The Coyote’s Veterinarian Omega Preview

One

Wyatt

Bang!

I gritted my teeth and gripped the steering wheel as the car bottomed out over another enormous rut. The gravel road had clearly washed out in some wicked rainstorm recently, leaving nothing but potholes for my rusting Kia to rattle over. If this kept up, I wouldn’t be surprised if I lost a wheel.

That would be just my luck too. I could picture it now: the car breaking down in the middle of nowhere, not a soul for miles, and my cell dead because I’d forgot to charge it before leaving the motel this morning.

Heck, I didn’t even know if I was on the right road. The motel receptionist had told me I couldn’t screw it up: it was a straight shot from the old highway down to the tiny town—a village, really—called Coyote Creek. But I’d always been good at screwing up sure-fire things.

Like landing a job out of school. I should have had a job, except the vet I’d been working for had sold out to some big corporation. They’d cut my hours and fucked around with my schedule so much, I’d quit on the spot.

Looking back on it, having a job would have been better than no job …

But that was why I was on my way to the middle of nowhere. I needed a job, badly, and nothing wanted to pay half decent. It was all we want to pay minimum wage for 10 hours a week, but you need fifteen years of experience and a post-doc.

Ten hours a week on minimum wage wasn’t going to pay my phone bill or put gas in my car, never mind cover rent. Not in this economy.

Which was why I’d jumped at this “opportunity.” The resident veterinarian in Coyote Creek was hoping to retire soon, so he wanted to take on an apprentice. I was a full-fledged vet now—I had the student debt and the expensive receipt to prove it—but I would train under him, get to know his clientele and the denizens of Coyote Creek and their needs.

And I could probably afford rent in bumfuck nowhere. Probably.

Bang!

That was, if I ever made it to Coyote Creek.

***

Two hours and a million potholes later, I finally pulled into the dirt laneway leading to Sunny Acres Veterinarian Clinic. I drove past groves of enormous trees, spying fallow fields on either side of them. At the end of the lane was a faded red barn, along with an old, brick farmhouse that had seen better days. I grimaced as I put the car in park.

Was this my future? Was this really all I could afford?

I stepped out of the car, closing the door with my hip as I peered up at the two-story house. I gulped as I looked at the peeling paint on the veranda, the crooked wooden steps leading up to it.

Just as I gathered my courage to approach, a tall, burly man rounded the corner of the house, coming from the direction of the barn. He was wiping his hands on a blue cotton rag. He looked like he was in his early sixties, still robust and hale despite the gray in his wild curls. He was dressed in faded jeans and a grease-stained tee that had seen better days.

His blue eyes flicked up at me, recognition dawning in them. “Thought I heard a car,” he said, his voice full of country twang. “You Wyatt?”

I redirected myself toward him, holding out my hand. “Dr. Martin.”

He brushed past me. “Vern’s fine. ’Bout time you got here.” He ambled toward a beat-up pick-up, rust spots showing through the faded red paint, eating away at the wheel wells. “I was just about to head over to the old Wilkinson place—they got a buncha ewes, and Bobby figures one of ’em’s in a bad way now.”

“Oh?” I asked, trotting along to keep up with his lanky strides. I wasn’t exactly short, but Dr. Martin—Vern—was probably something ridiculous like 6’5″. In another life, he might have been a basketball player.

“Uh-huhn,” he said, pulling open the door on the truck. “They don’t do so hot when they get with twins.”

“Oh,” I said, my eyes widening as I pulled the passenger door open and hopped in, just as the engine roared to life. Vern slammed his door shut.

“Yup,” the old vet said, “we’re gonna be busy, busy, busy for the next little bit.” He glanced over at me, his gaze evaluating. Finally, he said, “Glad you’re here.” Then he put the truck in gear and peeled off down the laneway.

I’d known—or been told—that Coyote Creek was a rural community, with not a few ranches and farms, but I hadn’t really put together what that meant for me as a veterinarian. Of course we’d be working with livestock—cattle, sheep, horses—and of course that probably meant … delivering their babies.

I gulped, keeping my gaze fixed on the road as we bounced over yet another rut. Vern didn’t seem bothered by the jostling at all.

I’d expected to be doing surgery and giving medicine and stuff like that. I hadn’t once thought about animals giving birth. I took a deep breath as we rounded a corner. We sped down the gravel road, then turned abruptly into another long laneway, also rutted.

We pulled into a semi-circular gravel drive, and Vern parked the vehicle. There was a paddock nearby, and a man in his mid-forties or early fifties was leaning on the fence. Behind him, there were about fifty balls of fluff, all bleating away. We were greeted by the stench of animal, along with the farmer lifting a hand. “Hey-o,” he called, “’bout time you showed.” His gaze snagged on me. “Who’s this?”

“This here’s Wyatt,” Vern said as he clambered over the fence, into the muck on the other side. “He’s my apprentice.”

“Well, ain’t that something.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Bobby Lam.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. “A pleasure,” I said when I was sure I could speak, shaking his hand firmly.

He eyed me. Vern put his hands on his hips. “Where’s your girl, Bob?”

“Right over this way,” Bobby said, boots squelching through the mud as he waved us on.

“Hope you’re ready,” Vern said, leaning close to me. “We might be here a while.” I swallowed, then trudged after the two men.