His thumbs brushed against my cheeks again. “That I care deeply for you.”
I swore my heart stopped beating. “You don’t really mean that, though. I know we flirt, and we’re having sex, but you said—” I cut myself off before I could say too much.
Spencer’s dark brows contracted. “I said what?”
Maybe this was what I was supposed to do with that hope. If I wanted it to grow and turn into something more, then maybe I needed to be brave. “You said there was a reason you came out here—to help me—but you didn’t want me to read too much into it. I assumed, you didn’t want me to get… attached.” I was pretty sure I was going to light on fire, and then the monster tree would burn and everything would be lost.
He looked horrified, and his hands tightened reflexively. “Is that what you thought? No, that’s not—Igoofed up a little when I made the decision to come out here, but it had nothing to do with you. Or,” he backtracked, shaking his head. “Sorry, it had everything to do with you. But I absolutely want you to read into things. In a good way.” He kissed my forehead. “I want you to feel adored, Ara. Read into that.”
My face twitched, on the verge of tears again. “I can’t take you seriously with the cowboy hat.”
He pinched my cheek. “I’ll take off this hat on one condition.”
“Name it,” I replied desperately.
“You wear it and bend over that couch so I can fuck you silly.”
I grinned slowly. “You have a deal, partner.”
Chapter twenty-six
Arabella
My scalpel dug into leathery tissue, sweeping around the infected kernel with a swift, circular stroke. I finished the cut, working as fast as I could to release the bumblefoot infection from the chicken’s foot. Chickens didn’t tolerate anesthesia of any form well enough to recommend it for a bumblefoot surgery, so in lieu of anesthesia, I had to be fast to minimize the animal’s suffering.
The chicken had been wrapped in a towel, and her nervous owner, a middle-aged woman with purple glasses and a worried expression, held her pet for me. This chicken had the happy fate of living on a small property with a doting owner, whose only joy greater than baking and gardening was doting on her small flock of fifteen birds. I glanced at the woman with a reassuring smile. “Almost done.”
“It seems awful to do this with her awake,” she said nervously.
I nodded in sympathy. “I can’t disagree with you there. I’m sure it’s painful for her. But their hearts don’t take anesthesia well.” I used a pair of tweezers to pull the infected kernel out,which looked like a small rock but was actually a staph infection, and I placed it in the metal dish to my right. We were in my small veterinary practice building on the ranch, which I opened for ranchers and desperate pet owners with limited availability around my traveling schedule. If I wasn’t in a barn with someone’s animals, I was usually in here.
With the infection out, I made sure that the tissue around it looked healthy, scraping a little suspicious tissue out, and then I pressed gauze to the open wound. “I’ll wrap this up for her. Change the dressing every day for two weeks, and then it should be closed up enough that her body will take it from there.” I slathered antibiotic cream on the wound, placed a fresh square of gauze into it, and then quickly wound adhesive gauze around the foot in a pattern that would allow the hen to walk.
“Will it come back?” Peggy asked, soothing the Barred Rock chicken by stroking her exposed head with a finger.
“It can, but if we keep it clean and you watch for signs of infection—red and swollen, pus, limping again—then I bet she’ll be just fine. If you suspect it’s getting worse, bring her back in. We can always do a round of antibiotics.” I finished with the dressing and then gestured for Peggy to take her. “All good. You can take her home and get her some water and a treat.”
“Warm oatmeal,” Peggy nodded, picking up her gray and white chicken and cuddling her close. “She loves it.”
“Sounds amazing,” I said honestly, smiling. I stripped off my gloves, tossing them into the trash can. “Take care, Peggy.”
“Thank you, Dr. Rook,” she smiled, and then she backed out of the small room.
After she left, my vet student, Wendy, poked her head in. “I can clean up for you. That was your last one.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall, and it read six-thirty, which shocked me. I had been going non-stop all day, and I wasn’t even sure I’d remembered to eat. Exhaustion hit me like I’d collidedwith a cement wall, and with a weary sigh, I nodded. “That would be great, actually.”
As I washed my hands, Wendy said, “There’s someone in the front waiting for you, too. I told him you’d be out in a second.”
“Who?”
“He said his name was Waylond.”
Dread plunked into my stomach like a hunk of dry ice, burning my gut. I dried my hands slowly, thinking. Eli had said he would send letters to the neighboring ranchers just to clarify water rights and their understanding of things. I hadn’t given the go-ahead for any cease-and-desist actions. “Thanks, Wendy,” I said distractedly while she cleaned up after the procedure.
I went out of the procedure room, which opened directly to a pseudo-waiting room. It was a small building I’d redone to function as my vet space, so the area was cramped, carpeted with industrial gray carpeting, and had two metal chairs against the wall next to the door. The desk against the wall had been a used desk the elementary school had been getting rid of, and my tech and I used a laptop for appointments and payments.
Waylond stood just in front of the door, his weathered face sprinkled with a gray beard and wrinkled heavily around his mouth. He had on a jean jacket lined with sherpa, and like most old-school ranchers in the area, he did have on a beat-up Stetson, which he didn’t bother to remove as he rounded a furious scowl my way. “Miss Rook.”
