Page 17 of Wrecked for Love (Buffaloberry Hill #1)

CLAIRE

The animal shelter looked exactly as I remembered, like the day I’d planned to leave Buffaloberry Hill for good. Yet here I was, still tied to the town that had quietly woven itself into my life, shaping my days in ways I never saw coming.

I pushed open the door, and while the outside hadn’t changed a bit, the inside was a different story.

The cats’ cages had been replaced with larger, more comfortable spaces, giving them more room to move around.

A stack of pet food, looking freshly delivered, was piled high against the wall.

Clearly, Mr. Gunn had put the donation I gave to good use.

Padding over to the cages, I crouched to greet one of the cats. The black-and-white tabby hissed at me, claws out, clearly in no mood to make friends.

Just then, the back door swung open, and there he was—the infamous Mr. Gunn. He was in his seventies, small and wiry, with a permanent scowl etched on his face. Despite his size, he was carrying a stack of heavy dog food bags like they weighed nothing more than pillows.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice gruff as he set the bags down with a thud.

“Mr. Gunn?” I asked, trying not to sound too nervous.

“Yeah. Can I help you?” he repeated, sounding even grumpier than before.

“My name is Claire Ashbourne. I’d like to volunteer at your shelter.”

His face contorted in disbelief as if I’d just offered to adopt all the animals in one go. “Any experience?”

“Yes. I’ve worked a lot with animals.”

He gave a glance toward the cat that had just hissed at me. “The cats seem to hate you.”

I smiled, brushing off the sting of the comment. “Maybe my cat skills need a little work, but I used to work at a pet shop, I groomed dogs, and I was a professional pet sitter.”

Mr. Gunn laughed, a harsh sound. “Go home, young lady. I’m managing just fine on my own.”

“Please, Mr. Gunn,” I insisted.

He sighed heavily but motioned for me to follow him. We stepped into the backyard, where several dogs paced around in newly built cages.

“I just finished putting these up.” He showed me around. “Some stranger left two grands outta nowhere. But land’s limited, and I can’t keep building. Some of these dogs…well, they’ll have to go.”

His tone suggested a grim fate.

“Have you tried rehoming them?” I asked, my voice tentative, hoping I was wrong about what he meant.

He shot me a hard look. “This ain’t a zoo, you know. Of course I’ve tried.”

“How about fundraising?” I offered, trying to keep the conversation hopeful.

Mr. Gunn folded his arms. “Do I look like a politician?”

“Look, Mr. Gunn,” I said, undeterred. “I’ve got ideas. We could get these dogs into loving homes, free up some space, and more than anything, give them a chance at happiness.”

“All right, I’ll give you one test,” he said, eyeing me with a mix of challenge and reluctance.

“I’ve never done this before, but you seem like the type who’s—” He grunted.

“—gonna keep bugging me if you don’t get what you want.

Pass, and I’ll give you a week to do things your way.

Fail, and I don’t ever want to see your face again. ”

I flashed a bring-it-on smile. “Sure.”

He led me to a corner cage, and as soon as we got close, the Boxer inside shifted from lying down to a tense, battle-ready stance. His muscles tightened, eyes locked on me, and his lips curled just enough to reveal a flash of teeth beneath a growl.

“This is Oscar,” Mr. Gunn said, picking up a treat from a nearby box. “Hand-feed him, and you pass the test.”

I exhaled slowly, not quite expecting to risk a limb just to volunteer at an animal shelter.

Mr. Gunn smirked, clearly waiting for me to back down, but I cut him off. “Fine. Let me inside the cage.”

His eyes widened. “Are you out of your mind?” For the first time, the grumpy old man actually looked worried that I was serious.

“No, it’s just how I do things,” I said, though my stomach knotted with nerves.

I knew better than to let the dog sense my fear.

Taking a steady breath, I approached the still-locked cage.

Oscar’s posture shifted again, backing up immediately.

He wasn’t barking anymore, but the tension was still there, a clear sign he wasn’t ready to trust just yet.

Mr. Gunn fenced off a small area, letting Oscar out of the cage but still within the confines of the fence. “All yours,” he grumbled, handing me a bag of treats.

I hopped in, feeling more like a gladiator than a volunteer.

Oscar stood his ground, pressed defensively into the corner, teeth bared and ready to lunge if I got too close.

I tried to approach again and again, but he snarled each time, warning me off.

I couldn’t even get close to him. How was I supposed to hand-feed him?

