Page 11

Chapter eleven

Riley: Big Dreams

T he metal gate clanged shut behind me, the sound sharper than usual in the early morning stillness. I winced and muttered, "Sorry," as a pair of ears perked up in the nearest kennel. "Didn't mean to startle you."

I crouched beside the run where Maple—a floppy-eared hound mix—blinked at me like she already knew I wasn't just talking about the gate.

"I know, I know," I sighed. "It's early. I haven't had coffee. And no, I don't want to talk about it."

She tilted her head.

"Don't look at me like that. You weren't even there."

I stood and grabbed the scoop from the bin, trying to keep my rhythm steady. Feed. Water. Clean. Repeat. Rescue work was predictable, routine, and methodical—just how I liked it.

Most days.

Today, predictability felt like armor—a way to keep everything else—him—at arm's length. But the truth was, it was a flimsy shield against the storm of emotions raging inside me.

Colton hadn't come by yet.

I hadn't asked if he would.

After yesterday… I wasn't sure what I wanted.

The conversation kept replaying in my head, looping over the good parts—how he'd admitted he panicked and tried to make it right—and then snagged hard on the worst part.

"Maybe the rescue could move…"

Funny. That whole terrible conversation gave me hope.

Not because of what he said, but because I'd seen it in his eyes—he knew it was the wrong thing to say the second it left his mouth.

The fact that he recognized it right in the moment kept circling back in my mind.

It wasn't just a slip. It showed he was starting to catch himself, maybe even trying to change, not just charm his way out like he used to.

Maybe believing him didn't feel so reckless after all.

Then, of course, he nailed exactly what was happening with that zinger: You're not mad. You're scared.

I dumped kibble into the next bowl with a little too much force.

"Just because he's not entirely wrong doesn't mean I have to like it," I muttered. Cocoa, one of our newer fosters, flinched at the noise. "Sorry, sweet girl. That wasn't about you."

It was about me. And him. And I couldn't decide whether I wanted to be five feet away or five miles away—because both felt too close and not close enough.

I hate how much space he was taking up in my head.

I hadn't answered his text from last night. Or the one this morning. I wasn't avoiding him. Not really. I was just… busy. Focused. Doing what needed to be done.

Still, my eyes flicked toward the gravel driveway more than once. No sign of him.

And I hate that I was looking.

I braced myself against the fence and glanced around the barn. Everything looked peaceful and whole, but inside, I was unraveling.

I wandered over to Daisy's kennel—the one dog Colton always lingered with, like they had some silent understanding. She wagged her tail before I even said a word.

"Hey, girl," I murmured, crouching beside her.

"You spend more time with him than I do these days. What do you think? Is he the version of Colton I've been bracing against? The cocky, careless NHL trainwreck? Is that who he is?"

She tilted her head, tail wagging harder at just the sound of his name.

I scratched her behind the ears. "Great. I'm looking for advice from a dog."

She leaned into my hand like it was the smartest thing I'd done all day.

I stood up slowly, brushing off my hands. "If I've been wrong about him… what else have I gotten wrong?"

That question sat with me. It didn't rush off. It just lingered, quiet but insistent. It was waiting for me to stop pretending I didn't hear it.

For years, I'd built a life around what felt safe and familiar. Silver Ridge, Timberline, the steady rhythm of kennel runs and adoption events. I'd always told myself I was right where I belonged, that this life was enough.

But lately… I wasn't so sure.

I'd been pushing Colton to get his act together, to think about what he wanted beyond the ice and the headlines. And the truth was, I hadn't asked myself those same questions in a long time. Maybe never.

"What did I want, huh?" I asked Daisy, still crouched beside her kennel.

"Not just what I could manage or maintain, but the stuff I used to dream about. Remember those?"

She blinked slowly, ears perked like I'd just said something important.

"Once upon a time," I said, settling on my heels, "I wanted to run a big-city rescue.

Multiple staff, actual transport vans, and maybe even a grant writer on the payroll.

Or join one of those wildlife rehab places—you know, with foxes and those grumpy owls that glare at everyone like we ruined their day. "

Her tail flicked.

"Oh, and I nearly applied to that elephant conservation program overseas. Had the paperwork half done before I chickened out."

I paused and scratched the back of my neck.

"There were internships I didn't apply for. Programs I talked myself out of. I even looked into becoming a vet behaviorist once—helping animals who'd been through a lot and didn't just need food. They needed someone to fight for them."

I leaned closer. "And the therapy dog nonprofit? Yeah. That was real. I had spreadsheets. A logo. Even the name. Never told anyone."

Daisy gave a short, huffing exhale.

"I know," I muttered. "Sad."

I stood and glanced around the kennels. "Daisy, who else should I talk to?"

She didn't answer, but I took her tail wag as permission.

