Page 1 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

Chapter1

Izzy

Iwas five years old when I told my mom I wanted to be a vet.

On my sixth birthday, I asked for a vet kit. Unable to find one, my mom modified one of the toy doctor kits and added a few stuffed animals. Ilovedit. I took it everywhere. I recruited every stuffed animal in the house, imagining up a whole host of maladies and sad stories so that my services were needed.

By the time I was ten, I knew I wanted to be a large animal doctor.

I love dogs and cats, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something about the weight, the significance, and the heft in the horses. If I could get away with it, I wanted to treat only horses, but I don’t hate dealing with cows either.

After my dad died and my mom remarried, I toyed briefly with the idea of being a horse trainer. For about two years, while I was riding virtually every day, I told everyone I wanted to do both. I spent all my free time either caring for horses, riding horses, or learning how to break and train them. I learned from the very best, too, my new stepdad, Steve Archer.

But eventually, I circled back around to vet, because I didn’t want horses—my hobby—to become my job. I wanted to have a job that allowed me to ride for fun separately. I had a few people tell me that I’d have to keep top grades, and that I’d have to study really hard.

The thing is, school was never hard for me.

In fact, I rarely even needed to study.

Other kids often hated me, because I always broke the curve. Theyreallyhated me when they found out that I did it without studying. But having a solid brain gave me time to focus on horse training in all my spare time. I went to college at the best school that was reasonably close to home—the University of Utah. I didn’t get to drive homeallthe time, but I saw my family often.

Other than family and horses, I didn’t have much else to cut into my time. I never dated anyone for more than a single date or two. Sometimes it was because I scared them off—horse girls can be a lot. Other times, they freakedmeout. But mostly, I just didn’t really hit it off with anyone.

Until the day I saw Timothy Heaston for the first time.

Gleaming russet brown hair that fell over his brow. Light, almost golden-brown eyes that flashed in the sun. Half a dozen techs and assistants who followed his every order. He was evaluating a horse that could barely move, and then he strode over to the corner to talk to the owner.

“It’s what I thought—sepsis in the deep digital flexor tendon.”

The owner grimaced.

“But since it happened two days ago, he’s a candidate for fenestration.” Dr. Heaston was so calm. So forthright.

“That will lower the course of recovery?” The owner’s brow furrowed. “Or, why would we do that?”

“It doesn’t make the recovery faster, but as I mentioned, damaged tendons heal with irregularly arranged fibers. The scar tissue’s less elastic, so the repaired tendon’s weaker than it was before. Fenestration—an incision near the injury—will release the initial blood clot, and that should help the new blood vessels to grow into the injured area properly and ensure much greater function after it’s healed.”

I was at the Bear River Equine Hospital to interview for an internship, and I thought I’d done alright. But seeing Dr. Heaston, watching him diagnose and offer options on the expensive, fancy horse in front of me. . .it felt like I was seeing Taylor Swift in person, only cooler.

He was my version of a rock star.

I’d been interning at Bear Valley for almost a year when he kissed me. In my entire life, I’d never felt butterflies, but kissing an equine orthopedic surgeon that people travelled from hundreds of miles all around to see?

It was more than fireworks.

We’ve been together for almost a year, now, and even though no one at work knows, I’m still happier than I ever thought I’d be with him.

When he breezes through the door, he smiles. “Did you make dinner?”

I shake my head. “We had trouble getting Chicken Nugget on the trailer, so I didn’t leave until six.”

“But it’s seven fifteen.” He frowns. “If you didn’t cook, what am I smelling?”

I turn and look at the bag on the kitchen counter. “I picked up Urban Hill. I’d been craving their fried goat cheese.”

“So instead of making something, you drove all the way into town to buy overpriced frou-frou food?” He blinks. “Tell me your parents are rich without telling me your parents are rich.”

“You’re just crabby because you think goat cheese stinks.”

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