“Abilene,” came his reply. Something came over his expression as he quickly added, “I grew up on a cattle ranch. Graduated from vet school and have been practicing for five years. I wanted to go out on my own when I heard of this opportunity through a posting on AVMA.”
Lila immediately tensed. Doc posted the clinic was for sale through the American Veterinary Medicine Association? How could she not have known this? She often browsed the website.
“I knew this might be the very thing I was looking for, so I jumped on the opportunity.”
Lila mentally calculated the timing. Had Doc posted the information recently—since his health episode? These things took time. There were attorneys and contracts and such. Did Doc have this in the works even before then?
She would probably never know unless she asked Doc directly, and she wasn’t about to do that. Besides, he and Winnie were packing and would be pulling out of town soon. His mind was already on his new life…a life in Florida.
The thought both pleased her and made her extremely sad. Doc was the only boss she’d ever known. Despite his gruff nature, he had taught her a lot since the early days when she’d shown up and asked for a job, barely a widow and needing a way to support herself and her daughter.
He’d hired her as a front desk assistant, letting her progress over the years. His passion for animals fueled her own. He’d even encouraged her when she told him of her plans to enroll in school and get certified. Oh, he had his criticism, but she could tell he was pleased to hear she would become a vet.
Perhaps that is why his decision hurt so much.
Lila turned her attention back to Whit. “Did Doc tell you I would have my certificate soon?” Her tone carried a subtle challenge. She didn’t want him discounting her contributions or abilities.
“He mentioned it,” Whit told her. “I was glad to hear it, frankly. There can never be enough qualified hands on board. But we do need to come to an understanding.”
“And that is?” She stared at his strong profile, his solid square face, high cheekbones, clean-shaven cheeks. Calloused hands.
He wasn’t a city boy.
Whit shifted uncomfortably. “This clinic is under my direction. You’re a valuable part of the team, and while I value your insights, the final calls are mine to make.” He met her eyes, inviting her to challenge him.
There was a lot she wanted to say. Instead, she swallowed and pushed out an appropriate, and likely expected response. “Certainly,” she said, her voice steady and cool. “This is your clinic.”
16
Lila stuck her head inside the refrigerator, pulled out the last of the contents—a half-full mayonnaise jar and placed the glass container on the counter with the other items. After adjusting the red bandana on her head, which she wore to catch the few curls that always seemed to work their way loose, she dipped her rubber-gloved hand in the bucket of sudsy water and rung out the rag, then tackled wiping down the shelves with enough force to make the entire fridge shake.
She sighed and her thoughts drifted as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn stain. It had been a long day at the clinic, and the last thing she wanted was to spend her evening cleaning out the refrigerator. But it needed to be done, and if there was one thing she had learned over the years, it was that chores didn’t wait for anyone.
As she worked, her mind wandered to the clinic and the new owner, Whit Calloway. Just thinking about him made her grip the rag tighter. He had waltzed in with his Texan drawl and easy charm, turning her world upside down. Lila had always imagined herself taking over Doc Tillman’s practice one day, not having to answer to someone else, especially not someone like Whit. Even so, she’d tried to be accommodating and helpful. But this new guy was nearly impossible to work with. Every day was a test of her patience as he tried to change everything.
The memory of their recent argument replayed in her mind—one of many they’d had in the past weeks. Whit had suggested reorganizing the clinic’s back room. “I’ve ordered some bigger cabinets for the autoclaves and sterilization equipment, and a new cooler to store our vaccinations. Oh, and I have a new coffee maker on the way. The one we have is—” He made a face. “Ancient.”
Lila had bristled at the implication that the way things were run in the clinic wasn’t good enough. Even if it was true that their coffee maker was about to bite the dust.
She shook her head, trying to dispel the frustration that had settled in her chest. It wasn’t just the changes; it was everything he represented—the upheaval of her plans, the challenge to her authority…and the unsettling way he made her heart race despite herself.
Whit Calloway was the kind of man who commanded attention without even trying, and that infuriated Lila more than she cared to admit. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a rugged handsomeness that seemed to be chiseled by the Texan sun. His short-cropped brown hair framed a face marked by striking blue eyes that could be both disarmingly charming and infuriatingly cocky. The faint stubble on his jaw only added to his appeal, giving him a rough-edged allure that Lila found annoyingly attractive.
Despite her best efforts to focus on his infuriating tendencies—his unsolicited changes to the clinic, his casual confidence—she couldn’t ignore the flutter in her stomach whenever he entered the room. A fact that only made her more determined to keep her guard up around him.
Lila stood, stretching her back, and glanced around the kitchen. She caught sight of a photograph on the counter—a candid shot of her and her late husband, Aaron, taken on one of their many camping trips. She picked it up, tracing Aaron’s smiling face with her finger. He had been her rock, her anchor, and losing him had left a void that nothing seemed to fill. She couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say about all this.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Camille’s cheerful voice called out, “Mom, I’m home!”
Lila smiled, setting the photo back down. “In the kitchen, sweetie!”
Camille bounded in, dropping her backpack on the floor, and peering into the empty refrigerator. “Something bothering you, Mom?”
Lila frowned. “What do you mean? I’m cleaning. This fridge hasn’t been scrubbed in months.”
Camille looked at her with patience. “I know. You always clean when you’re upset.”
“Oh?” Ignoring the accusation, she motioned her daughter over. “Maybe you can help.”
