Page 52 of The Coyote's Veterinarian Omega

“Fine,” Wyatt said, then picked up the menu. He skimmed it, eyes bouncing over the words.

I already knew what I wanted; Dad had always ordered for us when we were kids, using the same logic I’d just applied to ordering for Wyatt. I’d tried other stuff on the menu when I’d gotten older and braver, but I always came back to “my usual.” Dad had been right: the burger really was the best thing on the menu. I hadn’t found anywhere else that could compare—not that I had a lot to compare to.

Wyatt inhaled deeply, then set the menu aside. “All right,” he said, “I forfeit. What’s good?”

I nodded, then turned to Melissa as she approached again. “Shakes,” she said, sliding them across the table. “Ready to order?”

“Two burger-n-fry combos.”

She nodded. “Ketchup?”

“Yup.”

“All the fixins on the burgers?”

“Yep.”

“’Kay. Need any vinegar?”

“Nah,” I said, then glanced at Wyatt. “Unless you’re one of those weirdos who likes vinegar on their fries?”

Wyatt looked practically green with the suggestion. I laughed. “I’ll take that as a no,” Melissa said, then snapped her notepad shut. “Two burgers, two fries, coming right up.”

She sashayed off again. I glanced back at Wyatt, who, if anything, looked evengreenernow. I frowned. “Uh … you okay?”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“You tried the shake?” I asked, suddenly worried I’d accidentally poisoned my mate.

“No,” he croaked, then took a deep breath. “Sorry. I just—Ithink it’s the grease.”

“Oh,” I said, glancing around. “Yeah. Kinda is a greasy spoon, isn’t it?”

He snorted a laugh. “What?” I asked, and he shook his head again.

“Just … don’t think I’ve everheardsomeone call a place a greasy spoon in real life.”

“Well,” I grumped. It was what my grandparents had called the place.

He patted the back of my hand, then reached for the shake. He jammed the straw into it, then took a sip.

His eyes widened, and he looked at the shake like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “That’s …”

“Good, right?” I grinned. “They use fresh berries.”

“Good doesn’t even begin to describe it,” he muttered, then stuck the straw back in his mouth.

I grabbed my own shake, pleased as punch that I’d chosen the right thing for my mate.

Wyatt

Spring melted into summer, and i settled into routine in coyote creek. the intensity of the spring faded as the weather got warmer. there were still plenty of animals that needed care: a horse that threw a shoe, a cow with a fever, and all the newborns that needed their checkups and shots. and, of course, there were plenty of personal pets that needed tending as well. god knew dogs got into more garbage and stuff as they spent more time outside, and there were plenty of skunks around to mean that tomato juice was flying off the shelves at the grocery store. cats required their shots, and both types of pets needed solutions for fleas and ticks, just like the bigger animals.

I saw off Mrs. Wilson with her chattering chihuahua for what felt like the fifth time that week, barely holding my nose as sheheaded out to get yet more tomato juice. Stupid dog didn’t seem capable of learning to leave the strange black-and-white striped creatures alone.

I threw open the window in the exam room. My lunch break was next, which would give the space time to air out. I was working out of the little clinic Vern had at Sunny Acres—an old barn he’d converted. It worked wonders; he’d left a couple of stalls from the barn, which meant we could conduct exams on bigger animals when the farmers could get them up to the clinic.

The day was a warm one, near to the end of May, which meant it had been almost three months since I’d arrived in Coyote Creek. I peered out the window, breathing in fresh air, watching the leaves of the massive old oaks fluttering in the breeze.