Page 8 of Finding Gideon (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Malcolm

“Buckle up. Lila Dormer doesn’t wait for anybody. And if we’re late, she might set one of her goats on us.”

Gideon glanced over from the passenger seat, one brow lifting. “She sounds… welcoming.”

I smirked, easing the truck out of the lot. “That’s one word for her.”

For a while, we drove in companionable quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space. Gideon’s gaze stayed fixed on the passing landscape—low hills softened by fog, stands of pines dark against the pale morning.

“Reuben mentioned you used to be in San Francisco,” he said at last, curiosity threading through his tone. “Big city job, emergency vet stuff. Must’ve been a hell of a change coming here.”

“Yeah,” I said. “San Francisco was home for most of my life.”

That got his attention. He turned, studying me like he wanted to hear it in my own words, not just secondhand gossip.

I kept my eyes on the road. “Ten years in emergency medicine. Long shifts, trauma cases, constant pressure. Eventually, I realized the work was chewing me up. Moving here was… survival as much as anything else.”

His gaze lingered, quiet but steady. He didn’t press, though I could feel the weight of unasked questions.

“Foggy Basin seemed like the right speed?” he asked.

“Slow enough I can breathe,” I said. “Still enough work to keep me busy.”

He nodded, thoughtful, and then offered, “I’m from Oregon originally. Parents are still there, but we’re… not close.”

Something in his tone told me not to ask why, so I didn’t.

“Ended up drifting. Been to Washington, Idaho, Nevada. Stayed where I landed, until it was time to move on again.”

I almost asked what brought him all the way down to this nowhere patch of Northern California.

Almost. But something in the set of his jaw, and the way his hands rested loose on his knees, like he’d trained himself not to hold on to things too tightly, made me keep that question to myself.

If he wanted to tell me, he would. I wasn’t in the business of forcing things.

The hills around us curved into soft ridges, dry grass swaying along the slopes. Trees clung in clusters, like they hadn’t decided if they wanted to be forest or grove.

“It’s beautiful here,” Gideon said. “Feels… bigger than I expected.”

“In what way?”

He tilted his head. “Like there’s room to breathe. Even the air smells different.”

“It’s August. Everything smells like oak pollen and cow shit right now.”

He laughed—quiet, but genuine. “Still better than the dorm I lived in freshman year.”

We hit the edge of town, where the street signs turned hand-painted and the mailboxes got weirder. I pointed out a few landmarks without thinking.

“Our main street’s actually called Main Street. No one got too creative with that one. Most of the businesses are on it—hardware, diner, bakery.”

He smiled again, watching the town unfold like a pop-up book. Then I added, “We’ve got the Foggy Basin Inn. Old motel-style, U-shaped. From the fifties. Still has coin-operated massage beds in the rooms.”

“People actually stay there?”

“Yeah.”

We passed the last gas station, a faded sign advertising ice cream and diesel. I should’ve stopped talking. I knew I should’ve stopped.

“There’s also Lover’s Butte,” I continued. “Just outside of town. People go up there to… hang out.”

I immediately wished I could throw myself out of the truck.

Gideon raised an eyebrow. “Hang out.”

“Yeah. You know. Park. Talk. Stuff.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked amused in that quiet, unreadable way of his. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“It’s… local trivia,” I added, like that would make it better.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth twitch. But he let it go, and we rolled past the last cluster of houses and back onto open road.

The hills opened wider the farther we drove. I adjusted the vent, the air coming in warm and smelling faintly of dust and sweet hay.

“Do you know all the local spots?” Gideon asked after a few minutes.

“It’s an occupational hazard.”

He smirked, then turned slightly in his seat. “What made you want to be a vet?”

I glanced at him, surprised he’d asked—then surprised by how much I didn’t hate that he had.

“Not the usual story,” I said after a pause. “No childhood dog. No horse that healed my soul.”

He waited, not pushing, just listening.

“There was this chicken,” I said finally. “I was in sixth grade. Supposed to feed my neighbor’s hens while they were away. One of them—Junebug—got her leg caught in some kind of plastic netting. She panicked, thrashed around, which made it worse.”

Gideon turned toward me more fully, elbow still resting on the window, gaze steady.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” I said. “But I grabbed a pair of blunt scissors and snipped her free. Then wrapped her leg in gauze and painter’s tape because that’s all I had. Sat with her for two hours in the dirt. Watched her fall asleep.”

