Saddle and Sky
The bellows of stock and shouts of cowboys filled the afternoon air, a familiar symphony to Cash Hale. Dust coated his tongue as he leaned against the worn rails of the chute, watching the latest bronc twist violently beneath its rider. His own mount, a seasoned bay named Whiskey, waited in the adjacent pen, muscles coiled with restless energy. Cash ran a calloused hand over his jaw, the stubble scraping like sandpaper. Just one more ride. One more check towards that championship buckle gleaming in his mind.
A murmur rippled through the cowboys nearby. Cash followed their gazes to the trim figure approaching the pens—Dr. Livia Zanatta, the circuit’s new vet, her city-polished boots glaringly out of place on the trampled earth. She moved with brisk efficiency, her dark ponytail swaying as she knelt beside Whiskey. Cash’s gut tightened. The horse had been favoring his left foreleg since unloading that morning, and now this stranger was running her hands over the tendon with unsettling familiarity.
“He’s fine,” Cash called, pushing off the rail. The woman didn’t look up, her focus absolute as she palpated the leg. Whiskey snorted, shifting uneasily. “Just needs to walk it off.”
“Walking off a potential strain could turn it into a tear,” Livia replied, her voice cool and clipped. She finally met his eyes, her gaze sharp and assessing. “I’m recommending he sit out tonight. A few days of rest and—”
“A few days?” Cash’s voice rose above the din. “Lady, this is the last round before Wyoming. Every point counts.” He crossed the distance in three strides, looming over her. “I’ve been taping that leg for weeks. It holds.”
“Taping a compromised leg so you can ride is how careers end,” she shot back, rising smoothly. She barely reached his shoulder, but her stance was unyielding. “For the horse. And the rider.”
The challenge in her tone rankled. Cash snagged Whiskey’s lead rope, his knuckles white. “I’ve been doing this since you were in pigtails, Doc. I know my horse.”
“And I know physiology,” Livia retorted. She reached into her medical kit, pulling out a syringe. “This anti-inflammatory will—”
“Like hell it will.” Cash stepped between her and Whiskey, blocking her path. The horse tossed his head, sensing the tension. “You’re not touching him with that.”
A muscle ticked in Livia’s jaw. “Would you rather risk a bowed tendon? Because that’s where this is headed if you ride him tonight.”
“And if I scratch, I lose my standings,” Cash growled. The weight of the crowd’s eyes pressed in, cowboys drifting closer to catch the argument. “You think I haul my ass across three states to quit over a little soreness?”
“It’s not a little soreness!” Livia’s composure cracked, her voice ringing clear. “It’s the start of an injury that could put him down if it’s pushed. But by all means, ride him. Just don’t expect me to patch him up when he breaks down.”
The accusation hung in the air. Cash’s throat burned. He’d known Whiskey since the gelding was a colt, had trained him into a top contender. The thought of ruining him… He shook his head, jaw set. “I’ve got wrap. I’ll brace it tighter.”
Livia’s lips thinned. She shoved the syringe back into her kit. “Your choice, Hale. But when that leg gives mid-ride, remember I warned you.” She turned on her heel, her spine stiff as she walked away.
Cash watched her go, frustration warring with doubt. Around him, the rodeo pulsed on, oblivious. He ran a hand over Whiskey’s neck, the familiar warmth doing little to ease the knot in his chest. “Guess it’s just us tonight, buddy,” he murmured. The horse leaned into his touch, nosing his shirt. But as Cash reached for the tape, the vet’s warning echoed in his mind. He swore under his breath. Wyoming couldn’t come soon enough.
The drive to Sheridan, Wyoming stretched long under a blistering sun, the highway humming beneath Cash’s truck tires. He’d ridden Whiskey in Montana despite the vet’s warning, his knuckles white on the reins the whole eight seconds. The horse had come up lame afterward, just as Livia predicted. Guilt gnawed at him during the eight-hour haul to the next rodeo, every hobble of the trailer a reminder of his stubbornness. He’d avoided her at the Montana grounds, paid a local farrier to wrap the leg instead. Now, pulling into the crowded lot of the Prairie Winds Motel, he prayed their paths wouldn’t cross again.
Fate had other plans. The motel’s lobby was chaos, cowboys milling about with duffel bags while a flustered clerk waved a stack of reservations. “We’re overbooked!” she called over the din. “Computer glitch. Half these reservations are doubles, not singles.” Cash leaned on the counter, exhaustion weighting his limbs. He just wanted a shower and a bed. “Hale,” he said, sliding his license over. “Cash Hale. I booked a single.”
