She lets out a sigh, a small, tired sound. “It’s okay. It’s just… a lot.”
“Let me help,” I say, already moving toward her. I crouch down, my knees protesting, and start gathering up the scattered supplies.
“Sure,” she says, crouching opposite me.
We’re close now, our heads nearly touching as we reach for the same bottle of antiseptic. Our hands brush, and a jolt, sharp and electric, shoots up my arm. I pull back like I’ve been burned.
And then her scent hits me.
It’s not just a smell. It’s a physical presence. The scent I remember from a lifetime ago, but it’s stronger now, more potent.
It wraps around me, seeps into my pores, and I can almost taste it in the back of my throat, sweet and woody and intoxicating.
It’s the scent of her, of home, of a terrible secret I’ve been keeping for five years. I have to force myself to breathe, to focus on the plastic bottles in my hands and not on the woman across from me, on the freckles dusting her nose and the way her ponytail sways when she moves.
She’s so close. Too close. And all I can think about is that afternoon in the barn, the look on her face, the scent of her thickening in the air, and the terrifying, undeniable fact that I am nowhere near over it.
Does she ever think about it? Does she see my face and remember?
The thought is a cold dread in my stomach. I pick up another bottle, my hands trembling slightly. The plastic feels slick, my grip unsteady.
I force myself to look at what I’m doing, but my awareness is entirely focused on her. On the way the setting sun glints off the stray hairs at her temple, on the slight furrow in her brow as she concentrates.
She’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“Where are your friends?” I ask, the words coming out rougher than I intended. A stupid, awkward attempt to fill the suffocating silence.
She doesn’t look up, just keeps gathering syringes into a small plastic tray. “Clara was exhausted. Had to go home and take a nap. The last few days have been… a lot.”
Her voice is neutral, but I hear the exhaustion underneath it.
“And the Beta?” I press, hating myself a little for asking, but needing to know. “Where’s he?”
Her hands still for just a fraction of a second, a pause so small I would have missed it if I wasn’t watching her so intently.
She finally looks up, her green-gold eyes meeting mine. There’s no emotion there, just a flat, unreadable calm. “Cole’s back in New York.”
I nod, a sharp, jerky motion. A strange, unwelcome feeling unfurls in my chest. Relief. It’s sharp and immediate, and I crush it down. “Right. Of course.”
She looks away, back to the mess on the ground. “How are the cattle? Any change since this morning?”
“Just talked to Morales,” I say, grateful for the shift to a topic I can handle. “Preliminary results are inconclusive. He’s sent more samples to the state lab.”
“I’ve been talking to him all day,” she says, her voice softening as she falls into professional mode. “He mentioned your feed store run. Good thinking on the electrolytes.”
“Yeah, well, that really seems to be helping.”
We finish gathering the last of the supplies, and I follow her as she carries the box toward the clinic’s back door. The office is visible through the glass partition, and my heart sinks.
Most of the bookshelves are empty, and there are several sealed cardboard boxes stacked against one wall. It looks like she’s packing up.
“Should we be worried?” I ask. “About the herd.”
She sets the box down just inside the doorway and turns to face me, leaning against the frame. She wipes a hand across her cheek, smearing a streak of dust there.
“Morales is good, but the state lab takes time. I can call in a favor with my boss back in New York. His lab is private; they can probably get us answers in forty-eight hours, maybe less.”
My eyes widen. “Sedona… that would be amazing. Really.”
