Page 83 of Josephine and Clay

“I know,” he says dryly. “That’s why I’m telling you to.”

I give him a look.

He gives me one right back, gentler this time. “How are you feeling today?”

I’ve been doing very well at pretending the last few days haven’t happened. Or at least, I’ve been doing very well at appearing functional while internally reorganizing my entire life around two impossible flickers on an ultrasound screen.

“I’m fine,” I say.

He says nothing.

“I ate breakfast,” I add.

His brows rise.

“Toast,” I clarify. “And half a banana.”

“Progress.”

“I’m choosing not to be offended by your tone.”

“You do that.”

I tighten my grip on the bag strap. “I can handle a calf.”

“I know you can.”

The late June heat is already pressing down over Buckhorn, baking the dust into the road and shimmering above the hood of the clinic truck. I load my supplies, climb in, and give myself exactly three seconds before starting the engine.

Three seconds to breathe. Three seconds not to think about Clay’s message sitting in my phone. Three seconds not to think about the fact that I'm pregnant. With twins. Three seconds not to place my hand against my stomach like I’ve started doing without realizing.

Then the truck rumbles to life, and I drive.

Work helps. Work has rules, patterns, and steps. You assess, you treat, you monitor, you document.

No guessing what a man means when he disappears then reappears with a bit of drama. No wondering whether telling him changes everything. No imagining blue-eyed babies with reckless blood and the McCoy name before I’ve even made it through the first trimester.

Work is better.

I follow the road out of town, past the feed store, past the last cluster of houses, out where Buckhorn spreads itself thin into ranch land. Fences run alongside the gravel road, weathered posts leaning slightly under time and wire. Cattle dot the pasture in slow, dark shapes. The sky is wide and pale and cloudless.

I focus on the directions. Turn by the split cottonwood, follow the fence line, head to the second ranch road on the right.

The sign at the entrance's large, wooden, and sun-faded, but I’m concentrating on the calf, the supplies in my bag, and the faint, unpleasant twist in my stomach that may be nerves or nausea or both.

I don't read it. I should've. It'd make remembering the ranches a lot easier than relying on a list of turns every time I have to visit one.

The driveway stretches long, bordered by fencing and dry grass that shifts in the warm breeze. The ranch house sits farther in, broad and lived in, with outbuildings scattered beyond it and a barn set back near the working pens. It’s the kind of place that looks built by generations, every board and gate worn smooth by use.

I park near the barn and step out.

A dog barks once. I turn just as an old red heeler mix limps out from beneath the shade of a wagon, ears uneven, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Hello,” I say carefully.

The dog sniffs, studies me, then trots closer with the air of someone reluctantly accepting responsibility for my existence.

“Don’t let him fool you,” a deep voice says. “Rusty has already decided he likes you.”