Vet Rescue (Crimson Hollow #13)

Chapter One

The morning started like any other Thursday at Crimson Hollow Veterinary Clinic.

Ryan clocked in at seven, tied his hair back with the scrunchie he kept around his wrist, and made his rounds checking on the overnight boarders.

Mrs. Henderson's ancient beagle had finally eaten something.

The tabby with the infected paw looked better.

Everything routine, everything predictable.

He was restocking the supply cabinet in exam room two when he heard the commotion at the front entrance.

Multiple voices. The bell above the door chiming frantically. Dr. Sullivan calling out from somewhere down the hall. Ryan abandoned the gauze rolls and hurried toward the lobby, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

Three men stood just inside the doorway. Two of them supported a large crate between them. Another crate sat at their feet. Through the wire doors, Ryan could see movement. Dark shapes. The smell hit him immediately—blood and fear and unwashed fur.

“Fighting dogs,” Dr. Sullivan said, already pulling on gloves. “Get room four prepped. We need IV setups and the surgical tray ready to go.”

Ryan nodded and turned to move, but his eyes caught on one of the men.

The tallest one, standing slightly apart from the others.

Dark hair pushed back from his forehead.

A day or two of stubble along his jaw. He wore a plain gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

His forearms were corded with muscle, and his hands—

Ryan looked away. Forced himself to focus.

“I’ll get everything ready,” he said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt.

He walked quickly down the hallway, counting his steps the way he always did when he needed to center himself.

Twelve steps to room four. He pushed through the door and started pulling supplies from the cabinets.

Catheters. Saline bags. Syringes still in their sterile packaging.

His hands moved automatically through the familiar motions, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the lobby.

The man's eyes were brown. Light brown, almost amber in the fluorescent lighting.

Ryan shook his head and grabbed the stainless-steel tray from the autoclave. This was ridiculous. There were injured animals that needed him, and he was standing here like some teenager with a crush.

Dr. Sullivan backed through the door a moment later, supporting one end of a crate. The tall man—the one Ryan absolutely was not thinking about—held the other end. They lowered it carefully onto the exam table, and Dr. Sullivan unlatched the door.

The dog inside didn’t move.

“Okay,” Dr. Sullivan said quietly. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Ryan stepped closer, focusing entirely on the animal now. A pit bull, maybe three years old. Scarring across the muzzle and front legs. Fresh wounds along the shoulder, still seeping. The dog's breathing came shallow and quick.

“Poor baby,” Ryan murmured. He reached into the crate slowly, letting the dog smell his hand first. “It’s okay. We’re going to help you.”

The dog's eyes tracked him. Frightened but not aggressive. Ryan’s heart twisted.

“Can you get a line started?” Dr. Sullivan asked.

“Yeah.” Ryan pulled on gloves and prepped the catheter. His fingers stayed steady even though he could feel someone watching him. The tall man hadn’t left. He stood near the wall, arms crossed, and Ryan could sense his presence like a physical thing.

The dog flinched when Ryan touched her leg, but she didn’t try to bite. Good girl. He found the vein and slid the catheter in smoothly, secured it with tape, and connected the IV line.

“There we go,” he said softly. “That’s going to make you feel better.”

Dr. Sullivan examined the wounds, probing gently. “These are going to need sutures. And I want to get X-rays. Ryan, start her on antibiotics and pain management. Standard doses for her weight.”

Ryan was already reaching for the medication cabinet. He drew up the injections, double-checked the dosages, and administered them through the IV port. The dog's breathing started to slow, the pain medication working its way through her system.

“The other two are in worse shape,” the tall man said. His voice was lower than Ryan had expected. Rougher. “One of them can barely stand.”

Dr. Sullivan looked up. “How many total did you pull from the site?”

“Seven. Four went to the emergency clinic across town. These three we brought here.”

“All right. Let’s get them all assessed. Ryan, you take the lead on stabilization. I’ll handle the surgical cases.”

The minutes of the next hour blurred together.

Ryan moved between exam rooms, starting IV lines, cleaning wounds, administering medications.

The second dog—a mastiff mix with a torn ear and multiple bite wounds—growled when Ryan approached but settled once the pain medication took hold.

The third dog, the one who could barely stand, required two people to lift from the crate.

