her life. In her eyes that’s the normal she craves. Not expecting to find that in Idaho, she doesn’t come west with illusions. Where better than the American West to polish a horse vet’s expertise, to build her résumé?
But people can be petty or angry anywhere, and when faced with animosity, Char has a lot on her plate. She doesn’t measure success in dollars. She grew up seeing the futility in that. But she’s practical enough to know a gal’s got to pay her bills and that requires clientele with patients.
I hope you love this book. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working in this town and with these families, and I hope you’ve treasured their stories!
You know I love hearing from readers, so email me at [email protected] or friend me on Facebook and/or follow me on Twitter, @RuthLoganHerne. And my bosses love it if you follow me on Bookbub! Just go here and click follow: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/ruth-logan-herne.
And may God bless you and yours each and every day!
Ruthy
He that covereth his sins shall not prosper:
but who so confesseth and forsaketh them
shall have mercy.
—Proverbs 28:13
This book is dedicated to my good friend Becky Prophet. We share three grandchildren and a love of God and good stories. Becky, the good Lord sure blessed us when He brought you into the family. This one’s for you. Thank you for being a great “Mimi” and a great friend.
Contents
Note to Readers
Charlotte Fitzgerald might be a big-animal vet, schooled to remain unemotional when things go bad, but the scene in front of her sent a chill of misgiving through her despite the Idaho midsummer’s day. She was facing seven critically ill horses who had found their way into a paddock adjacent to a well-known riding academy at the height of summer-camp season. On her right were a dozen young steeplechasers, hoping and praying for the stray horses’ survival.
Charlotte had spent a lot of years praying as a child. Wishing her mom hadn’t died shortly after giving birth to her. Hoping her father would become the kind of dad every child wanted and needed.
But her Mama did die and her prayers regarding her father went unanswered. As a result the intuitive horsewoman and veterinary surgeon learned to stand on her own two feet. For now that was enough.
“That one needs to go down.” Braden Hirsch had been the only local farm-animal vet until Charlotte rolled her mobile-veterinary-clinic van into town less than forty-eight hours before to fulfill the terms of her uncle’s will: if she spends a year helping to keep Pine Ridge Ranch solvent, she would inherit 25 percent of the ranch’s value next summer. She’d give the mixed horse and sheep venture free veterinary care as needed, but right now her focus was here, watching the crusty vet perform a half-hearted medical triage on the depleted animals.
She’d intended to meet Dr. Hirsch later today, a polite gesture. One professional to the other. He was in his sixties, according to the internet, and maybe considering retirement.
Only here they were, caught at a scene of horrific neglect and tragic circumstances, and she was about to make the whole thing worse by disagreeing with him.
He jerked a thumb toward a hobbling chestnut gelding. “Too far gone.” Then he waved to a group of three miserable creatures that were huddled together. “The palomino