“That’s the moment?”

I shrugged. “It wasn’t dramatic. But I remember thinking, I want to know how to do this right. ”

“Junebug was okay?”

“She walked with a limp. Developed a taste for popcorn and followed me around like I was her god. Lived to be nine.”

Gideon smiled—soft, which caught me a little off guard. “That’s kind of amazing.”

“Or deeply concerning. Who bonds that hard with a chicken?”

“You’d be surprised.”

I glanced at him. The way the light hit his face, I could see the faintest scar on the bridge of his nose. I hadn't noticed it before. I wanted to ask—about the scar, about Oregon, about what made him leave. I wanted to ask how long he was planning to stay in Foggy Basin, if he’d even unpacked yet.

But something about his expression—distant but not closed off—said not yet .

So I shifted gears.

“Remind me never to agree to vet a mini pig at a wedding again, though,” I said.

That got him to turn my way. “I feel like you have to explain that one.”

“Summer before I moved here, I got a call from this frantic event planner. Turns out the bride’s father had surprised her with a ‘flower pig’—little wreath around its neck, ribbon on the tail.

Supposed to trot down the aisle. Instead, it made a beeline for the reception tent and ate half the wedding cake before anyone could stop it. ”

Gideon burst out laughing. Full-out, no hesitation. It startled me—not because it was loud, but because of how sudden and unguarded it was.

His head tipped back slightly, one hand on his chest, the other braced on the dashboard like he needed it to stay upright. The sound rolled out of him, warm and effortless.

I stole a glance.

It changed his whole face.

Not just the smile, but the way it softened his jaw, lit something in his eyes. The kind of laugh that felt earned. Like it hadn’t been around much lately.

He should do that more often.

“Bet that made you popular.”

“Oh, yeah. The groom's family loved me. The photographer got it all on camera. But the bride? Last I heard, she still hadn’t forgiven the pig.”

He leaned his elbow against the door, eyes still lit from the laugh. “Please tell me that’s your worst.”

“Not even close. I had a call about a llama that wouldn’t get out of a backyard swimming pool. Technically it wasn’t in the city—more Marin County—but the owners kept insisting it was ‘their suburban oasis.’”

Gideon let out a disbelieving huff, mouth parting like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or be stunned. “A llama in a pool?”

“Yep. Name was Tofu. Sweet animal, just… very determined to stay where she was. Apparently she’d been spooked by fireworks the night before, bolted through an open gate, and decided the shallow end was a safe zone.

Took three hours, a bag of baby carrots, and the world’s most patient pool cleaner to coax her out. ”

Gideon’s laugh came quick and warm, the kind that made you want to hear it again. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, but possible. I’ve got pictures somewhere. And once,” I said, grinning a little, “I ended up helping track down a runaway tortoise.”

Gideon gave me a skeptical look. “A tortoise? Don’t they move at, like… glacial speed?”

“Usually, yeah,” I said. “This one was a patient of mine—an older girl, arthritis in her back legs—and her owner was a long-time client. She lived a couple of blocks from the clinic, so when I had a break between appointments, I walked over to help look for her.”

“And?”

“And we found her halfway down the block, heading toward the corner store like she had errands to run. Turns out she’d taken the neighbor’s open gate, cut through two backyards, and coasted downhill on the sloped sidewalk. For a tortoise, that’s basically high-speed travel.”

Gideon laughed, shaking his head. “And here I thought they just sat around eating lettuce.”

“She did—right after we caught her,” I said. “But for an hour, she was pure street racer.”

All too soon, I had to turn onto the gravel drive, the truck jolting gently as the tires crunched over the uneven stones. The road curved around a row of leaning mailboxes and opened up into a farm—weathered, sun-bleached, a little lopsided in places but still holding strong.

The red barn stood proud despite its peeling paint. A wind chime made from rusted silverware clinked near the front porch. Fencing snaked around the property in uneven lines, posts bowed with age but stubbornly intact. A chicken strutted along the fence line like it paid taxes there.

“Welcome to Dormer Farm,” I said as I shifted the truck into park.

Gideon’s gaze swept over the barn, the fences, the sun-faded porch. “The place has got… staying power,” he said finally. “Like it refuses to quit.”

“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “That’s Lila in a nutshell.”

She was already waiting at the gate, one hand on her hip.

