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Gabe

I finish feeding the last dog in the kennels, crouching to let my fingers comb through Jojo’s coarse, speckled fur. The blue heeler stiffens for a moment, his muscles tense under my touch, before he leans into my hand. A soft whine escapes him, the sound half hesitation, half trust.

I smile, scratching behind his ears. “Good boy, Jojo. You’re getting there,” I murmur. It’s been slow progress with him. He’s smart but cautious—his wariness carved into him by whatever hell he lived through before finding his way here. Most of the animals I take in bear similar marks, whether on their bodies, their minds, or both.

Straightening, I close the gate with a soft click, double-checking the latch. Jojo watches me with those amber eyes of his, curled in the far corner of the kennel like he’s still not quite sure what to expect from me. “You’re safe now,” I whisper, though I’m not sure he believes it.

My boots crunch softly on the gravel as I move to the barn door, pausing to glance back. Jojo circles his spot once, twice, before curling into a tight ball. He keeps one eye half open, still watching me. I shake my head, the familiar mixture of frustration and anger bubbling under my skin. Some people shouldn’t be allowed within a mile of an animal.

This barn, converted into a makeshift shelter, isn’t perfect. Rows of chain-link pens line both sides, each one equipped with a doggie door leading to a small, fenced run. The space is functional, the result of months of work. I wanted a place where the dogs could feel less confined, at least a little. It’s not much, but it’s better than what waits for them out there.

In Shasta, stray animals don’t get second chances.

Out here in this small Texas town, cruelty is the norm. Todd Benson, one of the few decent people I know and a deputy for the Sheriff’s department, has filled me in on the horrors. Sheriff Kaufman takes pride in dealing with strays his own way—cruel, vicious, and needlessly brutal. No one here seems to care, either. It’s just the way things are.

Todd, Adam Soames—the local vet—and I are the only ones trying to make a difference. We’ve built a network of sorts, rescuing as many animals as we can, one at a time. Some days, it feels like we’re bailing water from a sinking ship, but giving up isn’t an option for me.

I glance over the pens one last time, my eyes scanning each latch, each gate, until I’m sure everything is secure. Most of the dogs are already settling down, full bellies and warm blankets doing their work. Jojo still keeps one wary eye on me, but he looks calmer now, his body relaxed for the first time today.

The sun is low, throwing golden light across the fields as I make my way back to the house. It’s quiet out here, the kind of quiet that sinks into your bones. Sometimes, it feels peaceful; other times, lonely. My house sits on the edge of a few acres, a simple structure that’s been my refuge for years.

I inherited it from my grandparents after they passed away. A car accident took them both in an unchangeable instant. It still hurts when I think about it, the band around my heart tightening with a fierce throb, but there’s some small comfort in knowing they went together. Their love for each other was unwavering, and I know the idea of being separated in death would’ve been unbearable for them.

I came to live with them long before the accident, after my parents made it clear I wasn’t welcome anymore. Coming out as gay wasn’t something I planned to do—it was something I had to do. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t had been suffocating.

But my parents weren’t interested in understanding. Their rejection was swift and absolute.

My grandparents were my lifeline. They took me in without hesitation, offering the kind of love I thought I’d never feel again. They showed me that faith doesn’t have to be a weapon, that family can mean something more than judgment and shame.

Reaching the front steps, I pause to stretch, working out the stiffness in my back from hours of bending and lifting. A hot bath sounds perfect right now, but the thought barely takes hold before my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out, glancing at the screen. Todd.

“Hey, Todd,” I answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Gabe,” Todd says, his voice low and urgent. “You’re not gonna believe this. I found a wolf.”

My steps falter. “A wolf? Are you sure?”

A wolf. Here.

Wol ves aren’t unheard of in New Mexico—they’ve been reintroduced into the Gila National Forest. But northern Texas? That’s something else entirely.

“How bad is he hurt? Where do I need to meet you?” I ask, gripping the phone. A dozen questions tumble through my mind, but these are the ones that matter most right now.

