Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Callum
The coffee Sharon handed me was strong enough to wake the dead, which seemed appropriate considering I felt like one.
“You look terrible.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
She settled behind the reception desk with her own mug, eyeing me over her reading glasses. “What time did you get home?”
“Late.”
“Callum—”
I took a long drink of coffee, savoring the burn. “Colton Ranch. Mare with colic. Got there around midnight, left at four.”
“And you're here at seven-thirty because...?”
“I have appointments.”
“You could've called me. I would've rescheduled the morning.”
“You work part-time. That means you get to have a life.” I leaned against the counter, trying to ignore how much my back hurt. “Besides, it's just a few checkups. I'll survive.”
“That's what you said last Tuesday. Then you fell asleep standing up while Mrs. Wendell talked about her cat's digestive issues.”
“In my defense, she'd been talking for twenty minutes.”
“You snored.”
I had no comeback for that.
Sharon sipped her coffee, clearly enjoying my suffering. “At least tell me the mare's okay.”
“She'll be fine. Gave her some mineral oil, walked her for two hours until things started moving.” I grimaced at the memory. “I still smell like a horse despite a shower, and my boots are in the truck bed airing out.”
“Lovely.”
The phone rang. Sharon grabbed it without looking, still watching me with that motherly concern that made me want to crawl under something.
“Sterling Animal Clinic.” Her tone shifted from maternal to professional in half a second. “Yes, Frank. Slow down—what?”
I pulled up the appointment schedule on my phone.
Eight o'clock, Mochi. Standard checkup for Mrs. Yamamoto's ancient Persian who ate better than I did.
Nine-thirty, Sullivan Farm. Buddy's annual checkup.
Walt always had coffee ready and paid on time.
Two bright spots in what was shaping up to be another brutal day.
“Behind the dumpster? How long has it been there?”
My attention drifted back to Sharon. Her expression had gone soft, which meant—
No. Absolutely not.
“Eating trash... yes, I understand. Hold on.”
She pressed the phone to her shoulder. “Frank found a puppy behind the diner. Sounds young. Terrified. Won't let anyone near it.”
I stared at my coffee like it held answers. It didn't.
Twelve dogs. I had twelve dogs in the barn already. The roof leaked in three places. Two of the kennels needed new latches. I was feeding them with money that should've gone toward fixing my porch before someone fell through it.
“Cal?”
“The barn's full.”
“I know.”
“I can't—” The words stuck in my throat like they always did. Can't take another one. Can't afford it. Can't keep doing this.
Except I could see it already. Some scrawny puppy digging through garbage because it was starving. Flinching away from people because humans had already taught it the world wasn't safe.
You're an idiot.
“Tell Frank I'll swing by after Mochi's appointment.”
Sharon's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes looked almost sad. “You sure?”
“No.”
She relayed the message while I tried to calculate how I'd fit another dog into a barn that was already past capacity. The math didn't work. It never did.
Sharon hung up and immediately opened a notebook. “We need to get some of these dogs adopted.”
“I know.”
“I'm serious, Cal. You can't keep taking in strays if there's nowhere to put them.”
I drained my coffee, wishing it would magically refill itself. “There aren't that many people looking to adopt.”
“Doesn't help if they don't know about the dogs.” She clicked her pen with the precision of a woman preparing for battle. “We should put up flyers. Post on social media. Maybe set up an adoption day at the farmers' market.”
“I don't have time to—”
“I'll handle it.” She was already writing. “We'll start with the easier placements. Daisy's perfect for families. Tucker just needs someone with a yard. Even grumpy old Hank would be fine with the right person.”
The thought of actually rehoming them should've been a relief. Instead, my chest tightened. What if they went to someone who didn't understand that Daisy needed her food in a puzzle feeder or Tucker got anxious during thunderstorms?
They'd be someone else's problem instead of yours.
“Fine. Whatever you think will work.”
“Don't sound so enthusiastic.”
Mrs. Yamamoto arrived at eight sharp with Mochi's carrier. The Persian tolerated my examination with regal disdain—overweight but healthy, same as every year. I caught myself rushing through the wellness check, mind already at the diner.
A puppy. Alone. Scared.