The clerk typed, frowned. “You and a Dr. Zanatta are in room 214. Two queens.” Cash’s blood ran cold. “Like hell we are.” The clerk shrugged helplessly. “It’s that or your truck, honey. Town’s full up for the rodeo.” Cash gritted his teeth. Room 214 it was. He found it at the end of a cracked sidewalk, the door ajar to reveal Livia already inside, her suitcase open on the bed nearest the bathroom. She looked up, her expression unreadable. “Hale.” Cash dropped his duffel with a thump. “Doc.” He cut a glance at the narrow gap between the two beds. “Guess we’re roomies.” “Seems so.” She turned back to unpacking, her movements precise. The air hummed with unspoken words—from Montana, from the ride that had left Whiskey limping. Cash shed his boots by the door, the worn leather curling where his feet had molded them. The small act felt grounding, a claiming of this shared, temporary space. He watched as Livia did the same, sliding her fancy boots off to reveal socks printed with tiny horses. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Cute socks.” She glanced down, a flush creeping up her neck. “A gift from my niece.” The tension eased, just a fraction. Later, showered and wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants, Cash stretched out on his bed, the remote in hand. Livia sat cross-legged on her own, laptop open. The blue glow of the screen lit her face, softening the sharp angles he’d seen at the arena. He flipped channels, landing on an old Western. The tinny sound of hoofbeats and gunfire filled the room. Livia didn’t look up. Cash watched her, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way she absently twirled a strand of dark hair around her finger. She’d changed into pajamas—soft-looking pants and a tank top—and the casualness of it felt intimate, somehow. He cleared his throat. “Whiskey’s leg…” he started, the words rough. Livia’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “How is it?” “Sore. But he’ll mend.” Cash owed her that much honesty. “I… shouldn’t have ridden him.” The admission hung in the air, raw and unfamiliar. Livia closed her laptop, turning to face him. “I know you care about him, Cash.” Her use of his first name sent a strange warmth through his chest. “You wouldn’t be so invested if you didn’t.” Cash studied the ceiling, the water stains like clouds. “Been through a lot together, me and him.” He told her about finding Whiskey as a yearling, wild and scared, how he’d gentled him with apples and patience. How the horse had taken to bronc work like he was born to it. Livia listened, her gaze never leaving his face. When he finished, she smiled—a small, genuine thing. “He’s lucky to have you.” The compliment unsettled him, warmed him. He reached for the lamp, switching it off. Darkness enveloped the room, save for the TV’s flicker. They lay in silence for a long while, the movie’s dialogue a distant hum. Cash could hear her breathing, soft and even. “Why’d you leave the city, Doc?” he asked into the quiet. She shifted on the bed, the springs creaking. “Needed a change. The circuit needed a vet.” A beat. “And I needed… space. To think.” Her voice held a note of longing, of something unspoken. Cash understood that. The rodeo life was good for thinking. For forgetting. He was about to ask what she was running from when her phone buzzed on the nightstand—a harsh, sudden sound. She sat up, the glow of the screen illuminating her frown. “Zanatta,” she answered. A pause. “Now? But the truck’s loaded…” Cash watched her fingers tighten around the phone, her knuckles pale. “Fine. I’ll be there in ten.” She hung up, sighing. “Emergency call. Horse colicking at one of the ranches outside town.” She swung her legs off the bed, reaching for her boots. Cash sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. “Need a ride? My truck’s blocking yours anyway.” Livia hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks.” The drive was quiet, the Wyoming night vast and star-strewn beyond the windshield. Cash navigated the dirt roads while Livia gave clipped directions, her focus already on the case ahead. At the ranch, he watched her work—calm, efficient, her hands sure as she palpated the distressed horse’s flank. By the time she finished, dawn was bleeding pink on the horizon. Back at the motel, they stumbled into the room, exhaustion heavy between them. Livia dropped her bag, rubbing her temples. “Long night.” “You’re telling me.” Cash yanked off his boots, then his shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin. He reached for the button of his jeans—then stopped, remembering. “Uh. You mind?” Livia’s gaze snapped to his hands, her cheeks flushing. “Oh. Right. Turn around.” Cash obliged, facing the wall as denim rustled behind him, then the soft sigh of covers. “Okay,” she said after a moment, her voice muffled by pillows. Cash shucked off his jeans and slid under his own covers, the cool sheets a relief. Sleep was pulling him under when Livia spoke again, her voice barely a whisper. “Cash?” “Hm?” “Thanks. For tonight.” There was a vulnerability in her tone he hadn’t heard before. “Anytime, Doc,” he murmured into the dark. A comfortable silence settled, the room’s shadows wrapping them in a fragile truce.