Page 2 of Wishing Hearts

I guess maybe Tilda’s cheer is a good thing. It’d be all too easy to fall into a somber mood with this many neglected animals about.

“You all right doin’ some care on the ungulates this mornin’?” she asks.

“Sounds fine with me.”

“Okay, then,” she says. “See that old barn over there? The one with the faded red door?”

Tilda points, and I give her a nod. Looks like the barn was probably in decent condition about twenty years ago.

“Right,” Tilda says. “I’ve got Carl sortin’ sheep thataway. He’ll bring the injured ones into the barn for you to take a look at. We already had somebody check the integrity of the buildin’, and it’s old, but it’ll do. Electricity’s runnin’, as well.”

“Sounds good. Anything else I need to know?”

Tilda shrugs a little. “We’re dealin’ with this as we go. If you get any animals that need more care than you can give here on the spot, let me know. We’re workin’ on transportin’ batches to the veterinarians standin’ by here and a couple towns over.”

I nod, taking another look around. Someone leads a horse past. The mare’s mane is badly tangled, as is her tail, and she’s favoring one of her front legs. A few pigs squeal nearby, running wild in a makeshift pen, their bodies much too lean to be considered healthy. There are sheep with terribly matted fleece, dogs yipping, cattle, a few donkeys, water fowl, barn cats—every farm animal imaginable in droves. And who knows how long they’ve been here, not given the care they need in this tucked-away plot of land that no one but Mr. Calhoun himself has been to in ages. Even the property is in disrepair, the barns and sheds missing boards, the grasses and tangled weeds growing wild and tall. There shouldn’t be a single animal living here, let alone hundreds.

It’s messed up. Totally fudged, as Winnie would say.

“Fuck,” I mutter aloud, letting loose a breath.

“That ’bout sums it up,” Tilda replies, slapping me on the back. “Get on out there, Doc. And good luck.”

“Thanks,” I tell the woman, setting off toward the rundown red barn.

The sound of baaing intensifies the closer I get, and I’m just turning the corner when I set eyes on who I presume to be Carl. The man has a slipknot rope over the neck of a sheep he’s leading toward the barn, and he raises his hand as I approach.

“New recruit?” he calls out.

“Guess so,” I return, squinting at the interior of the barn. One side is opened up, doors thrown wide, and although it smells musty inside, it is, as Tilda indicated, lit up.

I wait until Carl is close and then hold out my hand. “Doctor Harrison Bailey,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

He gives me a handshake, smiling, his other hand keeping tight on the sheep’s lead. “Just Carl for me. C’mon, I’ll show you ’round.”

Carl leads me inside the barn, pointing out the area they cleaned up for me to use. There’s an extension cord nearby, plugged in, and an exam table that looks brand new. Carl loops the sheep’s lead around a nearby post before huffing a big breath.

“I’m gonna head out and look for your next patient,” he says. “Ready to get started, Doctor Bailey?”

I plop my bag atop the exam table. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Carl gives me a big salute before heading back out of the barn, and I look at the sheep. The poor thing is a bedraggled mess, but she doesn’t object as I step close. Noticing a new bag of feed set against the wall, I head that way. The sheep perks up at the sound of the top of the bag being torn off, and when I bring a handful of pellets her way, she races toward me, nearly reaching the end of her lead.

My heart constricts as the sheep gulps down the food in my hand. Her fleece will have to go—it’s far too overgrown and matted to be healthy and is caked in a number of things I don’t want to know the origins of. I can feel her ribs, much too prominent beneath the fleece, as I run my fingers along her side. And there’s at least one abscess visible on her leg.

Totally fudged is right.

No, I didn’t want to come back to Plum Valley, Texas. Not anytime soon. Maybe not ever. But being back here is the right thing.

That I’m sure of.

Chapter 2

Sammy

“I swear to God, if I ever catch this guy, I’m takin’ his left nut,” I say.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Carl responds, eyes widening as he wipes BBQ sauce off his mouth.

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