Todd’s voice comes through, quick and steady. “Well, I got a call from Mrs. Schumaker. She thought she saw a big dog hanging out by her barn, figured it might be rabid or something. Anyways, I get out here, and damned if it isn’t this huge black wolf lying behind the barn. He’s just…there, Gabe. Barely moving. Looks like he’s been starved, maybe sick. I don’t know. Adam’s already on his way, but I could use you out here. Can you head over?”

A wolf. Starved, sick, or both? My mind stumbles over the thought, even as I find myself nodding. “Yeah. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Adam’s involvement in rescues has been a lifesaver for me and Todd. I still remember how hesitant I was to ask for his help. I’d gone to him with a stray, a Lab mix with a shattered leg, thinking I’d have to beg him to discount the surgery. Instead, Adam had waved me off mid-sentence, taking the dog back into surgery without so much as a fee.

It wasn’t until my third or fourth visit with another rescue that Adam finally pinned me with one of his steady, questioning looks. “What’s going on, Gabe? You keep showing up with these dogs—injured, malnourished, some barely alive. This isn’t just you taking in strays, is it?”

I’d come clean, explaining the mess with Kaufman and the horrific treatment of animals in Shasta. Instead of balking, Adam had listened, his expression darkening by the minute. When I finished, he stood up, grabbed a pad of paper, and said, “Tell me what you need.”

Sin ce then, Adam’s been the quiet backbone of our little operation. Medications, vaccines, spaying and neutering services—he provides it all. I don’t know much about his personal life, but professionally, he’s one of the most dependable people I’ve ever met.

I toss the phone onto the counter and grab what I can think of—a few towels, a blanket, and my old digital camera. For a moment, I hesitate by the cabinet where I keep some basic first-aid supplies. Gauze, alcohol wipes, a few syringes—it’s not much, but it might help. Then I remember Adam will be there, and his supplies will be far more thorough.

Tossing everything into the truck, I climb in and start the engine. My thoughts churn as I drive toward the Schumaker property, the back roads familiar but somehow longer tonight.

A wolf. How the hell does a wolf end up here, in Shasta of all places?

The idea of approaching a wild animal—a wolf, no less—has me gripping the wheel tighter. Todd said the animal is too weak to be a danger, but I can’t help the edge of nerves twisting in my stomach. A wolf is still a predator, no matter how starved or sick it looks.

I just hope Todd’s right about this one.

By the time I pull into the Schumaker property, twilight is settling over the fields. Todd’s cruiser is parked near the house, its headlights cutting through the dimming light. He’s standing by the barn, gesturing for me to drive around to the back.

I park near him, but I don’t kill the engine. Call it nerves, but I like having the option of a quick getaway if something goes sideways.

“Kind of a wimpy move, huh?” I mutter to myself as I step out of the truck.

Todd doesn’t seem to notice—or if he does, he doesn’t care. His focus is on the ground, and I follow his gaze to the heap of fur lying a few feet away. My breath catches as I take in the sight of the wolf, his body a tangle of limbs and fur that looks more like a shadow than a living thing.

For a moment, I think it’s already too late. Then I see it—the faint rise and fall of his side, the shudder, the shallow intake of breath.

“Still alive,” Todd murmurs, his voice low.

I nod, relief warring with the ache of seeing an animal in this condition. The wolf is massive, his fur dark and matted with dirt. His ribs stand out beneath the coarse hair, each breath rattling in his chest like it’s an effort.

The sound of an engine pulls my attention away. Adam’s car rolls to a stop behind my truck, and he steps out with his medical bag in hand. I glance back at the wolf, a strange pull in my chest.

For reasons I can’t explain, I feel desperately like I need to help this animal.

“Look at him, Gabe,” Todd says, his voice thick with sympathy as he gestures toward the poor animal laying on its side. “The poor thing’s barely alive.”

I nod silently, my stomach twisting with anxiety. The wolf looks even worse up close, a ghost of the powerful creature he must’ve once been. Strange how, somewhere along the drive here, I’d stopped thinking of him as dangerous. I can’t pinpoint when it happened, but now, standing here, any fear I might have had is eclipsed by something else.

