Chapter Five: Ryan

I shrug off my misappropriated jacket before I climb into the driver's seat of my Hilux. After two months living in Denham, I've learned that the jacket is only suitable to wear inside air-conditioned buildings. Honestly, I probably don't need it there, either, but I'm ridiculously attached to it.

The weather here on the northwest coast of Australia is substantially warmer than Brisbane ever was, or at least I'm convinced that it is. And, considering I spend most of my days driving to rural properties, I've learned to dress appropriately for the climate, the job, and the terrain.

Being a country vet is something I'm used to. Once upon a time, Maddy and I ran our own veterinary clinic just outside of Townsville together. Since meeting Maddy, I discovered that I preferred working with livestock to domestic pets, but I lost my passion for it when Maddox died. However, after a year of moping in the city, I itched to get back into my specialised field.

Ha . Field. Get it? Because I work with livestock and on farms and…yeah, okay, it was a bad pun.

Anyway, when the little clinic in Denham went up for sale, I took it as a sign. Sure, it was on the opposite side of the country to where I lived, but I decided that was what I needed. To start fresh somewhere completely different. There weren't a lot of vets vying for the place, either, so I snapped the business up at a steal, delighted that it came with a lot of loyal, longstanding clients who, let's face it, didn't have many alternative options.

It's been a steep learning curve getting back into the swing of long, rural drives along roads that are little more than gravel tracks and red dirt. Getting used to the smell of farms and remote cattle stations and the dust which seems to settle into my pores, not to mention the heat and the sweat and the long-arse days, has been a lot .

A year out of practice made me complacent, and I've spent what little free time I do get trying to work myself back into shape.

But for all that, this whole experience has been healing in a way hiding in Brisbane never was. As much as I miss my friends and family, I feel more myself now after two months in Denham than I did after a year in Brissie.

However, Denham doesn't have much in the way of a nightlife. At least, not the kind I've been itching for.

As my ute rumbles down the dusty road out of town, I glance at my jacket on the passenger seat. Seeing it makes me smile softly to myself, remembering the kind young Dom who gifted it to me. I still feel a little like I stole a treasured possession from him, but when I left his hotel room the morning after my disastrous final night at The Vault, he insisted that I take it with me. I argued that I'd feel more comfortable taking a cheap t-shirt instead, but Oscar just shook his head and pushed the bundle of buttery soft brown leather into my hands.

"It looks better on you than me, darlin'," he'd said.

I begged to differ, but I kept it anyway. As well as the pair of grey tracksuit pants he gave me to wear, too. I tossed my lamé shorts in the bin and never looked back.

Over the past couple of months, I've thought about Oscar more than what is probably healthy. I've often wondered about his story: why he was in Brisbane, where he was going next, and why such a perfect Dom was out there all alone that night.

I also can't stop thinking about how right it felt to call him Daddy.

The way he'd spanked me, taking me to orgasm and then providing the most thoughtful, thorough aftercare…God, he's going to make some Boy very lucky one day.

Jealousy runs through me at the knowledge that it's not going to be me, even if I never considered indulging with Daddy kink before meeting him.

But I'll always have the memories of that night. And I'll always have his jacket. It doesn't smell like him anymore, but every time I put it on, it soothes and warms me from the inside out, like an invisible hug from the man himself.

The ringing of my phone cuts into my thoughts as it blasts through my vehicle's sound system, overriding the radio I keep on for background noise. I press the answer button on my steering wheel and smile, greeting, "Hello, Ryan speaking."

"Doc Sharp?" the voice on the other end of the call asks, sounding a little hesitant.

I glance at the clock on my dash, assuming my receptionist at the clinic has taken her lunch break and diverted calls through to my phone. "The one and the same. How can I help you?"

"Uh, my name's Dusty and I'm callin' from Wombat Run Station just outside Yalardy." He pauses for a moment before ploughing on, "One of our mares is foaling, but we think the foal is breech."

Immediately, my heart starts hammering. A breech presentation for a horse in foal is one of the most difficult issues to resolve. My brain is already racing through potential complications: damaged internal organs, uterine ruptures, and potentially death to both mare and foal.

"Yalardy, you said?" I start calculating the distance from my current location to the inland town.

"A little west of it, yeah."

At minimum, I'm looking at an hour and a half. Maybe two hours.

"How long has the mare been labouring?"

Dusty answers my questions as I continue driving in his direction, and he also explains that their usual vet, stationed in Yalardy, is currently in the hospital being treated for a snake bite. It's shitty timing all around, really.

"I'm going to keep you on the phone and try and talk you through turning the foal for me, Dusty," I tell him.

He sounds grave when he answers, "Okay."

We both know just how serious this situation is. It's a complicated thing for even a trained equine vet to deal with, but I'm still too far out to risk telling him to wait for me. Even so, the foal's chances aren't looking good; a thought which hurts my heart to think about.

Dusty tells me that he's putting me on speaker, and I can hear him talking to other people as he explains what's happening. Then I start talking him through what he needs to do, asking him questions about what he can feel, and reminding him that he needs to be careful while he reaches inside the mare to try and reposition the foal.

Hope soars inside me when his descriptions sound less like the foal is completely breech and more like its neck and legs are just improperly positioned for delivery.

Asking more questions, tension bleeds from my shoulders when I realise that I'm right. This doesn't mean the foal is out of the woods yet, but its chances of survival just got a whole lot better.

I keep him on the line as I drive, talking him through every step of adjusting the foal's position. By the time I'm about half an hour away, the foal has been delivered successfully. Dusty's relief is palpable when he tells me so, thanking me for talking him through what to do.

