Page 19 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Malcolm

Gideon knelt in the yard in front of the three-legged mutt with a towel slung over one shoulder and a jar of ointment in his hand.

His voice was low, almost a whisper, coaxing the dog closer with soft encouragement and a bit of leftover chicken from lunch.

The dog hesitated at first, ribs showing less these days, fur starting to fill in, and the patch near his hip growing the faintest sheen.

It was the gentlest lean imaginable—the dog's chin against Gideon's palm—but it stilled everything in me.

I’d been the one to medicate him, clean his wounds, stitch the worst of it. But this? This was different. The dog wasn’t tolerating Gideon. He was choosing him.

Dennis yawned beside me, long and loud, unimpressed with the attention the other dog was getting.

I rubbed behind his ears until he slumped over on his side in surrender.

Gideon looked up, gave a half-smile. Not the flirty kind, or the cautious ones he wore when he was unsure of his footing. This was soft. Easy. Familiar.

“He’s doing better,” Gideon murmured, fingers brushing gently over the dog’s back leg—what was left of it.

“He trusts you.” I crouched beside them and added, “Not an easy thing for either of you.”

He didn’t look up. “I guess we’re both working on it.”

The honesty in his voice landed in my chest like something weighty and warm.

I glanced over, meant to check the wound, but caught his expression instead—concentrated, tender.

A streak of sunlight caught his hair. His mouth curved again, lips dry but pink from being chewed at, and something in me tilted.

Attraction, sure. I’d acknowledged that weeks ago. But arousal? I hadn’t let my mind linger there. Until now. The way his forearm flexed when he reached for the ointment. The dip of his waist under that worn grey shirt. The way his jeans bunched at the knee when he shifted on the floor.

Sexy. Jesus.

I sat back on my heels. “Are you always this good with the ones who’ve been kicked around?”

“Is it that obvious?” His smile was crooked now, a little bashful.

“It’s not a bad thing,” I said. “You don’t treat them like they’re broken.”

His gaze flicked to me for a second. “Neither do you.”

Maybe that was why we ended up here, orbiting each other like this. Same cautious tenderness. Same hunger that felt too big to name.

A car door closed around the corner. I stood, brushing dog hair from my jeans as footsteps approached the open side gate. Gideon stepped aside as a small voice carried into the yard before its owner appeared.

“Zuri said you had a rescue dog. A special one.”

The little girl burst into view—skin the same warm brown as mine, big puffball curls, and a dress covered in cartoon cactuses.

I pegged her at around seven, still in that stage where curiosity beat out shyness every time.

She didn’t stop to introduce herself before heading straight for the fence separating us from the kennel space.

Behind her, two women followed. One tall and white with sharp cheekbones and the long-limbed grace of a runner. The other shorter, curvier, dark-skinned with braids and a soft-eyed smile.

The girl pressed her face against the bars. “There he is! I see him!”

Dennis barked once, more out of routine than alarm, but she waved at him anyway. Then her focus shifted back to the three-legged dog.

“He’s just like me!” she said brightly.

Before either woman could interrupt, she lifted the hem of her dress to show off a pink prosthetic that shimmered like glitter in the sunlight. “See? We match.”

The dog didn’t move.

“He’s shy,” Gideon said gently, stepping closer to her side of the fence.

But then, almost as if the girl had cast a spell, the dog took one step forward. Then another. His tail twitched.

She held out a hand through the bars, motionless.

When the dog finally nosed her fingers, she grinned like she’d won the lottery.

“Told you,” she whispered.

One of the women—her mom, I guessed—cleared her throat. “Sorry to barge in. I’m Zuri’s cousin. We’re staying with her for the summer, and Junie heard about the dog from her.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, offering a hand first to the shorter woman. “I’m Malcolm. This is Gideon.”

“I’m Nia. That’s my wife, Rachel. And you’ve already met Junie.”

Junie beamed, now crouched as close as she could get, the dog’s head nestled against her arm.

“She’s been talking about the ‘three-legged wonder’ all day,” Rachel said. “I think she thinks he’s a kindred spirit.”

“She’s not wrong,” Gideon murmured beside me, voice thick.

The dog stayed perfectly still, pressing his whole face into Junie’s little palm like she was sunlight and he’d been living in shadow.

Junie didn’t even glance away. She kept stroking the dog’s head, her little fingers impossibly gentle. “People think different is sad. But I think it makes you special.”

My throat tightened.

“I didn’t have a forever home either,” she added matter-of-factly. “Not ‘til Mom and Momma came. So I think he just needs someone to love him like that.”

Gideon took a step closer. “He doesn’t have a name yet.”

Junie’s brows furrowed. “No name?”

I shook my head. “He doesn’t have a family yet either. Not yet.”

She turned slowly, wide eyes fixed on us like this was the most serious conversation of her entire life. “That’s okay. He can be mine.”

Nia and Rachel exchanged a glance.

“Wait—uh,” I cleared my throat, glancing at Gideon. “We haven’t actually talked about—he’s not officially up for adoption yet.”

“He was found injured,” Gideon added, his voice softer now. “He’s still healing, and he has only just started eating on his own again.”

Junie looked between us, thoughtful. “Okay. But maybe… maybe he could come home with us when he’s feeling better?”

Gideon didn’t answer right away. His gaze was on her and the dog, something unreadable in his expression. I knew what it wasn’t, though—it wasn’t the quiet sadness I’d gotten used to seeing in his eyes. It wasn’t the ache of guilt or loss.

“He’s really good with her,” he said quietly.

“He is.”

Junie turned back to the dog, humming to herself as she rubbed behind the old boy’s ears. “I think his name is Toast.”

“Toast?” I echoed.

She nodded with full seven-year-old conviction. “He’s soft and warm and a little crunchy on the outside. Like toast.”

Gideon made a choked sound beside me, like a laugh he wasn’t expecting.

“That’s… actually kind of perfect,” I said.

Rachel crouched beside her daughter, brushing a curl from her forehead. “Toast, huh?”

Junie beamed. “Yeah. Like the good kind.”

Gideon crouched, too, on the other side of the bars. “Well, Toast does seem to like you.”

Junie leaned her cheek against the metal. “Can he come live with us when he’s feeling better?” she asked again.

Nia looked at us again, this time with a smile that was equal parts cautious and hopeful. “Is that something you’d be willing to talk about?”

Gideon didn’t hesitate. “We’ll think about it.”

Junie squealed and pressed a kiss to the bars.

Gideon looked over at me then, and what I saw nearly undid me.

He didn’t even try to hide it—the wet shine in his eyes, the soft crease at the corners of his mouth. I’d seen him cry before, had held him through the kind of grief that cracked you from the inside out. But this wasn’t that.

This was something else entirely.

Hope, maybe.

Or peace.

Maybe both.

I nudged his elbow gently. “Toast, huh?”

He huffed out a laugh, still blinking too fast. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been Peanut Butter.”

“Don’t give her ideas,” I whispered.

But Junie was already trying out the new name on the dog, and for the first time since we’d taken him in, he wagged his tail.

Gideon’s shoulder brushed mine as we stood there, watching a three-legged dog lean into a little girl’s touch.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough to make the whole yard feel brighter.