Page 73 of Wild Then Wed
“Don’t laugh,” his owner, Patrice, warns me, pointing a finger as she hoists him onto the table. “He gets snippy when he’s cold. Just like me.”
I nod like this is perfectly normal because, for around here, it is. “Todd looks great. Very fashion-forward.”
Patrice beams. Todd sneezes dramatically and nudges my arm like I’ve insulted his manhood.
“He’s got a good weight on him,” I say, pressing gently along his ribs. “No bloating. No tenderness. Appetite still good?”
“Ravenous,” she says. “He ate half of Sadie’s wedding bouquet last week. The silk one. Had glitter in it.”
I glance down at Todd’s blank, unrepentant stare. “Well. That explains the sparkle in his poop sample.”
She cackles, proud of him like he’s just won the damn Preakness.
When she finally leaves—with Todd prancing out in his coat—I strip off my gloves and toss them in the bin. My spine cracks when I stretch. My right shoulder’s tight, still recovering from a shitty sleep and a twelve-hour shift that started before sunrise.
I’m grateful for the craziness, don’t get me wrong. But it doesn’t make it any less exhausting.
“Please tell me that was the last one,” I call over my shoulder as I step into the front office.
Jenna doesn’t look up from her desk. “Unless someone shows up with their emotional support iguana or something, you’re free to go.”
“God bless you.”
She side-eyes me. “You look like hell, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. That’s what I’m here for—medical scheduling and morale.”
I grab my jacket off the hook by the door and shrug it on. “If I die, tell my mom I went peacefully. And that I want to be buried with Hank.”
“That’s weird, but noted.”
The sun hits me the second I step outside. It’s one of those rare Montana winter afternoons where the clouds break just long enough to remind you the sky exists. Still cold—mid-forties, maybe—but at least it doesn’t bite. Just settles over everything like a reminder that it’s still winter, no matter how bright it looks.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I unlock the car.
For a second, I let myself hope it’s Wren.
But it’s just Riley.
He’s sent a picture of Hank riding shotgun in his truck, tongue out, fur blowing in the wind like he’s having the time of his life.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
Riley watches him on the days I’m stuck at the clinic from open to close. He feeds him. Walks him—again—because apparently the four to six miles we knock out on our run before sunrise isn’t enough. Sometimes he takes him to the park. Other times, they just drive around with country music on like they’re running errands for the mob.
It helps, knowing Hank’s not alone. That someone who gets it—who knows what he means to me—is with him when I can’t be.
I sit in the car and let the heater warm the steering wheel. My brain’s already drifting back to her.
It’s stupid how fast she’s become the first place my brain goes when the noise settles.
I pull out of the parking lot, the tires crunching over patches of salt and half-melted snow, and start the drive toward the highway. The sky’s still clear, sunlight streaking across the windshield in that thin, winter gold that never quite brings heat with it.
It’s been days since we talked. Not a word. Not a text. Not even a sarcastic comment or a shitty emoji.
The one day I wasn’t working this week, I drove out to the round pen, figured maybe I’d catch her again. I made more hot chocolate, brought it in another thermos. But before I could even make it past the fence line, one of the hands stopped me—panicked about a busted pipe near the south pasture.
