Page 8 of Wishing Hearts

If possible, he smiles wider. But then he gets back to work, hopping the fence into the sheep pen.

And that’s the other reason I haven’t yet told the guy to bug off. Because he, like me, is here for a purpose. And I admire the man’s work ethic.

I tend to some minor wounds on the sheep inside the barn as Sam brings a few more ewes in. We check them for foot scald before separating them accordingly. Luckily, none have been as bad as the first sheep, which makes me think the infection spread recently.

Of course, the flock could have been vaccinated against such a thing. But clearly, that wasn’t a priority of their former owner’s.

“Things’ll be better now,” I tell the sheep nearest to me, smoothing my hand over her side as she nibbles up some high-energy pellets.

Footsteps draw near, and then a throaty hum follows, pulling my gaze. Sam gives me a rakish grin. “I sure do like that.”

“What? That I talk to the animals?” I ask, dusting off my hands and standing up.

“Mhm,” he answers. “Shows you have humility.”

And, what, humility is sexy now? I’ve been out of the game way too long.

“Animal folk are the best folk,” Sam goes on, expression soft.

“You won’t hear me contradicting that,” I say.

“Doctor Bailey?” a voice calls from outside. A moment later, Tilda walks in, eyes flicking from me to Sam. “And our Sammy. How’s it goin’ in here?”

“Okay, all things considered,” I tell her. “We’ve pulled out a few infected ewes, but the ones in the bigger pen are clear to go.”

Tilda nods. “We found a rancher up near Austin who can take half the flock. I figure we’ll start packin’ up the healthy ones. Should be able to get a handful on the road tonight.”

“Make sure he knows to keep ’em in quarantine for at least two weeks,” Sam says before I have a chance to.

“Will do, Sammy,” Tilda says warmly. “Now supper’ll be delivered shortly, so make sure y’all go eat. And then we’re kickin’ everybody out at seven. Folks need their rest before we start again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Tilda,” I reply.

“You betcha, Doc.” Tilda gives me a nod, Sam a smile, and then heads from the barn.

“Have you worked together long?” I ask once she’s out of sight.

Sam smiles. “Nearin’ eight years now. That woman is the mother I never had.” Then, as if he hadn’t just dropped that loaded statement, Sam claps my shoulder and says, “C’mon. Let’s get through a couple more before food arrives.”

I nod, watching the man walk back out the door, my shoulder tingling.

When trays of enchiladas, tacos, and burritos are delivered from Nash’s restaurant in town, Sam and I clean ourselves up as best as we can and join the others for food. Everyone looks a little harried, a little worn down from the events of the day. I’m feeling it myself, but for some reason, the emotional drain I usually get after dealing with such difficult cases is absent.

I think I may have the distraction named Sam to thank for that.

“Christ, this is good,” Sam says, licking his finger clean. He shifts his gaze my way as he tackles the next, sucking his pointer finger almost obscenely. I should absolutely tell him to stop.

I don’t.

“Aw, c’mon now,” Carl mutters from across the table.

“All right, Carl?” Sam asks, swinging his gaze over to his coworker.

Carl shakes his head dismissively, cheeks a little ruddy, and Sam huffs a laugh.

“You stayin’ ’round here?” Sam asks me, grabbing a napkin.

“Mm,” I answer noncommittally before shoving my last sweet potato fry in my mouth.

---