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This is more than just taking a simple hike in a pretty park; this is nature personified.
People take photographs of places like this and publish them in travel books.
Hell, social media influencers create entire careers from traveling to beautiful spots like this.
Tom unbuckles his seat belt, takes off his headphones, and opens the hatch on the door. “Tiny!” he exclaims the instant a burst of fresh air whooshes inside the plane.
“Tommy Boy, how’s it hangin’?” a male voice responds. It’s jovial and warm and laced with a western accent that reminds me of melted honey.
“Good. Good. Mr. Kaminsky keeps me busy, as you know,” Tom answers and gestures toward me with his hand. “Mind your head while getting out, Dr. Levee. You can go on with Tiny, and I’ll handle your suitcases.”
I follow his instructions, unbuckling my seat belt and carefully exiting the plane.
Once I clear the threshold of the door, I come face-to-face with the man I’m assuming is Tiny.
He looks to be late fifties, has on a pair of worn-in cowboy boots with an equally distressed hat, and his clothing is covered with the kind of dry mud that makes it apparent he has no qualms about getting his hands dirty.
“Dr. Levee?” he asks, a full-toothed, crooked smile encompassing his face.
“Yes, but you can just call me Leah.”
“Leah.” He tests out my name on his tongue while giving my current attire—a Pucci summer dress with yellow heels—a once-over. “Pretty name that matches the pretty, and very colorful, lady, but I think I’ll just call ya Doc.”
I snort at that, unsure of what to say. “Uh…okay?”
The man just keeps on grinning. “I’m Tiny, by the way. One of the ranch hands here at Shaw Springs.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Tiny.”
“The pleasures are all mine, Doc,” he responds, and as I make my way down the small set of stairs, he holds out a gentlemanly hand to help.
I take it without question, using his strength to avoid an embarrassing spill, but the second my yellow stilettos hit the dirt, I sink about an inch into the ground.
Shit.
Tiny doesn’t miss a beat. “You might wanna consider some different footwear, Doc,” he says, his voice teasing and his eyes staring down at my favorite heels in amusement. “Fancy-pantsy shoes like that will get ya in nothin’ but trouble ’round here. And that dress of yours is mighty pretty, but it’s at high risk of gettin’ ruined on this ranch.”
“Well, Tiny, I’m one of those crazy types of women who can do just about anything in a fashionable outfit and a pair of heels.”
“Whatever you say, little darlin’,” he responds, and his eyes crinkle around the corners with a smile when he meets my eyes again. “Just mind the cow and horse shit.”
Cow and horse shit? Gross.
All of a sudden, my heels and favorite Pucci dress—a gorgeous, short-sleeve shift dress with a mirage of yellows and pinks and purples and blues—are feeling…out of place.
It’s safe to say I didn’t really think the whole “new job on a ranch” thing through when I got dressed this morning or when I packed my suitcases over the weekend for my two-month stay at Shaw Springs Ranch.
But it’s not like I’m here to do hard labor. I’m here to help the ranch owner’s young son recover from a bad knee injury with personalized daily medical care.
Plus, I wear dresses and heels like this to work all the time. Even before I took my newest job as a physician for the Slammers basketball team, I’d wear pumps and stilettos while I was making ortho rounds at Salt Lake Regional Medical Center. And I just paired my favorite designer dresses and skirts and pantsuits with my white lab coat.
Frankly, it wasn’t unusual for me to wear heels during surgery beneath my scrubs and protective booties.
Basically, I like to wear clothes and shoes that make me feel good and confident, and I’m a strong advocate for all women being their version of fashionable in every situation.
But I didn’t exactly picture dirt roads and cow dung as part of the deal when I agreed to come out here to help Tex Jameson’s son rehab a patella fracture and patella tendon tear that underwent surgery four weeks ago.
Truthfully, I don’t know if I packed much of anything that would be considered good in conditions where horse shit is a thing.
Although, in my defense, when Mr. Kaminsky called me about the opportunity, I only had a week’s time to decide, pack, and make sure my older brother Sam could keep my plants watered and mail organized.
Hell, even my closest girlfriends—Carla and Taylor—only found out two days ago that I would be gone for the summer.
And, considering we had planned on attending several summer music concerts together, they were none too pleased with my unexpected and last-minute absence from Salt Lake for the next eight weeks.
