Page 82 of Josephine and Clay

It should come easy.

Truck packed, road open, air different the farther Buckhorn shrinks in the rearview. Motels, arenas, beer sticky bars, and the rough clean clarity of having only one thing to be good at.

It used to be freedom.

Now, with the ranch spread wide in front of me and my mother’s words still working under my skin as a splinter, all I want is that again. Rusty climbs half into my lap before remembering I’m injured and settling for jamming his bony shoulder into my side.

“Even you can’t fix my mood,” I mutter.

His tail thumps once against the porch.

I scrub a hand over my face and let my head tip back against the post behind me.

As soon as I heal, I’m gone.

That’s still the plan; it has to be, because Mom’s wrong.

There’s plenty here for everyone else.

But me?

There’s nothing in Buckhorn waiting that I know how to keep.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Josephine

JUNE 24TH

By ten in the morning, I’ve been bitten by a ferret, sneezed on by a sheepdog, and stared down by a rooster with more confidence than most men I’ve met.

So, naturally, the day can only get worse.

“Josephine,” Dr. Harris calls from the front desk, his voice pitched in that calm way that means there's absolutely nothing serene happening.

I pause with my hand halfway into the supply cabinet. “Please tell me Mrs. Sanderson’s cat didn’t escape again.”

“Worse.”

I turn.

He stands with the phone pressed to his ear, one hand covering the receiver. His expression is mild, but his eyebrows have lifted in a way I’ve learned to interpret as problem incoming.

“Calf down,” he says. “Young one. Weak, not standing properly. Owner says she’s gone off feed, and he’s worried she’s dehydrated.”

I’m already reaching for my field bag. “How long?”

Since last night.” Dr. Harris covers the phone again. “I’ve got the Anderson mare coming in any minute, and Penny’s uncle just called about that lame gelding.”

I grab gloves, thermometer sleeves, syringes, electrolyte packets, and my tiny emergency kit from the hook by the door. “Where am I going?”

He gives me the address.

I repeat it once, mostly to make sure I’ve heard correctly, then nod and sling the bag over my shoulder.

“Take the truck,” he says. “And call if you need backup.”

“I won’t.”