Sandwiched Between Two Ranchers

POV Ivory

Four missed calls. No response.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and checked my phone again, the August sun already brutal at eight in the morning. Stella knew better.

The intern had been assigned to monitor Bonnie, an old mare recovering from a leg injury that could turn fatal if left unattended. Colic. Infection. A dozen things that could kill a horse in the time it took my intern to ignore her damn phone.

The main stable was empty when I arrived. Recovery stall, vacant. I called out once, twice, then heard it—a muffled sound from the old tack room at the back.

I shoved the door open.

Stella's scrubs were bunched around her hips, her back pressed against the wall of saddles. A man stood between her thighs, his shirt hanging open, tan uniform pants shoved down just enough.

I just see broad shoulders, dark hair, hands gripping my intern's bare thighs like he owned her.

My stomach dropped through the floor when he turned.

Ryan. My brother. The town sheriff, badge still pinned to the shirt he hadn't bothered to remove, frozen mid-motion like a deer caught in headlights.

Relief hit me first—sharp and shameful. No husband to betray me. No man in my life at all. Just my idiot brother screwing my intern against my saddles.

But it wasn't them that stole my breath.

It was the room. The smell of leather and hay. Dusty horse blankets piled in the corner. This room. This exact spot where six years ago, whiskey had burned my throat and two pairs of hands had learned my body.

A wicked grin in the dark. Quiet intensity that made me feel seen.

I shoved the memory down hard.

"Get dressed," I said, my voice cold enough to freeze the August heat. "Now."

Stella scrambled for her clothes, face scarlet. "Dr. Hill, I'm so sorry, I just… We were only—"

"Only what? Only abandoning a patient who could have colicked in the hour you've been unreachable? Only deciding your love life matters more than whether Bonnie lives or dies? She's fifteen years old, Stella. She trusted us to care for her, and you left her alone so you could get screwed against my saddles."

Ryan stepped forward, buckling his belt with fumbling hands.

"Ivory, listen, this isn't what it looks like. Stella and I have been seeing each other for a few weeks now, and I came by to bring her coffee before my shift. Things just got out of hand, but—"

"I don't care who you're sleeping with, Ryan." I turned on him. "I care that my intern abandoned her post. I care that I've been calling for an hour while a horse could have been dying. You want to explain your love life? Save it for someone who gives a damn."

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Something flickered across his face—hurt, maybe, or embarrassment. Good. He should be embarrassed. The town sheriff, sneaking around like a teenager in my tack room.

"We'll talk later," he muttered, grabbing his hat from where it had fallen.

"Don't bother."

He left without another word. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at the screen—Dad—and silenced it. I didn't have time for him right now.

"Stella." I kept my voice level, professional. "Go find Bonnie. Check her vitals, her leg, her gut sounds. If anything is wrong, anything at all, you call me immediately. Understood?"

"Yes, Dr. Hill. I'm so sorry. It won't happen again, I swear."

"Then prove it."

The mare was fine—thank God—but I made Stella redo the poultice wrap three times until it met my standards.

Then I supervised her work with cold precision, correcting every small mistake, making her explain each step out loud. By the time I was satisfied, I'd also checked on two recovering cattle and an hour had slipped away.

I climbed into my mud-splattered truck and drove toward my cottage on the far edge of the ranch property, running through my mental list:

Pick up the triplets from Marisol by noon.

Call the feed supplier about the delayed order.

Figure out why Luke had been wetting the bed again—stress, probably, but about what?

When I pulled up to the cottage, my father was already outside waiting.

He stood at the steps, his face pale, hands trembling at his sides. Not the Parkinson's tremor I'd grown used to. Something worse. Something I'd never seen before.

"Dad?" I slammed the truck door. "What's wrong? I saw you called, I was dealing with—"

"The new owners are here."

I stopped walking. "What owners?"