Page 5 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Gideon

I’d rinsed our coffee cups, dried them, and lined them up beside the sink like I was expecting a health inspection. Wiped down the counters too, even though there wasn’t a crumb in sight. The place was cleaner than clean—just like everything else I’d seen so far.

Still, I needed something to do with my hands.

I wandered the kitchen, keeping my touch light.

The cabinets were older, but well-kept. Hinges oiled, no creaks.

Whoever built them cared enough to do it right.

Same went for the rest of the house. Solid bones, sturdy work.

I straightened the dish towel on its hook, nudged a chair back into place, adjusted the fruit bowl so it sat square on the table.

Little things that didn’t belong to me, but didn’t cross a line either.

It wasn’t as though I was snooping—at least, I hoped it didn’t look that way—but curiosity was hard to resist. Malcolm Jones wasn’t exactly an open book.

Quiet, certainly. Polite. And beneath that calm exterior, there was something tightly coiled—visible in the way his jaw worked when he was thinking, or how his shoulders never seemed to quite relax, even over coffee.

Was he married? Divorced? Did he have children somewhere? Or was he simply one of those people who learned early on how to keep everything about themselves locked away?

I hadn’t seen any photographs in the house. There was no partner’s jacket hanging by the door, no small shoes tucked in a corner. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. Some people simply didn’t leave traces of their private lives where others could see them.

And perhaps I shouldn’t have been wondering about it in the first place. He had been nothing but generous in letting me stay here. The last thing I needed was to start imagining the story behind his eyes.

A sudden yelp cut through the quiet—sharp, high-pitched, unmistakably the sound of an animal in pain. It carried from the clinic out front, enough to make the hair at the back of my neck stand on end.

Another cry followed, and then the muffled sound of Malcolm’s voice, low but urgent. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was enough—controlled, but with no room for hesitation.

I didn’t stop to wonder. Just headed out the door at a run, crossing the yard in a few steps to the clinic. My pulse kicked up to match my pace. I didn’t know what I was about to walk into—but something told me I had to be there.

When I stepped inside and reached the exam room, Malcolm was crouched beside a dog splayed out on the exam table, its fur soaked red down one side. Then the smell hit me—blood, sharp and metallic, thickening the air.

A woman hovered nearby, tear-streaked and wide-eyed, wringing her hands while whispering the same word over and over—“Please, please, please…”

The pup was maybe thirty pounds, mottled gray and white, breathing too fast. One of its hind legs jutted at the wrong angle, and blood kept seeping from somewhere under its belly.

“I—I didn’t see him,” the woman stammered, catching sight of me. “He ran out into the road—oh God, I didn’t?—”

Malcolm cut her off gently, without looking up. “It’s okay. Let me work.”

His hands moved steadily, fast. He pressed a folded towel against the worst of the bleeding, his voice low and even as he tried to calm the shaking animal.

He didn’t see me at first—he was too focused. I stepped closer without thinking. “Here,” I said. “What do you need?”

Malcolm flicked his eyes up at me—one fast, sharp glance—and whatever he saw there must have been enough.

“Keep pressure here.” He guided my hands over the towel, adjusting my grip. “Firm, but gentle.”

I pressed down where he showed me. The dog whimpered, flinched, but didn’t pull away.

Malcolm reached for gauze and tape, swapping the towel for sterile pads without missing a beat. He kept talking—not to me, but to the dog, a steady stream of quiet reassurance. Good girl. Easy. You’re okay, sweetheart.

I held still, my knees starting to protest from leaning into the table, but I barely registered it. The smell of blood was sharp and metallic, clinging to the air.

Eventually, the bleeding slowed. Malcolm slid in an IV line, taped it down, and the dog’s breathing evened out—still shallow, but no longer scraping at the edge of panic.

“Good girl,” Malcolm murmured, stroking her head once before stripping off his gloves and tossing them in the biohazard bin. His scrubs were streaked with blood, dark against the pale green fabric.

I stepped back when he nodded, wiping my hands on the clean towel he passed me.

The woman let out a shaky breath that turned into something like a thank you. Malcolm reassured her the dog would pull through, then asked her to wait outside while he ran tests. She went reluctantly, still wringing her hands.

The second the door swung shut behind her, Malcolm exhaled—a quiet breath, more release than fatigue.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I—yeah. Just… wasn’t expecting that,” I said, flexing my fingers where the blood had dried tacky on my skin. He pointed me to the sink in the corner to wash up.

“Neither was I.” He leaned back against the counter. “Jess was supposed to be here this morning.”

“Your assistant?”

He nodded. “Called right before this came in. Her mom had a bad fall. She’s flying out to Colorado to help. Could be gone for a while.”

A while. Vague enough that it could mean next week… or months from now.

“That’s rough,” I said.

“She’s doing what she needs to do,” he said, though I caught the faint pinch between his brows. “But it leaves me short-staffed.”

I glanced at the blood-speckled gauze in the waste bin, then at the still-damp towel hanging over the sink. “It looks like you managed fine.”

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “Fine’s one thing. Day in, day out, by myself? That’s different.” He hesitated, then added, "You were level-headed just now. A lot of people freeze when they see that much blood.”

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention. “It didn't seem like the time to freeze.”

“That’s exactly my point.” He pushed off the counter, closing the space between us.

“I need someone who can keep their head. Someone who’s not afraid to mop floors one minute and hold a vein for an IV the next.

There’s cleaning, stocking, errands. Feeding the boarders.

Room and board comes with it, plus pay.” He named a number—better than I’d expected. “Interested?”

The offer landed heavier than it should have, tugging at something low in my chest. It wasn’t just money. Or just a place to sleep. A reason to stay put for more than a night.

“Are you sure about that?” I asked. “I’m not a vet tech.”

“I’m not looking for one,” he said simply. “I’m looking for someone I can trust. And I think you’ve got good instincts.”

Something in his voice—steady, certain—made it hard to look away. Relief, gratitude, and something else tangled together in my chest.

I nodded once. “Yeah. Okay.”

He held out his hand. I shook it, feeling the faint roughness from years of handling animals and equipment against my palm.

“Good,” he said. “You’re hired.”