Chapter 1: Blood, Sweat, and Stubborn Hearts
The air in the medical tent was thick with the sharp smell of antiseptic, cutting through the deeper, more familiar scents of dirt and sweat that clung to Derek Livingston’s skin. He ducked under the canvas flap, the late afternoon sun throwing his long, distorted shadow across the ground. A trail of blood, dark as rust, dripped from a gash above his eyebrow, tracing a path through the dust on his cheek.
“Took your sweet time,” a voice said, cleaner than anything else in the tent.
Sabrina Sampson didn’t look up from organizing her suture kit. Her fiery hair was pulled into a messy but efficient knot, a few strands escaping to frame a face that was all focused lines.
“Had to thank my public,” Derek said, his voice a low rumble that edged on a laugh. He eased himself onto the crackling paper of the examination cot. The adrenaline was still thrumming in his veins, making his hands feel too big, his smile too easy. “Sixteen seconds on Diablo. You see it?”
“I saw a twelve-hundred-pound animal try to rearrange your spine.” She finally turned, her green eyes sweeping over him with a clinical detachment that didn’t quite reach the slight tremor in her hands as she pulled on gloves. “I also saw you get slapped in the face by his ear. Hence the new part in your hair.”
He grinned, the expression pulling at the cut and sending a fresh bead of blood down his temple. “Worried about me, Doc?”
“I’m worried about the insurance paperwork.” She moved in, her fingers cool and sure as they tilted his chin into the light. Her proximity was a different kind of charge. She smelled of soap and sterility, a stark contrast to the animal heat radiating off him. “This needs stitches. You’re lucky it missed your eye.”
“Feel lucky,” he murmured, watching her face. A small crease had appeared between her brows.
“Hold still.” Her voice was all business, but her fingers, pressing a sterile pad to the wound, betrayed the slightest unsteadiness against his sweat-slick skin.
From the shadow of the tent pole, a low chuckle echoed. Wyatt “Whiskey” Williams stood with his arms crossed, his hat pushed back on his head, revealing a face leathered by decades of sun and wind. “Told you she wouldn’t swoon, kid. City vets. They’re tougher than old saddle leather.”
“I don’t swoon,” Sabrina stated, not breaking her concentration as she prepared the needle. Her gaze flicked to Derek’s. “And you might want a local anesthetic for this.”
“Nah. Just do it.” He held her gaze, the challenge clear. He wanted to feel it.
She paused for a half-second, then gave a curt nod. “Your funeral.”
The first pinch was sharp and clean. He didn’t flinch, just kept watching her. Her lower lip was caught very slightly between her teeth, her entire world narrowed to the point of her needle. He could see the gold flecks in her green irises, the faint dusting of freckles across her nose that her professionalism couldn’t obscure.
“You’re good at that,” he said, his voice softer.
“I should be. I did a residency stitching up shepherds in New York. Less attitude, though.” She tied off a stitch with a sharp, efficient motion.
“Ouch.”
“That was the thread. The attitude’s free.” She leaned in again, her breath a whisper against his cheek. The scent of her shampoo, something like apples, cut through the antiseptic. His own breathing hitched, just for a second. It had nothing to do with the pain.
Whiskey materialized beside the cot, handing Derek an open bottle of water. “Don’t mind her, Derek. She’s just sore ‘cause you’re a worse patient than a wormy colt.”
“I am sitting perfectly still,” Derek said, accepting the water without looking away from Sabrina.
“It’s the grinning that’s unnerving,” Sabrina muttered, snipping a thread. “Most people have the sense to look contrite when they’ve been monumentally stupid.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He took a swig of water, the movement making her press a hand to his shoulder to steady him. Her touch burned through the thin cotton of his shirt.
“The fun is not developing a brain infection because you decided machismo was a substitute for a helmet.” She finished the last stitch, her movements quick and precise. She smoothed a piece of tape over the wound, her fingers lingering for a fraction of a second too long on his skin before she pulled away as if stung.
The space between them in the quiet tent suddenly felt charged, empty of words but full of the echoes of his heartbeat and her sharp, measured breaths.
