Page 151 of Josephine and Clay

I recognize her immediately from town, from the sheer authority of her posture. She has silver-streaked hair pinned neatly, sharp eyes, and the composed expression of a woman who’s survived enough to be unimpressed by most things.

Tessa smiles. “Maggie, this is Josephine Wright. She works with Dr. Harris. Clay’s friend.”

Maggie’s gaze lands on me.

I straighten like I’m being evaluated on a practical exam. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. McCoy.”

“Maggie,” she says. “Mrs. McCoy makes me sound older than I feel, and I already have sons doing that for me.”

Faith snorts.

I manage a smile. “Maggie, then.”

“You’re the young vet who handled Boone’s sick calf.”

“Yes.”

“He said you knew what you were doing.”

“Thank you.”

“Clay’s upstairs,” Maggie says. “He’s been in a mood.”

My stomach sinks.

Rose murmurs, “Maggie.”

“What? He has.” Maggie looks back at me. “Don’t take it personally if he growls. Injured men are worse than livestock.”

Despite everything, I almost laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The main house is quieter than expected. Family photos line the hallway. Boys in various stages of dirt, denim, and growth. Clay as a child with a gap-toothed grin. Clay as a teenager, already too handsome and too wild around the eyes. Clay with his brothers, standing slightly apart even then.

My chest aches.

I climb the stairs slowly. At the top, a door sits partially closed. I knock before I can lose courage.

No answer.

I knock again. “Clay?”

A pause.

Then, rough and low, “What?”

I should leave.

Instead, I push the door open carefully.

Clay is sitting on the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out, crutches nearby, shoulders hunched like he’s holding himself together by force. The room is dim, curtains half drawn. There’s a plate of untouched food on the dresser and an open bottle of pain medication on the nightstand.

His hair’s a mess. His jaw unshaven. His eyes, when they lift to mine, are sharp and bloodshot and guarded.

He looks terrible.

He also looks furious that I can see it.

“Josie.” My name comes out flat. “What are you doing here?”