my own. It’s feeling quite homey.”
“I’m betting Bree loves having a sister after so long as the only girl.” I clear my throat, dragging myself back to the question she asked. “You’re right that immunosuppressed patients are at a higher risk for infection. I’m not saying don’t get a pet, but there are risks.”
“Like what?”
“Well, let’s see.” I lean back in my chair and consult my mental medical manual. “You have things like Cryptosporidium, Giardia, Salmonella, Campylobacter—those are all things animals can pass along to humans.”
Her brow furrows, drawing my gaze to those bright green eyes. “So pets are off limits?”
“Not necessarily. You’d need to be extra careful about hand washing and hygiene. Maybe nothing that requires a litter box. Cats also pose a scratch risk, so that’s a hazard.”
She looks pretty bummed about that. “What other animals should I avoid?”
“Reptiles aren’t a good idea. Too much risk of salmonella. That rules out snakes, turtles, lizards, that sort of thing.”
“No problem there.” She gives a small shudder. “What else?”
“Maybe skip the exotic pets.”
She cocks her head. “I’m not familiar with that term. You mean like elephants and eels?”
The laugh rumbles out before I can stop it. “Were those high on your list of possible pets?”
“I like to keep my options open.” She smiles and runs a finger along the spine of the novel, distracting me with the delicate lines of her hands.
“Good thinking.” Also a good reminder to avoid phrases she’s not likely to know. “Exotic pets would be things like chinchillas or monkeys or wolverines.”
Izzy cocks her head. “These are common in the United States?”
“Maybe not for someone with a suppressed immune system. Too much of a bite risk.”
“There goes my dream of having a pet wolverine.” She says it so dryly that I almost miss the spark of laughter in her eye.
“No wild animals, either,” I continue. “Raccoons, squirrels, skunks…”
“Lions and tigers and bears?”
“Oh my,” I add, and she laughs.
“All right,” she says. “I’ll do some research.”
“If you want, I could show you around my parents’ farm.” The word slips out before I can stop it. Plural parents, when in fact, there’s just one. “My mother takes in animals for the Sheriff’s office. Goats, chickens, pigs, cows, that sort of thing.”
She smiles, and my system floods with oxytocin and dopamine and a bunch of stuff I’m forgetting because when Izzy’s around, I barely recall the alphabet.
“Not house pets,” she says.
“Definitely not house pets,” I agree. “But it’ll give you an animal fix, and my mom’s really great about keeping things sanitary. She also loves meeting new people.”
“That sounds lovely.” She beams, but there’s a question in her eyes.
Has she heard my mom’s a widow? That my father’s death was quite the scandal around here?
Or maybe it’s the other gossip.
“I’m fascinated by farms.” She glances down into her lap, making it impossible to read her eyes. “I’d actually never seen one until recently.”
“You went to a farm?”
“Bree took me to the reindeer ranch.” When she glances up again, I see curiosity tinged with embarrassment. She must know something? “We would have gone sooner, but the King sisters said it was castration season.” Her cheeks blush deep crimson. “I’m sure you know all about that, but—”
“Right, yeah.” Okay, I guess we’re going there. “We should get this out in the open. You must’ve heard it from Bree?”
Izzy blinks. “Um, well…she does sometimes share things with me.”
Did I mention the downside of living in a small town?
I don’t fault Izzy, or even Bree. It’s just the nature of living in a community where everyone knows everyone else’s business.
I take a deep breath and swallow back a fierce wave of protectiveness for my sister. “Just to set the record straight, yes, I did threaten my sister’s ex with a castration tool.” Not my proudest moment, but I don’t regret it. “Julia needed help,” I continue, “and her husband needed a strong message.”
The message was “don’t hit your wife, and don’t stick your dick in a stripper when you’re married,” but it was too late by then. Julia was six months pregnant when she showed up on my doorstep with a facial contusion and a phone full of incriminating screenshots.
I’ll admit it: Seeing my sister in tears made me see red.
“Castration tool,” Izzy repeats slowly, her brow furrowing. “I saw one at the reindeer ranch, I think.”
“The one for cattle is bigger.” I don’t know why I feel the need to point this out. “For the record, I didn’t castrate him or even