Running Wild(Wild #3)(3)

“This isn’t a bar. And you still haven’t paid for Clementine’s last visit.”

Hearing her name, the wiry ferret clambers up his chest and lets out a distinctive clucking sound.

Brad winces. “But my ex … you know what she’s like, right?”

No, I don’t, but I know him. Brad Garvis is a divorced, thirty-nine-year-old welder from Wasilla who rarely sees his kids and works a second job under the table so he doesn’t have to pay more in child support. I know this because I made the mistake of dating him several years ago. He’d been brazenly flirting for months during a series of visits for his three sick ferrets. I thought him attractive, but he was a client, and besides, I was staying single until the moment Jonah realized he was madly in love with me.

And then Jonah started dating Teegan, a pilot with the coast guard. In a moment of weakness, tormented by mental images of them together, I agreed to a dinner date with Brad, followed by several more. I knew it would never go anywhere, but it was a suitable distraction for a time.

I should refuse him, but that eye infection is nasty, and it’s Clementine who’ll suffer if she doesn’t get these drops. “I’ll meet you out front in a few minutes with the prescription.”

His shoulders sink with dramatic relief. “Oh man, you’re the best, Marie.”

Yeah, the best at being a sucker.

“I promise, I’ll settle up by Friday.”

“Uh-huh.” Can he hear the doubt in my voice?

He’s halfway out of the exam room when he stalls, crooking his head curiously. “Hey, you know, it’s been awhile since we’ve hung out. I don’t even remember why we stopped.”

Because Jonah broke up with Teegan. But whatever existed between Brad and me had already run its course.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

“I’ll be in the villages,” I lie. I’ve started doing remote vet care through virtual consultations, especially through the winter months. Besides, my trusted pilot is currently in Hawaii on his honeymoon, cursing tourists and complaining about the humidity, if his latest text is any indication.

“Maybe another time, then.”

I offer a tight smile. “Yeah, maybe.” No thanks. I may be lonely, but I’m not desperate, and I’m never dating another client again. Ever.

Ten minutes later, I’m locking the door and flipping the sign to Closed, my three-hour Sunday morning clinic hours I offer once a month having flown by.

“You should have made him pay,” Cory announces from behind the desk, her disapproval soaking her tone as she stares out the bay window. “He can afford it.”

I watch Brad trudge down the narrow path—through snow I shoveled in darkness this morning—toward a new, freshly washed black Dodge Ram. She’s right. That wasn’t even an outrageous bill. I don’t know why I always find myself in positions like this. Oh yeah, I do. Because I’m a chump who can’t say no to helping an animal. “Next time he calls for an appointment, tell him he needs to settle up before you’ll book him.” And it’ll likely be soon, because that bacterial infection is contagious, he has two other ferrets at home, and he gives them more attention than he does his human children.

“With great pleasure.” Delight flashes in her large azure eyes as she reaches for a printout with one hand while typing on the computer with her other. In the next beat, she’s up and sauntering across the room toward the filing cabinet, her wavy chestnut-brown hair a thick curtain reaching halfway down her back, her curvy figure moving with a blunt confidence I’ve always envied.

Cory has been my type A receptionist since my mother retired, keeping this place running far better than I ever could. Eight years later, she has earned her vet technician credentials but refuses to give up the office role, so she juggles both—booking appointments and running blood tests (and of course, accepting a larger paycheck) with proficiency. I’d be lost around here without her, and I will be should she ever leave. I’ll need to hire two people to replace her.

My gaze wanders out the window again, to the cabin nestled among the snow-laden trees. It’s a small, one-room structure, meant as a rustic, short-term guesthouse rather than the permanent residence I’ve turned it into. My father would crash there sometimes when this place was his and he didn’t want to make the two-hundred-yard trek to our house on the other side of the property.

Sometimes I wish for more—more space, more privacy, more charm—but most of the time, I’m happy in my little home. Plus, can’t beat free rent, and the walk across the parking lot to work is especially handy when I have a sick patient to check on overnight.

I’ve invested in it over the years, installing better insulation to cut the draft on the cold nights, a new red metal roof that pops against the crisp white backdrop, a kitchenette, a proper shower to go along with the toilet, and a small, screened-in porch where I spend many evenings, sitting in my Adirondack chair.

Decades ago, when my parents bought this parcel of land and opened this little clinic, Wasilla was barely more than a supply base for miners. People thought my dad was crazy. But then came the highway, and the city exploded with new development, turning the Mat-Su Valley into a viable and affordable suburb for commuters into Anchorage.

By the time my father retired and I took over, there were six other clinics around Wasilla and Palmer, all of them set up in shiny new builds as opposed to this old place that’s required plenty of upgrades and fixes over the years.