The airin the holding pen is thick, a heavy blanket of animal fear, damp earth, and the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic. It’s a grim symphony, and the mournful moos of the cattle are the main melody.
I work with a detached focus, my hands moving on pure instinct. I draw blood from the jugular of a young heifer, the dark red liquid filling the vacuum-sealed tube with a soft hiss.
Jasper is on the other side, his face pale and dewed with sweat, his knuckles white where he grips the lead rope. He’s trying to be brave, but his wide eyes betray the kid he still is.
Tex is a whirlwind of forced, frantic energy. “Attagirl,” he murmurs to the heifer, scratching her rough neck in a way that’s meant to be soothing. “Just a little pinch, and we’re all done. Think of all the tasty grain you’ll get later. Maybe even a molasses lick if you’re real good.”
He winks at me over the animal’s back, a playful, charming gesture that’s meant to put me at ease, but all it does is make the knot in my stomach tighten.
He’s trying so hard, his smile a little too bright, his jokes a little too loud. It’s a performance, and I’m the unwilling audience.
And then there’s Billy.
He’s not just a presence; he’s a force.
He’s the one who moves in when a steer gets agitated, his movements economical and precise. He doesn’t use words, just his body, a solid wall of muscle and quiet command that the animal respects more than any rope.
He presses his shoulder into the steer’s flank, his voice a soft, non-threatening rumble in its ear, and the great beast stills.
His hands are close to mine as I insert the needle, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, can smell the familiar scent of pine smoke and leather that once felt like home.
Every time our fingers brush, a jolt, sharp and unwelcome, shoots up my arm.
He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he gives no sign. His face is a mask of cold concentration, but I can feel the anger simmering just beneath the surface, a palpable heat that has nothing to do with the morning sun.
I finish with the steer and move to the next animal, a cow whose breathing is shallow and ragged. As I crouch to prepare a new syringe, my gaze drifts across the pen.
Seth is handing Jasper a fresh collection kit, his movements calm and measured. The sight of him, the familiar line of his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead, triggers a memory I’ve tried to bury for years.
It’s not a clear picture, not a full scene. It’s just a flash.
The back of Seth’s neck, glistening with sweat. The rhythmic creak of leather. The muffled sound of a woman’s breathy gasp. Lila Hartwell’s face, flushed and ecstatic.
I remember the shame, a hot, acidic tide that burned my throat. I remember biting my lip so hard I tasted blood, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the sick, twisting heat that had pooled low in my stomach.
And then, as if to torture me, the dream from two nights ago crashes into my mind. Billy’s hands on my skin, his mouth on my neck.
The shame from the barn memory mixes with the desire from the dream, a nauseating cocktail. Seth. I was horrified that Seth, the man from that shameful, secret memory, had crept into my dream about Billy.
What is wrong with me?
A wave of self-loathing washes over me, so potent I almost drop the syringe. Maybe Clara has a point. Maybe what I need is to leave this town, to leave these barns filled with ghosts and confusing, painful memories.
I could keep the clinic and the house closed until I’m ready to deal with it, or maybe I’ll never be ready. I could talk to Mayor Ruth, have her look for tenants or buyers.
The thought is a cold, hard stone in my gut, but it’s also a relief. A way out. A way to stop feeling like I’m drowning every time I turn a corner.
Once the last sample is collected and carefully labeled, I straighten up, my back screaming in protest.
“That’s it,” I say, my voice flat, devoid of any emotion. “I’ll get these couriered out this afternoon.”
Clara, who has been acting as my assistant, organizing the sample kits with a fierce competence, gives me a supportive smile. “You were amazing. They were all so calm with you.”
We walk back to the sedan, the weight of the morning pressing down on us, heavier than the medical kits in our hands. I climb into the driver’s seat and turn the key.
The engine gives a pathetic little cough, followed by a series of frantic clicking sounds. Then, nothing but silence.
“Are you kidding me?” I mutter, thumping the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. I try again. Still nothing. The battery is completely dead.