Determination.

I step around Todd without a word, my eyes locked on the wolf. His ragged breaths stir the dust beneath him, his body so still it’s almost unnatural. Behind me, I hear Adam’s sharp voice cutting through the air.

“Gabe! Wait! Be careful—”

His warning barely registers. All I can think about is reaching the wolf. Something in me says I need to.

I move slowly, each step deliberate, not wanting to startle him. The air feels heavy, charged with tension, but I push through it, the pull toward the animal too strong to ignore.

The wolf stirs as I approach, his muscles trembling weakly. His head tilts ever so slightly, his whiskey-colored eyes cracking open. For a moment, they lock with mine, sharp despite the exhaustion shadowing them.

Then comes the growl—a low, guttural sound that rumbles deep in his chest.

I freeze. It’s not a threat, not entirely. It feels more like a warning, a way to say “don’t come any closer” without the energy to back it up.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I murmur softly, even as I know he doesn’t understand the words. My voice seems to calm him, though. His growl quiets to a faint rumble as I crouch just a few feet away.

The wolf struggles to roll onto his belly, his limbs trembling with the effort. His head turns, those amber eyes meeting mine again. The intensity of his gaze makes the air rush out of my lungs in a whoosh, like he’s stripped me bare with nothing but a look.

Recognition flares, sharp and inexplicable. It’s ridiculous—I’ve never seen this wolf before in my life. And yet, something inside me shifts, like I’ve been waiting for this moment, this connection, without even realizing it.

I lower myself further, kneeling beside his shoulder. Slowly, I extend my hand, palm out, toward his muzzle.

“Gabe, don’t,” Adam growls his voice urgent. “He’s hurt and wild—”

The rest of his warning fades into the background. The wolf sniffs my hand cautiously, his damp nose brushing my skin. Then, to my shock, he licks it—just once, a quick, deliberate motion before settling his head back down.

I exhale slowly, my fingers trembling as they move to the nape of his neck. His fur is coarse but soft beneath my touch, and I let my hand rest there for a moment, feeling the faint warmth of his body.

“Hey, Adam,” I speak quietly, leaning forward to inspect the animal more closely. “Come look at this. What the hell happened to him?”

There’s a wound between his shoulder blades, jagged and scabbed over like it’s been there for days. The edges are raw, the fur around it crusted with dried blood and dirt.

Adam steps closer, his footsteps crunching softly on the dirt. The wolf shifts uneasily, his breathing quickening as Adam approaches. A low growl escapes him again, weaker this time but still warning enough.

I glance back, frowning as I catch sight of the hypodermic needle in Adam’s hand.

“Put the damned syringe away,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend.

Adam bristles, his grip pinching the syringe. “Gabe, that’s not reasonable. This is a wild, wounded animal. If he lashes out, anyone nearby could be seriously hurt. Including you.”

“He’s not going to lash out,” I say firmly.

“Gabe—”

“Just put it away,” I interrupt, turning back to the wolf.

I let out a slow, steadying breath, willing myself to exude calm. Animals can sense your emotions. I’ve always believed that. Maybe, just maybe, this wolf can too.

I keep my hand on his neck, fingers moving gently through the thick fur. He trembles beneath my touch, but the growling stops. His head l owers slowly until it’s resting by my knees, his eyes fluttering closed with a soft whimper.

“He’s fine,” I say quietly, glancing back at Adam. “Look at him. He’s too weak to do anything but lie here.”

Adam doesn’t move at first, his expression skeptical. I press on.

“Just come take a look at the wound. I’ll stay here, by his head. You get on my right side, closer to his hips. That way, if he does snap, it’s me he gets, not you.”

Adam sighs, but finally, he slips the syringe into his pocket. As he crouches on the wolf’s other side, I feel the tension ease from the air, my own breathing steadying as I stroke the animal’s fur.

“You’re okay,” I murmur softly, whether to myself or the wolf, I don’t know.