Page 17 of Josephine and Clay

No expectations beyond that, no questions about where I fit, just the eight seconds I know all too well.

I roll the coin across my knuckles, then catch it, closing my fist around it.

My thumb moves before I can second-guess it.

Clay: Yeah. I’ll be there.

I slide the phone back into my pocket, pushing off the fence.

There’s still work on Boone’s list. I’ll get to it, or I won’t. Either way, I already know that I won’t be in Buckhorn for long.

CHAPTER FOUR

Josephine

APRIL 25TH

By eight thirty, I’ve already wiped down the exam room counters twice, reorganized the drawer of syringes by gauge, and corrected the angle of the framed certificate in the hallway that no one but me has likely noticed is crooked.

Which is how I know I’m stressed, carrying too many moving pieces in my head at once, all of them rattling around until I give them something useful to do.

“Josephine.”

I look up from the supply cabinet where I’m needlessly straightening rows of gauze pads that were perfectly acceptable three minutes ago.

Dr. Gregory Harris is leaning one shoulder against the doorway of the treatment room, coffee mug in one hand, expression calm in the infuriating way only my boss can pull off.

“Yes?”

His gaze drops pointedly to the shelf I’m adjusting. “If those bandages get any more organized, they’ll start billing patients.”

I flatten my hand over the top box.

He smiles into his coffee and pushes off the doorframe. Dr. Harris is in his late fifties, broad in the shoulders, graying at the temples, with the kind of laid-back manner that would be reassuring if it didn’t sometimes make me feel like I’m the only person here aware that things can, in fact, go wrong.

Which is unfair.

He’s an excellent vet. He’s also the kind of man who can leave a stack of charts slightly uneven on the counter and somehow not feel his skin crawl about it.

I, unfortunately, am not.

“What do you need?” I ask, because he only uses my full name when he wants something.

“Need you to run over to Buckhorn Feed & Supply for me.”

I glance at the clock on the wall. “Now?”

“If your social calendar allows.”

I fold my arms. “You have a very casual approach to medical logistics.”

“And you have a very intense one.” He takes another sip. “We’re low on calf formula and electrolyte packets. Plus, Virgil said he’d set aside the wormer shipment I ordered. I’d go myself, but Mrs. Sanderson’s bringing in that tabby with the abscess at nine, and if I’m not here she’ll accuse us both of incompetence and then tell half the town about it by lunch.”

“I can go,” I say as I rise to my feet. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“Excellent.” He glances behind me at the cabinet. “And maybe while you’re out, let those poor supplies miss you for a while.”

I slide the drawer shut a little harder than necessary. “Very funny.”