Page 7 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Gideon

A week at Malcolm’s place had gone by faster than I’d expected.

Seven mornings of waking to the hum of the clinic next door, and seven nights of falling asleep with the faint scent of antiseptic and cedar still clinging to my hands.

In that time, I’d figured out which drawers in the supply room stuck if you pulled them wrong, where Malcolm kept the spare coffee filters, and that he talked to every animal like it was the only one in the world—even the ones trying to take a chunk out of him.

Warm weight pressed against my ankle.

I cracked an eye open to find two brown ears twitching above the edge of the blanket. At some point in the night, the pup had claimed the foot of the bed. I didn’t remember letting him up, but then again, I didn’t remember much after my head hit the pillow.

“Hey, stowaway,” I mumbled, shifting onto my side.

He stretched with a groan far too big for his medium-sized frame, one paw reaching toward me before flopping halfway, like the effort wasn’t worth it.

Yesterday afternoon, Malcolm had finally cleared him to leave the clinic, and now he was here—less breakable than when I’d found him.

His belly was rounder, his eyes brighter.

Still pink and patchy where the fur hadn’t grown back in, but healing.

A full recovery was just a matter of time.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” I said, nudging him with my foot.

He made a sound that was half-yawn, half-huff, and curled right back into the blankets.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the thin gray light sneaking in around the curtain edges. Too early for most sane people, but I’d never been a great sleeper.

“You still need a name,” I said, standing. His ears twitched. “Tried Moose yesterday, remember? Didn’t fit. And you’re definitely not a Buddy.”

I rubbed the back of my neck as I headed to the bathroom. By the time I came back, pulling on jeans, he’d dragged a fleece sock across the bed and was chewing the toe like it owed him money.

“What about Finn?” I offered. “No? Too clean-cut?”

He ignored me completely.

“I don’t know what you are,” I muttered, kneeling by the food dish in the corner. I poured kibble, the rattle of it loud in the quiet room.

The dog hopped down from the bed, landed with a clumsy thump, and dove into the bowl like he hadn’t eaten in years.

It hit me then—quiet and sudden, like pressing on an old bruise. Garrett would’ve had a name ready on day one. He’d have looked up the meaning, probably picked something mythological, and sold me on it even if it didn’t fit. He was good at that—good at making anything sound like the right choice.

My throat tightened.

Almost three years gone, and I still couldn’t picture him without hearing Mom’s voice in the background— Garrett this, Garrett that. Don’t know what I’d do without Garrett.

It didn’t matter that we were identical. He was the one everyone saw.

But he’d always seen me.

I wonder what you’d be doing now. Saving the world, probably. Or chasing the next adventure.

I shook the thought off and ran a hand through my hair. It didn’t help. Grief never knocked. It slipped in sideways, settled in your ribs, and waited you out.

The dog sneezed—loud enough to startle himself—then looked at me with those too-big ears and that expectant stare.

“Gremlin?” I tried. “Any better?”

Nothing. Just a look like I’d disappointed him.

“Okay, okay. Back to the drawing board.”

I scooped up the empty dish and stepped into the hallway, the dog padding at my heels. Lately, he stuck close. Like he’d already decided I was his person.

Pale morning light spilled through the landing window, catching in the worn wood grain beneath my feet.

Halfway down the hall, I slowed enough to glance at Malcolm’s door. Still closed.

I caught the faintest rustle inside—soft enough I could’ve imagined it, but I didn’t think I had. Malcolm was probably already awake.

The dog’s nails clicked lightly against the floor as we headed for the kitchen.

“Guess it’s just us for now,” I told him. “Let’s get some coffee going before the boss shows up.”

He tilted his head like he knew exactly who I meant.

I measured out the grounds, filled the machine, and hit the button.

The scent started to fill the air, warm and rich.

I found eggs, a few slices of ham, and bread in the fridge.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was enough. The butter hissed when it hit the skillet, followed by the soft sizzle of whisked eggs.

“You’re supervising, right?” I asked the dog.

He sat like a sentry, watching every move.

I’d just folded the omelet when I knew Malcolm was there. Not because I heard him, but because something in the air shifted. Like my skin caught the change before my ears did.

“Good morning,” he said, warmth in his tone. He stepped past me to the cupboard for a mug.

“Morning,” I replied, sliding the coffee pot a little closer to him. “Figured I’d get things started.”

His mouth quirked—just a hint. “You’ve been doing that all week.”

I shrugged. “Guess I like the routine.”

The dog’s tail thumped like a drumbeat. Malcolm crouched to greet him, hand sliding behind his ears in a way that made the pup lean into it like he’d been waiting all morning.

