Page 18 of Finding Gideon

I nodded, more focused on the way sunlight slid over the line of his jaw when we passed through the breaks in the trees than on hoof anatomy. My gaze caught there longer than it should have, and I turned to watch the fields rolling past instead.

The property was small but neat, a white fence running along the gravel driveway. The woman—a short, wiry type in a worn denim jacket—was waiting by the gate.

“She’s in the back pen,” she said as we got out. “Sweet as anything most days, but today she’s giving me the side-eye.”

We followed her around the house, and there she was—glossy coat, one ear twitching. She kept her weight off the front left hoof, shifting uncomfortably.

Malcolm stopped a few feet away, reading her like a book. His voice went low and even. “Hey, Muffin. Pretty girl.”

She flicked an ear toward him but didn’t move.

I watched him work—how he stayed just outside her threshold, letting her get used to him. Not pushing. Every inch of him said patience. Authority without force. And damned if that didn’t stir a feeling I couldn’t pin down.

“Gideon, bring the lead,” he said without looking back.

I did, passing it into his hand. His fingers brushed mine—just a second, warm skin against my knuckles—but it landed in me like the thud of a dropped stone.

He eased forward, clipped the lead to her halter, and after a little coaxing, Muffin let him lift the hoof. The trim itself was quick, practiced. He explained what he was doing in that same calm tone, the kind that seemed to settle not just the animal, but everyone standing nearby.

When he set the hoof down and stepped back, Muffin gave a soft snort, like the whole thing had been her idea.

“That should help,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

I nodded, though my head was still on the moment his fingers had grazed mine. Stupid.

“Let’s pack up,” Malcolm said, already moving toward the truck.

I followed, telling myself the tightness in my chest was just from the cold air.

The drive back started quiet. Gravel crunched under the tires until we hit the main road, the hum of the engine filling the space between us.

Malcolm rolled his shoulders once, then settled into the seat. One hand back on the wheel, the other resting easy on the gearshift again. I caught myself watching the curve of his forearm, the way the tendons shifted when he changed gears, before I dragged my eyes to the windshield.

“If that hoof had gone another week, we’d be dealing with more than discomfort,” he said after a while.

“Guess Muffin didn’t mind you too much in the end,” I said.

His mouth curved—the smile small, but there. “Patience goes a long way.”

I looked out at the road ahead, but the truth was, I could feel him there beside me more than I could see anything outside. Like his presence took up more room than the cab itself. It wasn’t just the space he filled—it was the steadiness, that grounded calm that somehow carried over from his work with animals to everything else he touched.

A stop sign loomed. He eased the truck to a halt, glanced my way, and the sunlight hit his eyes just right—warm brown, lit from the inside.

I looked away first.

The rest of the drive, I kept my attention on the passing fences and telephone poles, ignoring the part of me that was cataloguing the faint scents of cedar and clean soap every time he shifted in his seat.

By the time the clinic came into view, my pulse had finally slowed—though I couldn’t say why it had been up in the first place.

Chapter 7

Malcolm

“Buckle up. Lila Dormer doesn’t wait for anybody. And if we’re late, she might set one of her goats on us.”

Gideon glanced over from the passenger seat, one brow lifting. “She sounds… welcoming.”

I smirked, easing the truck out of the lot. “That’s one word for her.”