Cowboy Vet. Pamela Britton
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he’d treated.
“I can look in on them on my own,” she said, walking beside him. “You know, if you’ve got better things to do.”
She was peering up at him, and he noticed she had freckles sprinkled across her petite nose and high cheeks. But it was her lips that caught his attention. Their fullness specifically.
“No,” he said. “I want to check the foal’s motor skills this morning.”
She nodded and the two of them padded down the rubber-matted aisle. It was his favorite time of day, when all the horses were munching their food, their teeth grinding against the alfalfa a rhythmic sound accompanied by the rustling of hooves in shavings.
“You know, Rand,” she said. “You’re very lucky.”
He glanced down at her and wondered if her hair was naturally that red or if she dyed it. “What do you mean?”
“You have all this,” she said, splaying her arms. “Every morning.”
“Yeah?”
“I would give anything to surround myself with horses.”
Something about the way she said it made him stop. Some people came to horses late in life. Some people never came to them at all. Jessie had grown up in a trailer park on the outside of town—a single-wide her mom supposedly still occupied—far away from the world of tiny foals and fancy barns.
“Maybe one day you will,” he said.
Jessie smiled wistfully. “Well, in the meantime, this will do,” she said, dropping her arms. “Thank you for hiring me. Even if it’s for a day”
“You’re welcome,” Rand said, wondering why he suddenly felt like a heel.
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