Stevie fiddled with the radio and settled on an ’80s station that made Morgan’s head throb. At least they only had three appointments scheduled for the day, plus she had gotten a full night’s sleep. No calls. With luck, they might even be done at a reasonable time. She knew better than to say the words aloud. The veterinary gods loved to fuck with their followers.

“Has Doctor Watson found anyone to hire yet?” Stevie asked as they pulled into the driveway of a small farm.

“Not that she’s told me. Apparently, no one wants to move to bumfuck Maine.”

“We’re not in Bumfuck. You’re thinking of our hometown.”

“Which is two towns over.”

“Whatever. Anyway, Emilia. When did her dad die?”

“February. Heart attack.”

“That sucks. Maybe she needs a friend.” Stevie propped her chin on her fist and stared up at Morgan with dramatically widened eyes. “If only you’d gotten her number.”

“Why don’t you ask her for it?” Morgan parked the truck by a pile of old tires.

“Because she’s not my type,” said Stevie. “And she’s totally yours.”

“Shut up.”

In a different time and in a different place, she admitted to herself, she might have made a pass at Emilia. Dark-eyed brunettes, especially tall, dark-eyed brunettes, had a history of getting under her skin. A different Morgan would have asked her out for coffee or a beer without thinking twice.

Kate had shattered any chance of that.

Abby Killmore greeted Morgan with a firm handshake at the barn door, her coveralls smeared with all the shades of green and brown found in barns. “Good to see you, Doctor Donovan.”

“How’s the flock?”

“Most of them lambed without a problem. I’ve got one ewe with mastitis, but something’s up with Percy.”

Morgan stifled a groan. Percy, Abby’s livestock guardian llama, had a foul temper.

“I didn’t know you had a horse, Abby,” said Stevie. Morgan followed Stevie’s gaze and frowned. A stout chestnut walked across the pasture toward them. Belgian, Morgan guessed, or a draft cross. The horse’s flaxen mane blew in the late spring breeze. She recognized the odd snap to the horse’s left hind immediately: stringhalt.

“I don’t,” said Abby, her brow creasing. “That’s Olive.”

“Are you boarding?”

“Something like that. She’s my cousin’s daughter’s, but she’s got stringhalt. Kid wanted a new horse, and my cousin’s an idiot and got her one.”

“And now you have Olive?” said Stevie.

“Yep.”

“Want us to take a look at her?”

Abby’s hesitation was more pronounced this time. Morgan kept her expression neutral. She understood what Abby wasn’t saying. The cousin wouldn’t pay for another vet visit, and Abby wasn’t interested in coughing up more money, either.

“Who was your cousin’s vet?”

“Dr. Baker, over in Scarborough.”

Morgan made a mental note to give Dr. Baker a call the minute she left the property. “Any history of injury to that leg?”

“Not that I know of, but that doesn’t mean much.”

“Let’s take a look at Percy, then.”