Page 37 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Gideon

A plastic bottle of milk warmed between my palms. The lamb’s mouth worked around the makeshift nipple, like it was dreaming its way through the feed. I sat cross-legged on the straw-covered floor, back pressed to the stall gate, watching every swallow like it might be the last.

Malcolm crouched nearby, one knee on the ground, his hand braced against the edge of the pen. His scrubs were rumpled, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but he hadn’t left. Not once since we took the lamb in.

“She’s holding on,” he murmured.

I nodded. “For now.”

We’d been through two feedings. A glucose injection. Blankets. A heat lamp. A lot of waiting. I didn’t know how he was still upright. I didn’t know how I was either.

Malcolm shifted, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Gideon…”

“I’m fine,” I said too quickly.

He didn’t argue. Just stood and dusted straw off his pants. “Come to bed.”

“I should?—”

You’ll be useless to her if you collapse.”

I glanced at the tiny rise and fall of her chest. Still breathing. Still here.

“Just for a bit,” he added. “Come on.”

The part of me that knew he was right lost the fight. I let him pull me up, my joints cracking from hours on the floor. We didn’t speak as we crossed the yard and headed back inside. I followed Malcolm with quiet steps and a heavy heart.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the hallway light spilling in before Malcolm shut the door behind us.

He didn’t speak, just helped me out of my clothes with patient hands, then shed his own.

Before I could process it, he’d lifted me, strong arms cradling me against his chest, and carried me straight into the bathroom.

Steam curled in the air, lavender and eucalyptus wrapping around us. He’d prepared the bath already, water warm and scented, candles flickering low on the counter. Soft instrumental music whispered from somewhere I hadn’t noticed until then.

He lowered me into the tub like I was something fragile. Heat enveloped me, chased the tension from my muscles. Malcolm slid in behind me, pulling me back against his chest, his lips brushing the side of my temple.

Later, he toweled us both dry, unhurried, and guided me into bed. His kiss was slow, comforting rather than demanding. “You’re a wonderful man,” he murmured against my lips. “You’ve built something good here, Gideon. You’re doing such a damn good job.”

I swallowed hard, my chest tight with something more than gratitude. And then his arms came around me, familiar, anchoring. I could’ve let myself sink into that.

I didn’t.

My eyes stayed open. Fixed on the ceiling.

Fifty yards away, a lamb fought for its life.

Malcolm’s breathing evened out in minutes. I stayed still, barely blinking. I counted heartbeats. The silence pressed in around me, loud in its own way. Somewhere outside, an owl called once, then again.

I thought about the lamb’s pulse under my fingers. Faint, but there. About the slight wheeze in his chest. The way his tiny hooves had kicked weakly when I’d lifted his About how fast something so small could disappear.

My body was in bed. My mind was in that stall.

Malcolm shifted against me in his sleep, warm and solid. He’d done this before—pulled impossible things back from the edge.

I turned onto my side. Watched the way the shadows moved on the wall.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.

Then I slipped out from under his arm.

Feet to the floor. Slow. Quiet.

I shifted my weight, every muscle tight with the effort to stay quiet. Waited. Malcolm didn’t stir. His breathing stayed slow and even.

I grabbed my joggers off the chair and tugged them on. The hoodie came next, sleeves soft from too many washes. I didn’t bother with socks. The floor was cool beneath my soles, but it grounded me.

The door latch clicked when I opened it. Barely a whisper, but it sounded louder than it was. I glanced back. Malcolm hadn’t moved. His face half-buried in the pillow, brow relaxed. Peaceful.

I stepped into the hallway. Pulled the door closed with two fingers, slow enough not to wake him.

The house was dark. Still. That middle-of-the-night hush where everything felt suspended.

The kitchen clock ticked.

I padded past it, straight to the back door. Slipped out and eased it shut behind me.

The air hit me then—not cold, but brisk enough to make me tighten the drawstrings on my hoodie. Grass damp against my feet. Night sounds low and familiar. A soft rustle in the trees. Crickets. Wind through the barn rafters.

I crossed the yard to the sanctuary, the building a shadowed outline in the dark. I didn’t need a flashlight. I knew the path.

Lights were off inside, but the smell met me before I opened the door—hay, milk replacer, the faint antiseptic tinge of the clinic equipment we’d dragged in. I stepped in and let the door fall shut behind me.

The lamb was where we’d left him. Curled into a corner under the heat lamp. Breathing light but even. His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm.

I crouched beside him, careful not to make sudden movements. He didn’t startle.

Didn’t wake either.

I eased down onto the floor, cross-legged beside his crate. I just needed to be near him.

His little body shifted once, a twitch in his front leg. Nothing alarming. Probably dreaming—if lambs did that.

I rubbed at my chest. That tight feeling hadn’t gone away.

What if he didn’t make it?

What if I woke up tomorrow, and he was gone?

My fingers curled against my thigh. I hated that part. The waiting. Not knowing if what I’d done was enough. If I’d missed something. If he needed more than I had to give.

I leaned closer to check his breathing again. Still steady. Still there.

“You’re tougher than you look,” I murmured. “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t stir.

But I smiled anyway.

For a long while, I just sat there. No need to speak. No need to move. Just listening to the rhythm of his breaths and the way the building creaked when the wind shifted outside. It was the quiet kind of company—the kind that filled a space without pressing in too hard.

Eventually, I let my back rest against the wall. Head tilted. Eyes heavy.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep.

Didn’t even realize I had.

Not until?—

Something pulled me awake.

A shift in the air, maybe. The silence. The kind that didn’t just feel quiet—but wrong.

I blinked. My neck ached from the angle I’d slumped against the wall. My back twinged as I sat up straighter. The sky outside the small window had gone from pitch to pale gray—almost dawn.

And the crate was too still.

I leaned closer. “Hey…”

No response. No rise and fall of his tiny chest.

My heart kicked hard, once, then dropped.

“Hey, no, no, no—” My hands moved on instinct, checking his side, then under his jaw. Nothing. No rise or fall. No flutter.

He was warm, but he was gone.

My throat burned. I sat back on my heels, palms flat on the floor, staring.

It didn’t make sense. He’d been okay. Weak, sure, but fighting. He’d taken his feedings. He’d nestled into the towel like he meant to stick around.

And now?—

I scrubbed both hands over my face. Could’ve sworn I heard a sound, but it was just the hum of the building. The whir of the fridge in the corner.

I let out a breath, long and shaky, and pressed my palms to my knees. “Damn it.”

There wasn’t anything left to do. Nothing to fix. I hated that most of all.I sat there, hands limp on my knees, shoulders curled forward like I could fold in on myself and disappear. Just me and the quiet.

Then I heard the door creak open behind me.

I didn’t look up.

Footsteps paused, then Malcolm crouched by the crate. He looked in once and knew. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t say anything, just let out a breath and turned toward me.

By the time his arms wrapped around me, my face was buried in his shirt, damp and hot. He didn’t tell me it was okay or that I’d done enough. He just held on.

For a long time, we sat like that. No explanations. No noise but the hum of the fridge and the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

When I finally spoke, my voice cracked. “I thought I could do this. Thought I was strong enough. But maybe I’m not.”

His hand rubbed the back of my neck, grounding me. “You are,” he said quietly. “Strong doesn’t mean you never break. It means you keep caring, even when it hurts.”

I closed my eyes.

“Loss is part of this. The pain doesn’t mean you failed,” he said. “It means you cared.”

Everything in me caved. Not all at once, but like an old wall finally giving in after too many storms.

“I love you,” I whispered.

He leaned in until our foreheads touched, his voice just as low. “I love you too, you stubborn, beautiful man.”