Page 17 of Finding Gideon

"Not even close. I tried a good bit but none of them have stuck. He’s judging me, I can feel it."

The dog made a wheezy noise and rolled over, all legs and ears.

“Maybe he’s a Walter,” Malcolm offered, deadpan.

“He’s not a Walter.”

“You’d be surprised. I met a Chihuahua named Walter once. Mean little bastard.”

I snorted, shaking my head. “Yeah, that’s not helping your case.”

The dog stood and nosed my ankle, warm breath brushing against my skin. I reached down, scratched behind one ear, and felt him lean into it like he’d been waiting for that exact spot all morning.

“What’re we doing with him today?” I asked.

Malcolm’s gaze softened, a quiet warmth settling in his features as he looked at the dog. For a second, I just watched him—how his expression shifted when he talked about animals, like he could see something the rest of us missed. I shook it off before it could sink in.

“Bring him down with us,” he said. “Set up one of the recovery crates by the front. He’ll be able to see people come and go. Might do him good.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s clean, he’s eating, and you’ve got his meds sorted. He’s got a better shot at recovery if he’s not alone.”

The clinic phone rang—sharp in the quiet between appointments. I was closest, so I picked it up.

“Fluff & Tuff Animal Clinic. This is Gideon.” The words still felt new in my mouth.

A woman’s voice came through, a little breathless. “Hi—um, I’ve got a miniature donkey, and I think something’s wrong with her hoof. She’s… she’s limping a little, and I can’t get close enough to check.”

I froze halfway between jotting a note and figuring out what the hell to ask next. This wasn’t exactly in my skill set. “One second,” I said, covering the receiver with my hand and glancing toward the exam room.

Malcolm stepped out, drying his hands on a folded towel. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to him, along with something warmer—soap, maybe, or just him. My pulse tripped, and I shoved the thought aside before it could turn into anything.

“It’s a hoof issue,” I said, holding the receiver toward him. “Miniature donkey. Owner says she’s limping.”

He took the phone without hesitation, voice dropping into that calm, easy cadence he used with worried owners. “This is Dr. Jones. Tell me what you’re seeing… Has she been eating? Any swelling? Warmth in the leg?”

I leaned against the counter, pretending not to listen while every low note of his voice tugged at me like a thread. He listened more than he talked, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing a fraction the way they did when he was working something through. Focused. In control.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “We’ll come out and take a look. Just keep her somewhere safe until we get there.”

He hung up, setting the receiver back in its cradle. “Hoof trim overdue. Owner’s worried it’s causing her discomfort.”

“Can’t she do it herself?” I asked.

“Some donkeys tolerate handling fine. Others—not so much. Sounds like this one doesn’t want her legs touched.” He pulled a notepad toward him and started jotting details.

I nodded, but my attention snagged on the way his forearm flexed as he wrote, the tendons shifting under smooth skin. Stupid detail to notice. I looked away before he caught me staring.

“She’s about ten minutes out of town,” he said. “Let’s grab the kit.”

I followed him toward the supply room, telling myself the tightness in my chest was just from moving quickly. Nothing else.

The kit wasn’t light, but Malcolm slung it into the back of the truck like it was nothing. I climbed in on the passenger side, the smell of clean leather and whatever natural scent he carried with him settling in the cab.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the gearshift. Even when the road curved, his movements stayed smooth—confident in that quiet, unshowy way he had.

“She’s had this donkey for six years,” he said, eyes on the road. “Normally fine with trims, but she’s been avoiding pressure on the left foreleg. Could be overgrown, could be a stone bruise.”