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I answer, "Cooper Equine Rehab, this is Lainey."

"Lainey. Roy Boone."

I've only met the man several times. Two were at regional conferences where he gave talks on rehab protocols for performance horses. Half the room took notes on what he said like it was scripture. The others were at different farms when he was working on horses with different owners than me.

He asks, "Got a minute?"

"For you? Always." I lean against my tailgate, curious. Roy doesn't call people. Roy sends professional, three-line emails and lets his reputation do the talking otherwise. "What's going on?"

"I've got a situation, and your name's the first one I thought of." He exhales, and I get the impression that whatever he's about to say isn't small.

"I work the rehab program at a ranch a few hours south of you. Big operation, cattle mostly, but they run a serious quarter horse racing program too. Two of their futurity colts went through a fence in a lightning storm last night. One's got a torn suspensory, done for the season at least. The other's got soft-issue damage in the shoulder and some bruising through the stifle. They both need aggressive rehab, and they need it from somebody who actually knows performance horses, not a general practice vet stopping by twice a week."

"That's a rough one. Suspensory tears take months even with a good program." I climb into my truck, phone wedged against my shoulder, mind already running through protocols out of habit. "What ranch?"

"Cartwright spread. Down in Whispering Junction. You ever been there?"

My hand goes still on the key in the ignition.

Whispering Junction.

I haven't heard that name out loud in almost a full year, not since the drive to Houston with Carla cursing the entire town with her front teeth. Hearing it now from Roy Boone's mouth on an ordinary Tuesday morning knocks the memories that I thought I'd finally gotten settled, back into my chest.

Roy booms, "Lainey? You there?"

"I'm here." I clear my throat and grip the wheel with my free hand like it'll steady something other than the truck. "Sorry. Long morning. You said Cartwright?"

"That's right. You know them?"

"No. But I've heard of their cattle and horse racing operations."

"That doesn't surprise me."

I drum my fingers against the door. "So how can I help you?"

He pauses, and his voice turns heavier. "My father had a heart attack a few days back. I'm headed to Dallas to help my mother manage his recovery, and I don't know when I'm coming back. Realistically, Lainey, I don't think I am. Not full-time. Not for a long while, maybe not ever, depending on how things go."

Goose bumps pop out on my skin. "Oh, Roy, I'm so sorry."

"Thank you. I appreciate that." He clears his throat, all business again, and continues, "So I need to find a replacement for me. And this isn't just a fill-in job while I recover. If you take it, there's a real chance they're going to need you on long term, not just through this rehab cycle. I wanted you to know that going in so you're not blindsided six weeks from now."

Long term.

The words dive into my gut, tangled up with a dozen things I don't have the energy to sort through. I get out and stand in my parents' driveway.

Charlie's father lives in Whispering Junction.

Trying not to sound panicked, I declare, "I have a full client list who is expecting me back to work this week. I don't know if you heard, but I just had a baby."

"Yes. Yes, I know. That's why I told the Cartwrights you would need their guesthouse. It's got four bedrooms. Then you can bring whoever you want with you to help with the baby," he states.

The wind kicks up, and a few orange leaves fly in front of me. I watch them fall to the ground.

"Lainey? Are you still there?"

"Yes. Sorry, Roy. I don't see how I can do it. It would hurt my clients here," I assert, knowing that Whispering Junction isn't anywhere I should go. And especially not with Charlie.

He informs, "Yes. I told them that it was going to cost them to get you to say yes. They are willing to pay whatever you want. Just name your figure."