Finally, I sat down across from him, giving us both some space.

“You know,” I started, breaking the silence, “I do feel for you and all your friends here. Call me selfish, but that’s not the only reason I’m doing this.” I kept my voice steady, talking to him like he could understand every word.

Minutes passed. Then more. It must’ve been close to an hour, and Oscar hadn’t budged.

“I knew a vet once. His daughter rescued a husky, angry like you. But the dog changed because of her. I know you can too, when the right person comes along. In the meantime, I need to do this for them, for their memory.”

I stayed in my spot, my hand slowly extending, treats clenched in my fist. But just the sight of my moving arm sent Oscar into a growling frenzy, and before I knew it, he became more aggressive than ever. Mr. Gunn rushed over and pulled me out before things escalated further.

“I’m sorry. I tried.” I sighed, my voice edged with frustration. “But that was an unfair test, and you know it. That dog…no one can change him in a couple of hours!” I didn’t wait for him to show me the door.

But then…

“Well, you can start whenever you want,” he said, his tone surprisingly softer.

“Really?” I asked, not quite believing my ears.

“That’s the closest anyone’s gotten to Oscar,” he admitted.

“Thanks, Mr. Gunn. I won’t let you down. So…about that week of free rein?”

I half-expected him to tell me I was pushing my luck, but he nodded, perhaps trying too hard to let his grumpy expression linger.

By the end of that free-rein week—after wrestling with Mr. Gunn and constantly reminding him that I had his permission—I finally pulled it off.

We set up Buffaloberry Hill’s first-ever “Adopt A Friend” day at the town’s park.

It wasn’t easy getting him to agree to everything, but once it was in motion, even Mr. Gunn couldn’t grumble too much.

And best of all, he didn’t have to spend a penny. I covered all the expenses.

He rolled his eyes when I started grooming the dogs, muttering something about “fancy city treatment.” The dogs fell into two camps: the rebels who wanted nothing to do with being pampered and those who embraced it, prancing around like they were unleashing their inner Tinkerbell from Paris Hilton’s purse.

By the time I was done, every single one looked like they were ready for a portrait.

I was confident that most of them would go home with new families by the end of the day.

All the dogs and cats were lined up and ready for rehoming except for Oscar.

Mr. Gunn was still hesitant, worried the Boxer was too aggressive for a new owner just yet.

But I convinced him to bring Oscar along, secured safely in a cage, just for exposure.

We both agreed it could help him get used to more people, so long as we kept a close watch.

At the first sign of distress, we’d take him back to the shelter.

With the sun offering an unseasonably warm day, curious families filled the park. The park was the heart of town, home to fairs, concerts, and holiday parades. Towering ponderosa pines and quaking aspens lined the walkways as the Buffaloberry River meandered alongside.

At the center, the white gazebo still bore the remnants of last week’s Duck Derby & Fishing Rodeo—a stray rubber duck lodged in the rafters, a battered “Biggest Catch” banner hanging crookedly, and a faint chalk scoreboard still ghosting the wood where kids had tallied their fish.

I had high hopes that today would be a turning point—not just for the animals but for Mr. Gunn too.

“He seems okay,” Mr. Gunn said, nodding toward Oscar.

“Maybe he’s closer to being ready for adoption than we thought,” I replied, glancing at Oscar. He lay calmly at the back of his cage, his usual tension replaced by a quiet contentment.

A sudden influx of visitors swarmed me, most of them eyeing the succulent pot pies courtesy of Mama Berry from the town’s harvest shop. She’d baked them for free so the shelter could keep every cent of the proceeds.

I turned back just in time to see a boy approach Oscar’s cage.

My instinct was to step in, but something stopped me.

The boy reached out his hand just outside the bars, and to my surprise, Oscar didn’t growl or retreat.

Instead, the Boxer crawled slowly to the front of the cage, his body language soft and curious—no sign of aggression at all.

“He likes you,” I said, more to myself than the boy.

But just as quickly as the moment happened, he bolted.

“Hey, wait!” I called.

But he kept running across the park, and then he snatched up his bike from where it was lying in the grass and pedaled away. I’d seen him before, back at The Willow the first time I was there.

“Do you know who that boy is?” I asked Mr. Gunn, watching the space where the boy had just been.

“Which boy?” Mr. Gunn was distracted, not having noticed the brief encounter.

“Never mind. He’s gone,” I said.

A familiar voice called out from behind me among the cheers and barks around the park. “Claire!”