand back.

“We’re going to need to figure out how to coexist. I’ve got enough stacked against me trying to convince people to give me a chance. That’s only going to be harder if you’re out here making me look like I’m some city doctor they can’t trust.”

Shit, if word got out that I can’t control Miss Cyrus, I’d be laughed out of town.

Prancing off to the pasture, she kicks her hind legs at me—her own version of “fuck you,” and I reach over the fence to grab this morning’s dirty feed dish while it’s safe.

Fresh from a shower, with my scrubs traded for a pair of basketball shorts, I pull out a chair at the kitchen table—another thing I inherited from Doc.

The wood under my hand is smooth, save for the years of knicks and dents from meals shared between Ray and Kate. When they moved, they left most of the furniture behind. Handcrafted tables made of local Wyoming timber don’t exactly fit in with the coastal feel of their condo in Florida. And since he doesn't plan to come back after . . . well I think it’s just easier.

Just like it had been easier to leave all mine in Houston, at the apartment I shared with my girlfriend.

Or, ex-girlfriend, I guess.

After five years together, when I sat down with her to tell her Ray had approached me about buying the practice, she’d wished me well but told me she wouldn’t be coming. At first, I thought it was a ploy to make me stay, or that she’d come around.

But at some point in the last few years, we’d gotten too comfortable. It’s probably why I’d gone into the discussion with my mind already made up—I was coming back whether she was with me or not.

Things were never bad with Sara, they just . . . were. I wasn’t her person—that’s what she told me. And honestly, she wasn’t mine, which is something I think I always knew. I’m sure there were missed signs because I wasn’t paying close enough attention, but both of us were content to be busy with our careers and the pace of living in a big city.

When she told me she wasn’t coming, it was with a sigh of acceptance, not tears. We rarely fought when we were together,and I didn’t want to fight about possessions in the end. So, I called Ray and told him I’d take it all.

Being single will certainly give me more time to focus on making the practice mine, even if the town judges me for not finding a wife while I was gone. They’ll have to deal.

My phone shakes against the glossy wood, and a text from my mom lights up the screen.

Mom

Hope you had a good first week. Dinner here this weekend?

Atlas

Sure. I’d like that.

I could count the number of dinners I’ve had with my parents in the last few years on both hands. All of which had to do with me living out of state, not because there’s this big mysterious rift between us like everyone seems to think.

The rift in our family lies firmly between my brother and me. My parents do their best to stay out of it these days. They don’t update me on his life, beyond major occurrences—like when he moved out of state two years ago. Although, it wasn’t always that way. When I first went no-contact, they plotted to get us together, begged me to forgive him, and bargained with him to try to make things right. But there was no fixing how broken we were, and eventually they realized that continuing to push it was only driving me further away.

Until two years ago, coming home wasn’t an option. He’d been living in Timberline Peak, which meant I avoided visiting at all costs. And over the years, my parents developed a fondness for trips south in the winter. Even after he abruptly moved two years ago, they kept coming to visit me, escaping the brisk months for more mild temperatures twice each year.

It wasn’t ideal, but it worked for a while.

But now that I was back, dinners at their place would be as regular as everyone knowing my business again.

CHAPTER

TWO

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