“Smells good,” Malcolm said, straightening. He poured himself coffee then took a long sip, eyes briefly closing as if the heat settled something in him.

“Hope you’re hungry,” I said, sliding the omelet onto a plate. “This is about the limit of my culinary range.”

“I’ll take it,” he said.

We ate at the small kitchen table, the dog stretched out between our chairs. The talk was easy—small things about the day ahead, a reminder to pick up more gauze, the fact that one of the filing cabinets at the clinic had decided to stick again.

His gaze dropped to the dog, who had flopped dramatically onto his side in front of the fridge.

"Did he make himself comfortable?"

"He’s got a talent for that," I said. "Climbed up on the bed last night like he owned it. Didn’t even ask."

Malcolm picked up a piece of toast, bit into it, and gave me a nod of approval. "You let him stay?"

"I didn’t have the heart to kick him off. He stretched out across my feet. Warm little furnace."

"Sounds like you’re bonded."

"Thought that was just a thing people said about horses."

He chuckled. "Have you picked a name for him yet?"

"Not even close. I tried a good bit but none of them have stuck. He’s judging me, I can feel it."

The dog made a wheezy noise and rolled over, all legs and ears.

“Maybe he’s a Walter,” Malcolm offered, deadpan.

“He’s not a Walter.”

“You’d be surprised. I met a Chihuahua named Walter once. Mean little bastard.”

I snorted, shaking my head. “Yeah, that’s not helping your case.”

The dog stood and nosed my ankle, warm breath brushing against my skin. I reached down, scratched behind one ear, and felt him lean into it like he’d been waiting for that exact spot all morning.

“What’re we doing with him today?” I asked.

Malcolm’s gaze softened, a quiet warmth settling in his features as he looked at the dog. For a second, I just watched him—how his expression shifted when he talked about animals, like he could see something the rest of us missed. I shook it off before it could sink in.

“Bring him down with us,” he said. “Set up one of the recovery crates by the front. He’ll be able to see people come and go. Might do him good.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s clean, he’s eating, and you’ve got his meds sorted. He’s got a better shot at recovery if he’s not alone.”

The clinic phone rang—sharp in the quiet between appointments. I was closest, so I picked it up.

“Fluff & Tuff Animal Clinic. This is Gideon.” The words still felt new in my mouth.

A woman’s voice came through, a little breathless. “Hi—um, I’ve got a miniature donkey, and I think something’s wrong with her hoof. She’s… she’s limping a little, and I can’t get close enough to check.”

I froze halfway between jotting a note and figuring out what the hell to ask next. This wasn’t exactly in my skill set. “One second,” I said, covering the receiver with my hand and glancing toward the exam room.

Malcolm stepped out, drying his hands on a folded towel. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to him, along with something warmer—soap, maybe, or just him. My pulse tripped, and I shoved the thought aside before it could turn into anything.

“It’s a hoof issue,” I said, holding the receiver toward him. “Miniature donkey. Owner says she’s limping.”

He took the phone without hesitation, voice dropping into that calm, easy cadence he used with worried owners. “This is Dr. Jones. Tell me what you’re seeing… Has she been eating? Any swelling? Warmth in the leg?”

I leaned against the counter, pretending not to listen while every low note of his voice tugged at me like a thread. He listened more than he talked, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing a fraction the way they did when he was working something through. Focused. In control.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “We’ll come out and take a look. Just keep her somewhere safe until we get there.”

He hung up, setting the receiver back in its cradle. “Hoof trim overdue. Owner’s worried it’s causing her discomfort.”

“Can’t she do it herself?” I asked.

“Some donkeys tolerate handling fine. Others—not so much. Sounds like this one doesn’t want her legs touched.” He pulled a notepad toward him and started jotting details.

I nodded, but my attention snagged on the way his forearm flexed as he wrote, the tendons shifting under smooth skin. Stupid detail to notice. I looked away before he caught me staring.

“She’s about ten minutes out of town,” he said. “Let’s grab the kit.”

I followed him toward the supply room, telling myself the tightness in my chest was just from moving quickly. Nothing else.

The kit wasn’t light, but Malcolm slung it into the back of the truck like it was nothing. I climbed in on the passenger side, the smell of clean leather and whatever natural scent he carried with him settling in the cab.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the gearshift. Even when the road curved, his movements stayed smooth—confident in that quiet, unshowy way he had.

“She’s had this donkey for six years,” he said, eyes on the road. “Normally fine with trims, but she’s been avoiding pressure on the left foreleg. Could be overgrown, could be a stone bruise.”

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.