Page 130 of Josephine and Clay

“You have enemies everywhere,” I say.

“I’m realizing that.”

“Or people like you.”

“That’s worse.”

I lean back carefully. “You really don’t like being fussed over, do you?”

Her fingers tighten around her mug. “No.”

“Why?”

She gives me a look. “That’s a question for after breakfast.”

“So there’s an after breakfast?”

Her eyes flick to mine. Then she looks down into her tea. “Maybe.”

I take that as another win.

For a while, we talk about easy things.

The clinic. The rodeo circuit. Her emergency kit, which I call a tiny disaster purse and she insists is “field preparedness.” Rusty stealing food. Mr. Biscuits, a cat I've never met but already deeply respect based on Josie’s description of his crimes.

“He knocked an entire tray of instruments off the counter once while maintaining eye contact,” she says.

“That’s leadership.”

“That’s sociopathy.”

“Fine line.”

“Spoken like a man who has clearly committed similar crimes.”

I put a hand to my chest. “I've never knocked medical instruments off a counter.”

“No, just your whole life off a bull.”

“Too soon.”

She winces, but she’s smiling. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” she admits. “Not really.”

I laugh, and it doesn’t feel forced. It feels easy. That’s what gets me.

I don’t get much easy.

Things haven’t felt easy lately, not with my family and definitely not inside my own head. Definitely not with the ranch and the rodeo and the way my whole life is suddenly a rope burning through my hands.

But Josie sits across from me, picking at toast and pretending not to be funny, and somehow the noise quiets.

“So,” I say after Laura clears our plates, “how does someone become Buckhorn’s new vet?”

She looks surprised by the question. “School.”