Page 235 of Josephine and Clay

The barn is quiet when I walk in later. Dust hangs in shafts of afternoon sunlight. The familiar smell of hay and wood wraps around me instantly.

The noise that's been rattling around my head all day finally eases.

I know exactly what I want to do.

An hour later, lumber is spread across a workbench. Measurements cover three different scraps of paper. A pencil sits behind my ear. And I am staring at instructions upside down.

"Need help?"

I glance up.

Boone stands in the doorway.

"You built cribs before?"

"Four times."

"Show off."

He walks over.

His eyes drop to the wood.

Then back to me.

A grin spreads across his face. "You started already."

I look down at the boards and the plans scattered across the bench, at a future beginning to take shape beneath my hands. "Yeah, I want to be ready for them."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Josephine

AUGUST 16TH

By the time I arrive at the clinic, Dr. Harris is already standing at the front desk with two coffees, a stack of charts, and the expression of a man preparing for battle.

That is never a good sign before eight in the morning.

I slow just inside the doorway. “Should I be concerned?”

He looks up over the rim of his glasses. “That depends on how attached you are to peace.”

“I haven't had any since April, so I’ll manage.”

His mouth twitches, but his gaze drops to my middle before returning to my face with the same watchful concern he's been carrying around lately. He never makes me feel fragile, which I appreciate, but he has developed the habit of watching me as if I might attempt to wrestle a steer while nobody’s looking.

Given my history with poor decisions and large animals, he may have a point.

“We’ve got a full morning,” he says, handing me the coffee that is, unfortunately, more milk than anything else. “Two vaccination appointments, one horse with a swollen hock, a barn cat with attitude, and Mrs. Avery’s terrier.”

I wince. “Snowy?”

“Snowy.”

The morning unfolds exactly as promised, which mostly means putting out one small disaster after another. Snowy attempts to bite three people and nearly succeeds twice. The horse with the swollen hock belongs to a rancher who believes Google has made him a veterinary specialist, and the barn cat spends most of her exam glaring at me with the cold judgment of an unpaid landlord.

By late morning, I’m washing my hands for the fourth time when a wave of dizziness creeps over me.