Page 1 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Gideon

I didn’t need the ‘check engine’ light to know something was wrong. The clunking had gotten worse over the last ten miles, and now the whole truck felt like it was running on spite.

I eased up on the gas, rolling past a thin stand of valley oaks clinging to the edge of the two-lane road. Beyond them stretched mile after mile of sunburnt pasture, the grass brittle and gold, a few black cattle standing motionless in the heat like they’d given up on the idea of shade.

That’s when I saw it.

At first, I figured it was an old feed sack someone had tossed out, rumpled and forgotten by the side of the road. Then it lifted its head.

I hit the brakes, tires groaning in protest, and pulled off onto the narrow shoulder. Gravel spat from under the wheels, pinging against the undercarriage as the truck lurched to a stop.

“Hang on, buddy,” I muttered, pushing the door open.

The heat slapped me the moment I stepped out. August in California wasn’t messing around. The sun had dipped low, but the air still pressed in heavy, smelling faintly of dust, dry weeds, and the hot-metal tang of my engine.

I jogged the few feet to the crumpled shape. It was a dog. Medium-sized. Short coat. Ears too big for his face. A wiry little mutt—maybe part terrier, part something scrappy and stubborn.

“Hey, buddy,” I said, crouching slowly. My knees popped in protest. “You okay?”

He blinked at me. Lifted his head just enough to make my chest tighten.

He wasn’t wearing a collar.

Of course.

“Are you out here all by yourself?” I reached out, kept my movements slow.

He didn’t growl. Didn’t flinch. Just watched me like he wasn’t sure if I was a threat or a promise.

Garrett and I used to find stray animals like this all the time.

Back when we were kids and had more heart than sense.

We’d sneak them into the garage, feed them scraps, give them names.

Pretend we were changing the world. Like patching up broken things could make up for the way our parents looked right through us.

“You got a name?” I asked the dog. He sniffed my hand, then licked it once. “Guess not. We’ll have to fix that.”

I scooped him up. He was lighter than he looked. Too light.

“This is a bad idea,” I said aloud, heading back to the truck. “Terrible, even.”

He didn’t argue. Just curled into my chest like he’d decided I was good enough.

Inside the cab, it was hotter than outside, the kind of heat that made your skin stick to the seat. I set him on the passenger side and yanked open the glovebox. There was nothing. Just some old napkins, a melted pen, and a granola bar I’d forgotten was there.

I peeled open the wrapper and broke off a chunk.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” I said, holding the bar out. He took it gently, like he knew it was a big deal.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat, closed my eyes for a second.

The engine made a sad little wheeze when I tried to start it again. Then nothing.

I stared at the dashboard. The fuel gauge was hovering on empty, and the battery light glowed stubbornly red.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Of course it picked now to die.

I yanked the door open again, popped the hood, and stared into the engine like it might magically fix itself if I looked disappointed enough.

It didn’t.

“Awesome,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

I slid back into the cab and looked at the dog. He was watching me, head tilted, like he was waiting to see what happened next.

“I don’t even know where we are,” I told him. “Got no cash, no food, no plan. And now this truck decides to quit on me. Perfect.”

He gave a soft whine.

“Yeah, same here, man.”

I leaned my head back and stared up at the roof of the cab. I could sleep here. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the worst. But with the dog? In August heat like this?

I glanced over at him again.

No way. I couldn’t do that to him.

Somewhere up ahead, there had to be a town—somewhere I could get help, or at least find a bowl of water.

I reached across the seat and ran my fingers through his fur. It was coarse and a little matted, but he didn’t pull away.

“You and me? We’ll figure this out,” I said.

Even if I had no idea how.

I kept one hand on the dog’s scruffy head. He sighed, like maybe things weren’t so bad now that he wasn’t alone anymore. I knew the feeling.

“We’ll figure it out,” I murmured. “Might take some convincing, but someone around here’s gotta have a soft spot for strays.”

I was trying to come up with a plan that didn’t involve walking aimlessly with a half-starved mutt in the August heat when a voice made me jolt hard enough to smack my knee on the steering column.

“Everything all right in there? You look like you're about to solve the world's problems.”

I twisted toward the window, hand instinctively shielding the dog, even though the guy outside didn’t look like a threat. Just… a lot.

Red hair. Thick beard. Broad-shouldered and sunburned like he spent his days outdoors. His USPS shirt was stretched tight across his chest, and he leaned one elbow on the open window like we were already old friends.

“Sorry,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “I didn’t hear you walk up.”