She wore her usual uniform—faded flannel shirt tucked into well-worn jeans, both patched in more than one place, and boots that looked older than I was.

Her white hair was cropped short beneath a sun-faded cap, and her face wore the kind of frown that had become a habit rather than a mood.

But underneath all that, there was warmth. The quiet, rooted kind. Everyone in town adored her. Or was at least smart enough to pretend they did.

“Malcolm,” she said, giving me a brisk nod as I climbed out.

“Morning, Lila.”

Then she looked over at Gideon, who was stepping out of the truck, brushing a hand down his shirt. She watched him for a beat too long—measuring, assessing—and then gave a single sharp nod, like she’d made some internal decision.

“So you’re the new help,” she said.

“Guess that’s me,” Gideon replied, steady but polite.

Lila let out a short laugh. For her, it might as well have been a giggle. “Hope you’re as useful as he says you are.”

Gideon's mouth curved just enough to suggest amusement. “Depends on what he’s been saying.”

That earned him a short, approving laugh before she turned toward the barn.

Lila led us toward a small enclosure near the barn, where one of her older goats—Lucinda, a grizzled doe with a cloudy eye and a deep distrust of men under forty—was waiting, tethered loosely beneath the shade of an old oak tree.

“She’s been favoring her back leg the past week,” Lila said. “And her coat’s looking duller than usual.”

I gave a short nod. “We’ll take a look.”

I crouched beside Lucinda, murmuring low while I reached for my kit. Gideon moved in beside her without needing to be told, one hand on her collar, the other soothing along her flank.

Lucinda huffed.

But she didn’t bolt.

Gideon didn’t grip or restrain—he grounded . A quiet presence. The kind animals seemed to understand better than people did.

I worked while he kept Lucinda calm, and it struck me—not just the steadiness of his hands, but the calm in his posture. His quiet wasn’t empty; it was something the goat could settle into.

Lila stood outside the enclosure, arms folded, watching us work. Her gaze kept drifting to Gideon, and when I stepped back at last, brushing off my palms, she tipped her chin toward him.

“Not bad,” she muttered. “If you ever need work, I’ll steal you from the clinic.”

He looked over at her and answered, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

While I packed up my kit, Lila disappeared into the barn with a muttered, “Hold on.” By the time we’d closed the gate behind us and started toward the truck, she reappeared from the farmhouse, a small jar in hand.

She stopped in front of Gideon and pressed it into his palm—wrapped in gingham cloth and tied with twine.

He blinked at it.

“Apple butter,” she said. “Don’t let it go to waste.”

He nodded, murmured his thanks, and climbed into the passenger seat. I started the engine, gave Lila a quick wave, and eased us back onto the gravel drive.

“She doesn’t even give me a bottle of water,” I said once we’d rounded the bend.

Gideon’s mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “Maybe you’re not charming enough.”

I snorted. “I definitely am.”

He didn’t argue.

The gravel faded back to asphalt, and we fell into a silence that felt… easy. Not awkward, not tense. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that let the landscape fill in the spaces.

Fields slid by, green and gold and soft with wind. A few cows lifted their heads as we passed, as if mildly curious. A hawk circled overhead, its wings wide and slow in the sky.

Gideon still had the jar of apple butter in his lap, fingers curled loosely around it like he didn’t quite know what to do with it—but wasn’t ready to let it go, either.

I found myself glancing over before I meant to.

“You were good with her,” I said, my voice coming out lower than I wanted. Almost like I’d thought it instead of said it.

His gaze slid my way. “Who? The goat or Lila?”

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “Both.”

“Then I’ll take that as a win,” he said, a small smile tugging at his mouth before he turned back to the window.

Sunlight pooled across his profile, tracing the clean line of his jaw, catching on the dark stubble there. His mouth rested in that half-settled place between guarded and… something else. Something warmer, if he ever let it through.

That laugh of his from earlier still echoed in the back of my mind, curling around me in a way I couldn’t shake.

I told myself I was just noticing. You can’t work around someone for a week without picking up details.

But the truth was, it lodged deeper than that—right under the breastbone, like the start of a bruise.

Unfamiliar, unwelcome, and yet I didn’t want to push it away.

I gripped the wheel tighter and fixed my eyes on the road. Safer there. Out of the corner of my vision, he was a solid presence beside me, filling the cab in a way that felt too big for the space.