It was one of the things that few people realized about being a vet, how much death and devastation they really faced every single day.
It took its toll on even the most distant and cool, levelheaded of people. And Emily was one tough cookie—he loved that about her—but she was never distant and only sometimes cool and levelheaded. Everyone had their breaking point and she looked to be at hers. “Emily.”
“I . . .” Lifting her gaze from the table, she stared at him. She was covered in blood. The dog’s, he told himself as she shook her head helplessly. “I—” Without another word, she whirled to grab some supplies and started assessing the dog as he would. “Shock,” she choked out. “He’s in shock.”
“Yes,” he agreed quietly. Waiting. It didn’t take but another two seconds. “He can’t take a surgery,” she realized. “He can’t—” She shook her head as it sank into her that the dog wasn’t going to survive, that the humane thing to do was put it down. “I have to . . .”
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“No.” She shook her head again. “This is on me. He’s my responsibility—”
“Did you attack this dog?”
“Of course not!”
“Then it’s not on you. Let me,” he said.
“But—”
“I know, you want to handle it all on your own, and you do. You handle everything on your own better than anyone I know. But let someone help, just this once.”
She was breathing a little heavily, telling him that the dog wasn’t the only shocky one. He had no idea what it was about this dog that had gotten to her so deeply, but it happened. It was the job. And sometimes, the job sucked. “Can you get me a warming blanket?” he asked.
He wasn’t going to need it. The dog wasn’t going to need it. And if she’d been thinking clearly, she’d have known it.
But she went, leaving him alone to do what had to be done.
Emily was at the closet where they kept the warming blankets before her brain kicked in and she realized what Wyatt had done for her.
“Damn him,” she whispered, and sat right where she was, on the floor by the closest. She pulled her legs into her chest, dropped her head to her knees, and tried to keep it together.
A few minutes later, footsteps came down the hall toward her and she busied herself with the blankets in the closest, like she was actually doing something.
“Come here, sweetness.”
“I’m organizing the closet.”
He sat next to her, right there on the floor, and then two warm, strong arms encircled her, pulling her into his lap.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and lost it.
He tucked her face into the crook of his neck and pressed his jaw to the top of her head. And then he did what she couldn’t remember anyone ever doing for her before.
He let her cry.
When she’d managed to curtail it down to noisy, hiccupping sniffles, he lifted her face to his. “Why did you become a vet?” he asked.
“To help,” she managed. Her throat got tight again. “To help animals.”
“And you helped him. You did,” he said when she started to shake her head. “You rescued him from a night of pure hell and put him out of his misery, and that was your job. That’s what we do.”
She closed her eyes. “You did it.”
“You went out into the night, heedless of your own safety, putting his life ahead of yours—which, by the way, we’re going to circle back to later—and you saved him from being alone.
She gave a shuddery, exhausted sigh. “Wyatt?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the intern switch. I should have. I . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered. “More than I know how to admit.”
He blew out a breath. “Same. You came out of nowhere, knocked me on my ass.”
She set her head on his shoulder and tried not to cry again. “Will I see you? After I’m gone?”
“You marrying anyone anytime soon?”
She let out a watery laugh. “No.”
“Then yeah. I’ll see you. It’ll be okay, Em.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?” he asked, stroking a big hand up and down her back.
“Act like a grown-up.”
It was his turn to huff out a laugh. “Yeah, well, it happens sometimes. We’ve got to call this one in, sweetness.”
“The police?”
“Yeah. That wasn’t a hit-and-run. And that wasn’t a coyote attack.”
“What was it?”
“I think someone’s fighting dogs.” Still sitting on the floor holding her, he pulled out his cell, hit a number, and put the phone to his ear. “Kel? Yeah, sorry man, I know it’s late. But we’ve got something you need to see.” He shoved his phone back in his pocket.
“Who’s Kel?”
“Local sheriff. He’s on his way.”
Kel arrived ten minutes later. He was a tall, lean, good-looking guy Emily recognized as one of the cops Wyatt played football against. Given his bed-head hair and unhappy expression, he’d clearly just dragged himself out of bed. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Remember what you were telling me the other night after the game?” Wyatt asked. “About the dogs? You said you suspected you had an illegal dog fighting ring in the county.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got something to show you. Wait here a sec,” he said to Emily, and then he and Kel vanished down the hall.
A few minutes later they were back, Kel looking royally pissed off. “I don’t know what kind of sick fuck could do that to a dog.”
A half an hour later, Emily parked her car in her driveway, got out, and nearly screamed when a tall shadow materialized in front of her.
Wyatt.
“Need to be more aware of your surroundings,” he said.
“Why are you following me?”
“Making sure you got home okay.” He took her key from her and started to unlock the front door, but Sara pulled it open and gaped in horror at Emily’s bloody sweatshirt. “What—”
“It’s not her blood,” Wyatt said, and shouldered his way in, hands on Emily, nudging her ahead of him. “She’s just exhausted. I’m putting her to bed.”
“Do you need a padlock to keep her there?” Sara asked his back as he strode down the hallway like he owned the place.
“I’ve got my ways,” Wyatt called back.
“I bet,” Sara murmured.
Wyatt took Emily into the bathroom and started her shower. “Need help?”
“No.” It was an automatic response. She was good at not needing help. “I’m fine.”
Wyatt let out a breath that was as close to a sigh as she’d ever heard from him. “Don’t do that,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t try to be Super Woman, not with me.”
She tried to laugh that off, but the sound was weak and she closed her mouth, afraid she’d go from laughing to crying again.
Leaning past her, Wyatt tested the hot water, and then he shocked her as he stripped quickly and efficiently, each movement economical and so masculine that she just stared at him.
When he was standing there naked and perfect, he began to remove her clothes, softening enough to smile when he caught her expression. “Don’t look at me like that,” he warned.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me up.”
But God help her, she did. He was all smooth, rippled sinew and male virility, and in any other circumstance, she would’ve taken at least a nibble. “I’m not.”
He snorted, pushed her into the shower, and then followed, completely unselfconscious, even though he was quite obviously aroused. Eyes hooded, he washed her hair with firm, strong fingers, and she let herself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of. When his hands ran the soap down her body, her head fell back onto his chest. She closed her eyes so she couldn’t see the dog’s blood running off her, down the drain.
But it was embedded in her brain, and the shock of it, and her anger, hit her again, and she began to shake. She reached out for the wall but Wyatt turned her to face him and anchored her close. She rested her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as the tremors took her.
Wyatt set the soap aside and wrapped his other arm around her, too, and rested his head on top of hers, holding her until she calmed.