The carrier was right where I'd left it. I settled the puppy inside, wincing at the high-pitched whine it made. The sound hit me somewhere in the chest—that same spot that never quite hardened no matter how many times I told myself to stop caring so much.
“Hey. You're okay.” I grabbed an old towel from my bag, slipping it into the carrier. The puppy immediately burrowed into it, still shaking. “There you go. See? Not so bad.”
I checked my phone. Nine forty-two.
“Oh crap.”
Sullivan Farm. Buddy's checkup.
And I was going to show up late with a flea-ridden puppy in my truck.
Great impression, Sterling. Real professional.
I grabbed the carrier, jogging back to my truck. The puppy whimpered when I set it in the back seat.
“If anyone asks, you made me late. This is entirely your fault.” I cranked the engine, already calculating drive time.
I pulled onto Main Street, one hand on the wheel, the other bracing the carrier when it slid during turns. The puppy had gone quiet, either settling down or too exhausted to protest anymore.
Town gave way to open valley. Green pastures rolled past my window, dotted with grazing cattle. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks still holding snow despite the early summer warmth.
Sullivan Farm's red barn came into view on the left, tucked against a slope where the creek cut through. The farmhouse sat higher up with its picture-perfect porch, chickens wandering the yard.
I pulled up near the barn, angling the truck so it sat in the shade. Killed the engine and lowered all four windows.
The puppy didn't stir.
“Stay put. I'll be back.”
Like it has anywhere else to go.
I grabbed my vet bag from the truck bed, already scanning the property for Walt. His truck was parked by the house, but the porch was empty. Usually he'd be waiting, ready to walk me through whatever minor concerns he'd noticed since the last visit.
The barn door was open.
I headed that direction, boots crunching on gravel. A goat bleated somewhere nearby. The chickens scattered as I passed, clucking their disapproval.
“Walt?”
No answer.
I stepped into the barn's cooler dimness, letting my eyes adjust. Buddy's stall was on the right, the old gelding dozing in the back corner like he always did.
“You around?”
Movement exploded from the shadows near the tack room straight ahead.
A goat shot past me. Black and white, ears pinned back, moving like it had somewhere important to be.
Then a woman barreled around the corner, rubber boots pounding the dirt floor, overalls streaked with mud and what might've been manure. She spotted the goat making a break for the open door and lunged sideways, arms outstretched.
“Chip! Don't youdare?—”
The goat darted left. The woman followed, lost her footing, and slammed directly into me.
We went down in a tangle of limbs.
I hit the ground hard, my bag flying sideways. She landed half on top of me, one elbow digging into my ribs, hair plastered to her face with sweat.