Whiskey cleared his throat, the sound like gravel shifting. “Bull’s been loaded out. You buying the first round, or you just gonna sit there bleeding on the nice lady’s cot?”
Derek swung his legs off the cot, the world tilting pleasantly for a moment before righting itself. He stood, towering over Sabrina in the confined space. He reached for his wallet.
“What do I owe you, Doc?”
“Professional courtesy.” She was already turning away, stripping off her gloves, focusing on closing her kit. Her shoulders were tense. “Just try not to make it a weekly appointment. My supplies are limited.”
“How about a thank-you dinner instead?” The words were out before he could second-guess them. Casual, but not. An offer, not a demand.
She stopped. Turned back. Her expression was unreadable, a careful blend of amusement and exasperation. “Let me get this straight. I just sewed your head back together after you volunteered to get launched into the dirt by a bovine, and your takeaway is that we should have a meal?”
“Best way I know to say thanks.” He gave her the smile, the one that usually worked, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
It didn’t work.
She shook her head, a real laugh escaping her, though it was dry and short. “You’re something else, Livingston. The answer’s no. I don’t date clients. And in my book, anyone I have to stitch up qualifies.”
“Strict policy.”
“Well-considered policy.” She nodded to Whiskey. “Wyatt. See that he keeps it clean. If it gets red or hot—”
“—he’s to see a real doctor, yeah, I got the memo.” Whiskey tipped his hat, a smirk playing on his lips. He’d been watching the whole exchange like a rangy old cat watching two birds circle each other.
Derek didn’t move, blocking her path to the tent flap just enough to be noticeable. The rejection was a fresh, oddly exciting sting. Different. “Maybe I’ll just have to stay in one piece, then. Change my status.”
Sabrina met his gaze, and for a second, he saw something flash in hers—not irritation, but a spark of acknowledgment. A recognition of the game. “Maybe you should just focus on that first,” she said, and slipped past him, the canvas flap falling shut behind her with a soft, definitive swish.
The tent felt abruptly larger and emptier. The only sounds were the distant crunch of gravel as Sabrina walked away and the low hum of the arena lights flickering on outside.
Whiskey took a long, slow drag from a flask he produced from his coat pocket. He handed it to Derek. “Told you.”
Derek accepted the flask, the whiskey inside burning a clean path down his throat. “Told me what?”
“That one’s got her own rules. Doesn’t care about your buckle or your eight-second average.” He took the flask back, his eyes wise and crinkled. “Makes her interesting, don’t it?”
Derek looked at the spot where Sabrina had been standing, then down at the small drop of his blood on the pressed paper of the cot. A slow smile spread across his face, ignoring the pull of the fresh stitches. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quiet in the dimming tent. “It does.”
Outside, the sun had slipped below the bleachers, painting the deserted arena in long, melancholy shadows. The only movement was a swirl of dust kicked up by a stray breeze, dancing across the churned-up earth where, just an hour before, men and beasts had collided. Derek pushed out into the cooling evening, the taste of whiskey and defeat and something remarkably like hope sharp on his tongue. The challenge, for the first time in a long time, wasn’t in the chute. It was walking across the parking lot, her medical bag swinging at her side, not once looking back.
It was walking across the parking lot, her medical bag swinging at her side, not once looking back.
The slam of a tailgate broke the spell. Whiskey was leaning against his truck, already scrolling through his phone. “Burned you good,” he said, not looking up.
“She tried.” Derek grabbed his own duffel from the dust, wincing as the motion pulled at the stitches. The numb spot was giving way to a persistent, raw throb. He tossed the bag into his pickup’s bed. “Just being professional.”
“Professional.” Whiskey snorted, pocketing his phone. “Son, I’ve seen professional. That was a personal kind of irritation. You got under her skin. Means there’s something to get under.”
Derek didn’t answer. He leaned against the warm hood of his truck, watching Sabrina’s sensible sedan—a small, silver thing utterly out of place among the lifted diesels and horse trailers—crawl down the gravel lane toward the main road. The taillights vanished behind a curtain of kicked-up dust.