“I’ve got a sneaky step when I want to. You okay? Truck broken down?”

“Yeah. Just gave out a few minutes ago.”

He tipped his chin toward the passenger seat. “That your dog?”

I glanced at the scrappy little guy, who was still curled up but watching the redhead warily.

“No. He was lying on the side of the road. He didn’t have a collar or tag, so… yeah. Figured leaving him there wasn’t an option.”

The man let out a long, appreciative sound. “Good heart on you, then. Not everyone’d stop.” He held out a hand. “Reuben. I do the mail run out this way.”

I shook it through the window. He had a firm grip. Warm palm. Definitely a talker.

“I’m Gideon.”

Reuben didn’t let go right away. “New in town, huh?”

“Just passing through,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if that was true. I hadn’t figured that part out yet.

“Mm-hmm. We don’t get many passers-through in Foggy Basin. Especially ones picking up strays and breaking down in the middle of the road.” His grin widened. “That your whole life in that bag back there?”

I glanced toward the battered duffel tossed in the back seat. “Pretty much.”

“Well, if you’re looking to get that pup checked out, you’re in luck. Doc Jones over at Fluff & Tuff’ll take care of him.”

“Fluff and what now?”

“Fluff & Tuff Animal Clinic,” Reuben said proudly, like he owned stock in it.

“Used to be Claws, Paws, and More before Doc Jones bought it out last year. Changed the name, painted the building bright blue—can’t miss it.

Man’s real good with animals. Kind of quiet, but knows his stuff.

Used to work in San Francisco, if you can believe it.

Big-time vet hospital. Trauma, emergencies, all that.

Probably saved more lives than I’ve delivered letters. ”

I tried to wedge a word in. Failed.

“Some folks say he came here to escape the city. Others swear it was because of a messy divorce. I say it’s probably a bit of both. Anyway, he’s single, got a place tucked right behind the clinic, and from what I hear, he’s a sucker for strays and sad eyes.” Reuben winked. “You’ve got both.”

I blinked. “Uh… where is the clinic?”

“Oh! Just a ten-minute walk. Straight up this road, then take a left at the corner. You’ll see the blue building on your right, with a bone-shaped sign. You can’t miss it.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Thanks.”

Reuben squinted at me. “You got enough cash for it? Doc’s not one to turn folks away, especially not with a dog like that, but still. Never hurts to ask.”

“I’ve got… enough,” I said, which was a lie. Probably. But I’d deal with it.

“Well, I’ll let you go, then. Can’t keep you in this heat with a sick pup. But you be sure to tell Doc I sent you, alright?”

“Sure,” I said, already pushing my door open. “Thanks.”

Reuben gave me a cheery little wave. “Welcome to Foggy Basin, Gideon. You’ll like it here. Quiet. Weird. Lots of folks with secrets. You’ll fit right in.”

I offered him a thin smile, then slid out of the truck and circled around. The dog lifted his head and let me scoop him up without protest.

“You’re heavy for a featherweight,” I grunted, hitching my bag over one shoulder. “Let’s hope this Doc Jones is as kind as Mr. USPS says.”

Reuben was still watching as I locked the truck and headed up the road.

I didn’t look back.

I spotted the bright blue building before I saw the sign.

The last of the sun streaked across the storefront like it was trying to paint everything gold before the light gave out.

“Fluff & Tuff Animal Clinic” sat in big, playful letters on a bone-shaped sign above the glass door, and sure enough, the trim was painted the kind of cheerful blue that felt aggressively hopeful.

I shifted the dog in my arms—he was heavier now that I’d walked what felt like a mile instead of a ten-minute stroll—and pressed the heel of my hand against the small of my back. My shirt clung to my skin, damp with sweat, and my feet ached in boots that had seen better days.

But when I reached the steps, I saw the interior lights dimming. A shadow moved inside, then disappeared.

“No, no, no,” I muttered, dragging myself up the short steps. I tried the door handle. It didn’t budge—it was locked.

I bumped the glass door with my elbow. “Come on, don’t lock it yet?—”

I knocked. Once, twice, with more urgency than I meant to. The dog whimpered in my arms.

“Just a sec,” came a voice from inside.

The door squeaked open, and I forgot how to speak for a second.

Six feet tall. Wide receiver’s build—broad-shouldered, long lines of muscle under fitted scrubs. Skin like burnished mahogany. Tightly coiled hair. And those eyes—espresso brown, warm but alert, like they noticed everything and catalogued it for later.