The tall man helped without being asked. He moved carefully around the animals, spoke to them in low tones, held them steady while Ryan worked. Their arms brushed once when they were repositioning the mastiff, and Ryan felt the brief contact like electricity.

He kept his eyes on the dog. On the matted fur and the wounds that needed attention. On anything except the man standing less than two feet away.

“You’re good at this,” the man said.

Ryan glanced up. Those amber eyes were watching him again. “It’s my job.”

“Still, not everyone has the temperament for it.”

Ryan didn’t know what to say to that, so he focused on clipping away the fur around a particularly nasty gash. The clippers buzzed in his hand. The dog's breathing stayed even and slow.

Dr. Sullivan called from the other room. “Ryan, I need you for a second.”

“Be right there.” Ryan set down the clippers and stood. He peeled off his gloves and tossed them into the bin. When he looked back, the tall man was still watching him.

“I’ll stay with her,” the man said, nodding toward the mastiff.

“Just keep her calm. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dr. Sullivan needed help holding a dog for an X-ray. The pit bull from earlier, the first one they'd treated. Ryan positioned her carefully on the table while Dr. Sullivan adjusted the machine. The dog's tail thumped once against the metal surface.

“She's doing better already,” Ryan said.

“Thanks to you.” Dr. Sullivan pressed the button, and the machine whirred. “Those men from the rescue organization… They do good work. Dangerous, but good.”

Ryan thought about the tall man in the other room. About the way he’d moved around the dogs, confident but gentle. “How did they find them?”

“I didn’t ask. Sometimes it’s better not to know the details.”

They finished the X-rays, and Ryan returned to room four. The mastiff was lying down now, her eyes half closed. The tall man sat on the floor beside the exam table, one hand resting near the dog's head.

“She fell asleep,” he said.

“The medication does that.” Ryan knelt down and checked the IV line, which was still flowing properly. He reached for the clippers again and resumed trimming around the wound. The man stayed where he was, quiet and still.

Ryan cleaned the gash with antiseptic. The dog didn’t even twitch. He applied antibiotic ointment, covered it with gauze, wrapped it securely. His hands moved through the familiar pattern while his mind wandered to places it shouldn't go.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

Ryan’s fingers fumbled the tape. He caught it before it fell. “Ryan.”

“I’m Grayson.”

The name fit him somehow. Ryan nodded and finished securing the bandage. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

The silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable exactly but charged with something Ryan couldn’t quite name. He became aware of how close they were sitting. How he could smell Grayson’s soap or deodorant or whatever it was, something clean and woodsy.

Ryan stood up quickly. “I should check on the others.”

“Do you need help?”

The question hung in the air. Ryan looked down at Grayson, still sitting on the floor beside the sleeping dog, and something in his expression made Ryan’s stomach flip.

“Actually, yeah. Can you help me move the pit bull to a recovery kennel? She's ready to rest somewhere more comfortable.”

Grayson stood in one smooth motion. “Lead the way.”

They walked back to room three together. The hallway felt narrower than usual. Ryan was hyperaware of Grayson beside him, matching his pace. Twelve steps. He counted them again without meaning to.

The pit bull was awake but drowsy. Dr. Sullivan had finished suturing her wounds, and she wore a cone around her head to keep her from licking the stitches.

Ryan disconnected the IV pole, and Grayson lifted the dog carefully from the table.

She was heavier than she looked, but he didn’t seem to struggle.

“This way,” Ryan said and led him to the recovery area at the back of the clinic.

The kennels were clean and spacious, each one lined with soft bedding. Ryan opened the door to the largest one, and Grayson laid the dog down gently. She curled up immediately, tucking her nose under her tail.

“She'll sleep for a while,” Ryan said. “We'll monitor her overnight.”

Grayson backed out of the kennel, and Ryan latched the door. They stood there for a moment, looking at the dog through the wire door. Her ribs expanded and contracted with each breath. Alive. Safe.

“Thank you for what you did,” Ryan said. “Rescuing them.”

“Someone had to.”

“Still… It matters.”

Grayson turned to look at him. Up close, Ryan could see the exhaustion in his face. The lines around his eyes. Whatever he’d done to get these dogs out, it had cost him something.

“Do you need help with the other two?” Grayson asked.

Ryan should say no. Should tell him to go home and rest. But instead he heard himself say, “If you don't mind. There's still a lot to do.”

“I don't mind.”