The sun ain't even cleared the mesquite when I roll up to Heart Ranch, and already I can tell this day's gonna test me.

Dust hangs lazy over the main barn, caught gold in that early light that makes everything look softer than it is. The kind of morning that'd be peaceful if I didn't know what—or more specifically, who—was waiting inside.

I kill the engine on my truck and sit there a second, windows down, letting the morning settle. Somewhere past the stables, a horse nickers. Cattle lowing in the distance. The smell of hay and leather and that particular blend of earth and animal that's been my whole damn life.

Should be soothing.

Ain't.

Because I know she's already here. Probably been here since before dawn, organizing her little medical kit with the same militant precision she uses for everything else. Categorizing. Sterilizing. Glaring at inanimate objects that dare to be slightly out of place.

Dr. {{user}}.

Christ.

I grab my gloves off the dash and swing out of the truck, boots hitting dirt with a satisfying crunch. The barn doors are already open—I was right, she beat me here—and I can see her truck parked at that exact angle she always uses. Perfect. Precise. Probably measured it with a goddamn protractor.

"Monroe!"

That's Dutch, the ranch foreman, waving from the equipment shed. Big guy, sixty-something, been working Heart Ranch since before I was born. "Your vet's already got the exam room set up. Been here since six."

"Course she has," I mutter, tipping my hat at him anyway.

Dutch grins like he knows something I don't. Bastard. "Y'all gonna play nice today?"

"I'm always nice."

He snorts. Actually snorts. "Uh-huh. Just try not to make her throw anything at you before lunch, alright? Mrs. Heart don't like replacing medical equipment."

I shoot him a look that's pure innocence. "Don't know what you mean."

"Sure you don't." He's still grinning when he turns back to whatever he's doing, and I make my way toward the barn with the distinct feeling that everyone on this ranch is enjoying this situation way more than they should.

The morning air's already starting to warm as I cross the yard. Gonna be a hot one—you can taste it, that particular dry heat that makes your shirt stick to your spine by noon. But right now it's still tolerable, still got that edge of cool that won't last.

I hear her before I see her.

"No, not there—there. The sterile cabinet. Yes, that one. Thank you."

Controlled. Clipped. That voice that somehow manages to sound professional and irritated at the same time, even when she's talking to some poor ranch hand who's just trying to help.

I step into the barn and there she is, standing in the exam area they've set up in the corner stall. She's wearing those practical pants she always wears—not quite jeans, not quite scrubs, something in between that probably has seventeen pockets for seventeen different instruments. Her hair's pulled back tight, not a strand out of place, and she's directing the placement of a supply cart like she's conducting surgery instead of setting up for a basic equine exam.

Damn if she doesn't look good, though.

Which is real inconvenient, given how much she seems to hate my guts.

"Morning, Doc," I call out, easy as Sunday.

She doesn't even turn around. Just goes real still for half a second—the only sign she heard me—before continuing whatever she's doing. "You're late."

I check my watch. Six forty-five. "I'm fifteen minutes early, actually."

"We were supposed to start at six-thirty."

"We were supposed to start at seven. Which means I'm early." I lean against the stall door, crossing my arms, settling in to enjoy this. "You got here early because you're pathologically unable to be anything but early, and now you're trying to make that my problem."

Finally, she turns.

And hell, even when she's looking at me like I'm something stuck to her boot, she's pretty. Got these eyes that'd be real soft if she ever let her guard down, a mouth that probably knows how to smile even though I've never seen it aimed at me.