Page 22 of Saddles and Snowstorms
“Fuck it,” I muttered, climbing out and coming around to Hank’s side. As much as the dog liked to annoy me, I loved that stupid mutt more than I could say. And he needed help.
The bell jingled overhead as I shouldered my way through the door, cradling sixty pounds of injured dog against my chest. The waiting room was empty, chairs neatly arranged, that antiseptic smell hanging in the air.
“We’re closed,” came Rowan’s voice from the back room, clipped and professional. “Emergency services are available in Amarillo if you need immediate assistance.”
“It’s... it’s me, Doc.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “Brooks Callahan. My dog’s hurt bad.”
There was a moment of silence, then footsteps. Rowan appeared in the doorway to the examination room, and damn if my heart didn’t do a little stutter. Even with his face set in that cool, professional mask, he was still the most handsome man I’d ever laid eyes on. His dark green eyes widened slightly when he saw me standing there, then narrowed as they took in Hank’s condition.
“Bring him back,” he said curtly, turning on his heel.
I followed him into the exam room, careful not to jostle Hank too much. Rowan gestured to the metal table, and I set my dog down as gently as I could. Hank whimpered, trying to lick my hand.
“What happened?” Rowan asked, already examining Hank with careful, practiced movements. His fingers probed along my dog’s flank, around the wound.
“Found him like this. Think he might’ve tangled with something out in the brush.”
Rowan nodded, not meeting my eyes as he continued his examination. His hands moved with practiced precision over Hank’s body, gentle but firm. The scar on his jaw caught the fluorescent light when he turned his head. It always caught my eye, something about it making him more handsome than usual.
“Definitely a fracture in the right hind leg,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “And this laceration will need stitches.” He looked up then, those dark green eyes cool and professional. “I’ll need to take some X-rays to confirm, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a clean break. Nothing too complicated.”
I nodded, feeling awkward as hell standing there. The silence between us was thick with all the things we weren’t saying.
“I’ll get him fixed up,” Rowan said after a moment. “It’ll take a couple hours. You can wait or come back.”
“I’ll wait,” I said, my voice gruff. No way I was leaving Hank. “You might need help.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need help from you. Waiting room’s where you found it.”
He turned away, heading to the back to turn all his machines back on. I hesitated, then reached out to scratch behind my dog’s ears before Rowan returned with a syringe.
“I’m going to give him a sedative for the pain,” he explained, not looking at me as he administered the injection with practiced ease. “He’ll be more comfortable while I work and easier to work on.”
I nodded, my throat suddenly tight as I watched Hank’s eyes grow heavy. “He gonna be okay?”
“I’ll do everything I can,” Rowan said, his voice professional but not unkind.
Our fingers brushed as I gave Hank one last pat, and I felt that same jolt I always did when we touched. Rowan pulled back like he’d been burned.
“Waiting room,” he repeated, more firmly this time.
I retreated, closing the door behind me. The waiting room felt too small, the plastic chairs uncomfortable as hell. I paced for a while, then sat down, then got up again. Through the window, I could see night had fallen completely, stars pricking the vast Texas sky.
Two hours crawled by. I leafed through outdated magazines, checked my phone, and stared at the ceiling. Every now and then, I’d hear Rowan moving around in the back, the occasional sound of equipment being shifted or drawers opening and closing. Once, I heard him speaking softly, probably to Hank. The tenderness in his voice made my chest ache.
I’d royally fucked up with Rowan. Known it the moment those angry words left my mouth yesterday. But seeing him now, the way he’d immediately jumped to help Hank despite our fight... it twisted something painful inside me.
The exam room door finally swung open around ten. Rowan stood there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a smudge of something on his forearm. He looked tired but satisfied.
“He’s stable,” he said, professional as ever. “Clean break like I thought. I’ve set it and put a cast on. The laceration needed twelve stitches, but there’s no sign of infection. He’s still coming out of sedation.”
I stood, relief washing through me. “Can I see him?”
Rowan hesitated, then nodded once, stepping aside to let me pass. Hank was lying on a padded surface in the recovery area, his leg encased in a blue cast. His eyes were half-open, drowsy but alert enough to thump his tail weakly when he saw me. I crouched beside him, running my hand over his head.
“Hey, boy,” I said softly. “Look at you, all patched up.”
“He’ll need to stay off that leg as much as possible,” Rowan said from behind me, his voice clinical. “Six weeks minimum in the cast. Limited movement. No running, no jumping, no stairs if you can help it.”