The high of the ride was gone, leaving a hollow, restless feeling in its wake. The kind that usually had him heading to the Sundown Bar for a beer and the easy, welcoming smile of whatever fan was waiting. Tonight, the idea tasted stale.
“Grab a beer?” he asked, more out of habit.
“Nah. Gotta check on that heifer. Think she’s close to dropping.” Whiskey pushed off his truck and spat into the dust. “You should put some ice on that eye. Look like you went ten rounds and lost.”
“Thanks, mom.”
“Anytime.” Whiskey paused, his hand on the door handle. “That dinner offer wasn’t half bad, you know. For you. Almost sounded like a grown man.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means most of your conversation starts and ends with ‘wanna get out of here?’” He climbed into the cab, the old springs groaning. “Might be you’re finally bored of the answer.” The engine roared to life. He rolled down the window, the dying light carving deep lines in his face. “Doc Sampson’s out at the Miller place tomorrow. Eight AM. Checking their new colts. Boring stuff. Nobody gets stomped on.”
The truck pulled away, leaving Derek alone in the settling quiet.
He touched the bandage above his eye. The memory of her trembling fingers was more vivid than the pain. City vets. Tougher than old saddle leather. Whiskey was right. She hadn’t been impressed. She’d been… annoyed. Judged him and found him wanting. It was a novel and deeply irritating sensation.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from a number he didn’t bother naming. Heard u conquered Diablo. Celebrating? My place?
He stared at the screen, the blue light harsh in the twilight. A week ago, he’d have already been typing a reply. Now, he saw the chipped polish on the sender’s thumbnail in his memory, heard the expectant laugh. It all felt like a rerun of a show he’d memorized.
He locked the screen and shoved the phone away.
The drive home was a blur of shaded backroads. His small ranch house sat dark at the end of a long drive. It was neat, tidy, and lately, felt as empty as the arena after a clear-out. He showered, the water turning pink at his feet. He examined the stitches in the steamy mirror. Neat, small, and precise. Just like her. He wondered if she was already home, filing her report, already having forgotten his face.
He poured two fingers of bourbon and carried it out onto the porch, sinking into the worn wooden chair. The night was alive with the sound of crickets. From the small corral, his old horse, Captain, let out a soft nicker.
“Yeah, yeah,” Derek muttered, taking a sip. The burn was familiar, comfortable.
His mind replayed the moment in the tent. Not the ride, but the silence after she’d finished. That charged, breathless silence where her clinical focus had finally slipped, and she’d just been a woman standing too close to a bleeding man. He’d seen her pulse flutter in her throat. He was sure of it.
I don’t date clients.
So, stop being a client.
Whiskey’s casual information floated to the surface. The Miller place. Eight AM.
It was a stupid idea. The kind of transparent, borderline stalker move that proved her every assumption about him right. He finished the bourbon, the decision crystalizing with the last drop.
He wasn’t going to win this by playing his old game. This required a different kind of ride. One with no time limit, no clear rules, and a opponent who didn’t even know she was in the arena.
A slow smile, the one he reserved for the rankest bulls in the chute, spread across his face. It pulled at the stitches. He welcomed the sting.
Inside, he picked up his phone. He found the contact he’d looked up weeks ago, after someone had mentioned the new vet. S. Sampson, DVM. He typed a message, deleted it, typed another.
What he sent was simple. Neutral. Irrefutably professional.
Doc. Derek Livingston. Stitches are tight. No redness. Saw you’re at Millers tomorrow for their colts. I’ve got a three-year-old quarter horse with a hoof abscess I’d like a second opinion on. Any chance you could swing by after?
He hit send before he could think about it. The whoosh sound was absurdly loud in the quiet kitchen.
He didn’t expect a reply. Not tonight.
He was laying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. A single, sharp vibration.
He grabbed it.
The screen glowed back at him.
Sabrina: I finish at Millers around 10:30. Text the address.
No smiley face. No pleasantries. Just facts.
But she was coming.
Derek set the phone down, the faint light from the screen fading into darkness. Outside, Captain stamped his foot. The night stretched on, full of a new and unfamiliar tension, and for the first time in a long time, the emptiness of the house didn’t feel quite so absolute.