My eyes landed on Rufus, our senior retriever with a personality three sizes too big for his aging joints. He looked up from his blanket and thumped his tail once.

"Alright, wise guy," I said, crouching beside his run. "You've been around the block. You think I'm hiding behind all this busywork because it's comfortable?"

He rolled onto his back and blinked upside down at me.

I sighed. "Yeah, me too."

I looked between them. "Maybe I stopped dreaming big the minute I decided Silver Ridge was the most I could ask for."

That idea didn't feel small. It felt like the kind of thing that, once you say it out loud, you can't un-think it. I'd lived my whole adult life here—grew into someone capable, dependable, and who made things run.

Am I staying out of habit? I have built something solid and safe. Why does that mean I have to stop looking for more?

The thought scared me. Not because it was dramatic—because it made sense. And once something makes sense, it's a lot harder to ignore.

Because now, after all the chaos with Colton—after all the things he'd made me feel and face—I wasn't just rethinking him. I was rethinking everything.

What if it wasn't about him at all?

What if I'd outgrown here?

***

I'd barely slept last night —tossing and turning until I finally gave up and drove to the rescue before the sun cleared the ridge. The barn was still chilly when I unlocked it.

Morning chores had started on autopilot, but the rhythm was off—like the dogs sensed I wasn't fully there.

Again. And yeah, maybe it wasn't just about Colton.

Perhaps it was the rest of it, too—that uncomfortable feeling that I'd built a whole life without ever stopping to ask if it was still the right one.

I didn't notice how long I'd been standing still until I shifted my weight and the sound of kibble crunching under my shoe made me look down.

A whole scoop spilled across the floor—completely missed the bin.

I sighed, crouched to clean it up, and realized I'd already filled that container to the top.

Again.

I was going through the motions, but my mind was somewhere else. Everywhere else. This time, I dumped the scoop more carefully, trying to shake the fog loose.

And that's when I heard her.

"You've dumped the same bag of puppy kibble into that bin three times. You good?"

I turned, startled. Tessa propped herself in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched in that I-love-you-but-I'm-going-to-call-you-out way.

"I'm fine," I said automatically, brushing off my hands like that would somehow reset the moment.

She pointed to the kibble mountain. "Your definition of fine needs work. That bin is practically overflowing."

I grabbed the scoop and tried again, slower this time. "Just distracted."

Tessa stepped into the barn, picking up a towel from the supply shelf and folding it with exaggerated precision. "Distracted? You've barely said two words to me all week. And you're stacking towels like they personally offended you. So, what is it?"

"It's nothing. Really. Just thinking."

She gave me a side-eye. "Thinking about what? And don't say inventory."

I hesitated too long. She didn't miss it.

"Ah," she said. "So, this is one of those big-thought spirals. The kind that makes you reorganize your whole life and alphabetize the flea and tick meds. Spill."

I blew out a breath, leaning my hip against the bin. "I've just been wondering… if I've outgrown things. Not the dogs. Not the rescue. Just… here."

Tessa's brows shot up. "You mean Silver Ridge?"

I nodded. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe it's just a thought. Or maybe it's been coming for a while, and I didn't want to see it."

She folded the towel slowly. "Okay. And what does Colton have to do with this epiphany?"

I looked away. "Nothing. Not directly. It's not about him."

Tessa gave me the kind of stare that cut through every deflection I'd ever learned. "Riley."

I sighed. "Fine. Maybe watching him face all his mess made me look at my own. I've been pushing him to figure out what he wants. Maybe I need to take my own advice."

Tessa didn't say anything right away. Then she tossed the folded towel onto the stack.

"So now you're planning some dramatic exit strategy? What, you're gonna skip town, start a wildlife rescue in Costa Rica, and pretend Colton never existed?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm just thinking about options."

Tessa stopped folding and looked at me. "No, you're not. You're avoiding a conversation you don't want to have—with him or yourself."

I traced the rim of the feed bin, tension settling low in my shoulders. "So now dreaming bigger is a crime?"

"No. But using it as a smoke bomb to run away from your feelings? That's not growth, Riley. That's fear in a new outfit."

I stared down at the scattered kibble. "I'm not afraid."

She softened, stepping closer. "You're always brave. But bravery doesn't mean quiet. It doesn't mean solitary. And it sure doesn't mean leaving town the minute something good starts to happen."

The silence stretched between us.

Tessa nudged my elbow. "Just ask yourself—are you dreaming bigger? Or just finding a fancy way to hide?"

"I'm just thinking through things logically. That's all."

Tessa didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

Her expression said it all. One eyebrow lifted, and her lips were pressed into that flat line she saved for when she knew I was full of it but was giving me space to admit it myself.

And the truth was, I wasn't even sure I believed myself either.