Page 87 of Josephine and Clay

“Yeah, been here a couple of months.”

“You liking Buckhorn?”

I look toward the barn, the dust, the endless fences, the house with its wide porch in the distance. “It’s… observant.”

That makes him smile again. “That’s one word for it.”

“Nosy is another.”

“More accurate.”

I hand him the instruction sheet. “Small towns have a way of knowing things before they’re told.”

Boone folds the paper once. “You did good work.”

The compliment lands warmer than expected. “Thank you.”

Rusty chooses that moment to press his nose into my open field bag.

“Absolutely not,” I tell him.

He freezes.

I point at him. “I know biscuit theft when I see it.”

Boone looks down. “Rusty.”

The dog backs up with impressive reluctance, eyes still fixed on the bag as if I’ve personally deprived him of a meaningful future.

“He’s dramatic,” I say.

“He belongs here.”

There’s affection in Boone’s voice, dry but unmistakable.

I zip the bag shut and lift it from the ground. “I’ll check back tomorrow. Sooner if you call.”

“We will.”

I turn toward the pen once more, scanning the calf, the cow, the shade, the water access, the ground. Making sure I haven’t missed anything. Making sure the facts are lined up properly.

It’s easier to trust facts.

“Dr. Wright?”

I blink, realizing Boone has moved toward the barn. “Yes?”

“You mind taking a look at something else while you’re here? One of the horses has a cut that probably doesn’t need stitching, but I’d rather be sure.”

“Of course.”

I follow him around the side of the barn, grateful for another task. Another thing to solve.

The horse is easy. A shallow scrape along the shoulder, already cleaned reasonably well. I examine it, approve the treatment, add a topical antibiotic from my kit, and give Boone instructions he probably already knows but listens to anyway.

Competence recognizes competence.

A sound comes from near the house then. The slam of a screen door. Uneven steps on wood. A muttered curse carried faintly by the warm air.