"You did the hard part," I tell him, unable to keep from smiling. "I'll be there in about twenty to give mum and baby a check over, though. Go get yourself washed up."

He thanks me effusively, tells me that someone named ‘Ozzy' will be waiting for me at the main gate, and then hangs up. Using my hands-free system, I call Sarah, my receptionist-slash-vet nurse, and ask her to reschedule my afternoon appointments to tomorrow, taking a moment to explain what's happened and where I am.

"Bring me a pack of caramel Tim Tams when you get back to town?" she asks playfully. "Y'know, to make up for having to tell Mr. Ziggenfuse that you can't see his baby today?"

Michael Ziggenfuse is extremely precious about his cat. I figure there's a story of some sort there. Nevertheless, I chuckle at Sarah's request. I can only imagine how well that conversation is going to go.

"I'll bring you two packs," I agree. "Thanks, Sez."

"Make sure you get some caffeine in you if you're planning on making the drive back to town tonight," she says before I can end the call. Even though she's barely twenty-five, Sarah gets very maternal and concerned if she thinks I'm not taking proper care of myself.

I have to admit, it is nice having someone look out for me that way. It fills some of the void since Maddy died.

"I will," I assure her. "I'm sure the guys at the station will be happy to refill my thermos, too."

"Hmm," she replies, not sounding entirely convinced. I can hear her tapping away at her keyboard before she says, "I'm playing with your schedule for tomorrow so you can have a proper lie-in, seeing as you're going to be driving for so long tonight. I don't want to see you in the clinic until nine, do you hear me, Ryan Sharp?"

"Nine?!" I protest. "Sarah—"

"Nine," she cuts me off firmly. "Not a minute earlier. Am I understood?"

Submissive to the core, I back off and make a sound of affirmation at the back of my throat. "Yes, ma'am. Nine a.m. No earlier."

Sarah chuckles before we say our goodbyes and end the call. My GPS leads me to the big, wrought-iron gates of Wombat Run Station ten minutes later, supported on either side by thick brick posts, each one topped with a grey statue of a horse rearing back on its hind legs. Each of the gates also has what I assume is the station's logo —the outline of a wombat bracketed by a drawing of a gumleaf and two gumnuts— set into the iron. The gates are shut, but just as I'm reaching for my phone to call Dusty back, another ute comes rambling down the long, red dirt driveway, kicking up a cloud of red dust on its way to me. It comes to a stop a couple of metres away from the gate.

I roll down my window as the driver climbs out before the dust has even settled, and thanks to the sun being in just the wrong spot, all I can see through the glare and the dust is the silhouette of a wide-brimmed hat, broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist, and thick thighs encased in denim.

God, but I do love living in the country.

"Doctor Sharp, I assume?" the stranger calls jovially as he saunters through the dust cloud he caused.

I don't know if it's my recent musings about my Daddy cowboy, but I swear this guy has a similar American accent. My heart gives a little tug and I almost forget to call back, "Sure am! And you're Ozzy?"

"Yes, sir," he says, voice still raised to account for the distance between him and my ute. "I'll get the gate open; you drive on through and follow the driveway to the main house. I'll close the gate behind us and meet y'all on up there."

That's definitely an American accent…

I squint into the glare of the sun, wishing I could make out more of the guy's features. He sounds young, like my cowboy Daddy was, and I wonder if he's just as attractive. Then I give myself a shake because this level of projecting isn't healthy. "Sounds like a plan."

The gates creak as he unlocks them and wrenches them wide open, and I drive through the gap he's created when he waves me through. I glance through my rear-view mirror in an attempt to catch a better glimpse of him, but then I focus back on the bumpy driveway, following it until a large, sprawling homestead comes into view.

I pull up my ute next to a line of similar vehicles and climb out of the driver's seat, going around to the tray to pull out my medical bag. I'm clipping the tonneau cover back over the edge of the tray when Ozzy parks his ute beside mine. Not long after, his door clunks shut, and his boots crunch in the gravel and dirt as he approaches me.

"It's nice to properly meet you, Doctor Shar— no freakin' way ." Oscar's pleasant, casual tone shifts to match the shock currently rocketing through my body as I turn to greet him. He's just as handsome as I remember, if a little more tanned from constant exposure to the Western Australian sun. His eyes are wide right now, and the smile on his face is one of awed disbelief. "I can't believe this."

"Neither can I." I blink back at him with my heart in my throat. I'd only been thinking about him a couple of hours ago and now he's literally standing within arms' reach. It's like my daydreaming manifested him or something. I wonder if that works with lotto numbers, too, because these odds seem just as impossible. "Wow."

I have no idea what to do in this situation. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd ever again see the man who rescued me when I was at my lowest point. The first man —the only man— I've ever called Daddy.

The only man I'd like to continue calling Daddy.

I'm torn between maintaining my professional fa?ade and launching myself at Oscar, wanting to recapture some of the comfort I'd felt when he'd held me in his arms in his hotel room.

But then I have to acknowledge that it has been over two months since that night, and I don't really know all that much about him. He could be in a relationship. He might not do repeats.

He might not be out.

As jagged a pill as that thought is to swallow, I can't help thinking it. After all, he's working on a station in outback Australia: I know I'm stereotyping, but it's a rugged, hyper-masculine sort of environment, and I know from experience that most blokey-blokes out here don't react well to open displays of homosexuality. Admittedly, attitudes have been changing over time, with younger generations much more open and welcoming, but country mindsets seem to take longer to change than those in urban settings.

Oscar's shock seems to fade, and he takes charge of the awkwardness between us, closing the gap in two long strides before he pulls me in for a hug. "It's so good to see you, darlin'."