Page 139 of Saddle and Scent
The admission surprises me, partly because it's so different from the path he ultimately chose, but mostly because I can picture it perfectly. Wes with his patience and observational skills, spending hours waiting for the perfect shot, building the kind of trust with wild animals that allows for intimate documentation.
"What changed your mind?" I ask.
"Practicality, mostly," he says with a slight shrug. "Wildlife photography is incredibly competitive, and most photographersstruggle to make a living wage. Veterinary medicine offered more stability and still let me work with animals."
"Do you ever regret it?"
"Not really," he says, though there's something wistful in his tone. "I love what I do, and it's made a real difference in this community. But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to chase the dream instead of choosing the safe option."
The honesty in his admission makes my chest ache with sympathy, because I recognize the voice of someone who's made peace with practical choices while still carrying a torch for abandoned dreams.
"It's not too late," I point out. "You could start doing photography as a hobby, maybe work toward building a portfolio. Who says you can't do both?"
"Maybe," he says, though his tone suggests it's not something he's seriously considered.
"I'm serious," I insist, pausing the game to give him my full attention. "You've got the skills, the eye for detail, and the patience. Plus, your veterinary background would give you advantages other photographers don't have when it comes to understanding animal behavior."
He looks at me with surprise, like the possibility of pursuing old dreams alongside current responsibilities hadn't occurred to him.
"You really think I could do it?"
"I think you could do anything you set your mind to," I say, meaning every word. "And I think the world needs more people who are passionate about documenting and protecting wildlife."
The smile that spreads across his face is soft and genuine, transforming his features in a way that makes my heart skip several beats.
"What about you?" he asks. "Any abandoned dreams lurking in your past?"
The question makes me pause, because the honest answer is complicated and somewhat painful to examine.
"I used to want to be a teacher," I admit quietly. "Elementary school, maybe middle school. I loved the idea of helping kids discover things they're passionate about, creating the kind of classroom environment where everyone feels safe to ask questions and make mistakes."
"That's a beautiful dream," he says gently. "What happened?"
"Life happened," I say with a shrug that doesn't quite mask the disappointment underneath. "College was expensive, student teaching requirements conflicted with work schedules, and eventually I had to focus on survival rather than idealism."
"It's not too late for you either," he points out, echoing my earlier words back to me.
"Maybe," I say, though the idea feels both appealing and impossibly complicated. "Though right now I'm more focused on figuring out what I want to build here."
"Fair enough," he says, returning his attention to the game. "Though for what it's worth, I think you'd make an incredible teacher. You've got the patience and the instinct for helping people learn new things."
The compliment warms me more than it probably should, especially coming from someone whose opinion has become increasingly important to me.
We play in comfortable silence for a while, the repetitive tasks of virtual farming providing exactly the kind of meditative distraction my restless mind needs.
The combination of familiar activities, good company, and the security of being surrounded by their combined scents gradually begins to work its magic on my overactive nervous system.
"This is nice," I say during a quiet moment between game objectives.
"Yeah?" he asks, glancing over at me with obvious pleasure.
"Yeah. I feel more relaxed than I have in days."
"Good," he says, satisfaction evident in his tone. "That was the goal."
"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than he probably realizes. "For thinking of this, for taking the time to set it up, for... caring enough to notice I was struggling."
"Always," he says simply, the single word carrying more weight than entire speeches from other people.