I scribbled vaccination notes while Mrs. Yamamoto cooed over her cat, then walked them back to the reception faster than usual.
Sharon handled the payment and I watched the transaction with the detachment of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Money in, money out. Except most of it went straight to dog food and vet supplies I bought at cost.
This is why you do checkups. This is how you feed twelve—no, thirteen—dogs.
Mrs. Yamamoto left in a cloud of expensive perfume. I was already reaching for my keys.
“Got everything handled?”
Sharon glanced up from the computer. “Your next appointment’s at nine-thirty. Sullivan Farm.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Cal—”
But I was already out the door.
The drive to the diner took less than five minutes. I gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, already running through what I'd need—flea treatment, dewormer, puppy formula if it was too young for solid food. My emergency kit was in the back. Always was.
Frank was waiting by the dumpster when I pulled in the parking lot, arms crossed, looking both concerned and exasperated.
“It's wedged back there.” He nodded toward the corner. “Won't budge.”
I grabbed my bag and the carrier from the truck. “How long's it been there?”
“A day, maybe two. Saw it this morning when I took out the trash. Tried to coax it with bacon.” He shook his head. “Nothing.”
I walked over and crouched down, squinting into the narrow gap between the dumpster and brick wall. Two bright eyes stared back from the shadows. The rest was just a dark, trembling shape pressed as far back as possible.
Here we go.
The pavement was cold and damp, but I sat down anyway. Set my bag to the side and settled in.
Frank shifted behind me. “You want me to—”
“Just leave us.”
His footsteps retreated toward the diner's back door.
I fished a treat from my pocket and tossed it about halfway between us. The puppy's ears twitched, but that was it.
“Not hungry, huh?” My voice was low, conversational. “Or maybe you're just smarter than you look.”
I threw another treat, this one landing closer to the shadows.
The little nose poked out just enough to catch the scent. A tiny pink tongue darted out.
“That's it. I'm not gonna hurt you.”
Minutes crawled by. I checked my watch. Nine. Sullivan Farm was a twenty-minute drive.
Come on, kid.
The puppy crept forward. Tiny thing, maybe eight weeks. Shepherd mix, black and tan. Filthy. One ear flopped while the other stood straight up.
I stayed perfectly still.
The little thing sniffed the treat, snatched it up, then bolted back to its hiding spot.
Well. That was something.
“Look, I'm gonna be honest with you.” I tossed another treat, this one landing a bit closer. “I don't have room for you. My barn's falling apart and I'm already feeding twelve dogs I can't afford.”
The puppy ventured out again, grabbed the treat, retreated.
“And I'm tired. Like, really tired. I worked until four this morning because a horse decided to eat something it shouldn't have, and now I'm sitting on the ground behind a dumpster talking to something that probably has worms.”
Another treat. Closer.
“I should tell Frank to call animal control. They'd take you to the shelter in Aspen. It's nice there. Someone would adopt you in a week, tops. You're cute enough.”
The puppy's tail gave a tentative wag.
“Don't do that.” But my voice softened despite myself. “Seriously. I can't save everyone. Sharon keeps telling me that. She's right. She's always right, which is annoying.”
The next treat landed right beside my boot.
“I need to stop saying yes to every sad case that crosses my path.”
The puppy crept forward. So close now I could see the fleas moving in its matted fur.
“Except I look at you, and I just...” I exhaled slowly. “I can't do it. I can't walk away knowing you're eating garbage and sleeping outside. Even though I should let someone else take care of you.”
The puppy sniffed my boot.
“My house is a disaster. I eat cereal for dinner most nights because I'm too exhausted to cook.”
I extended my hand, palm down. Waited.
“But you probably don't care about any of that, do you?”
The puppy touched its nose to my fingers.
I stayed perfectly still while it investigated my hand, sniffing with the concentration of someone making a life-or-death decision. Which, honestly, it was.
“Yeah. You're coming with me.”
The puppy pressed against my palm, a tiny warm weight trembling through my fingers. I gave it another thirty seconds to let it get used to my scent, my presence. Let it decide I wasn't a threat.
Then I scooped it up in one smooth motion.
It yelped, scrambling against my chest with needle-sharp claws. I tucked it close, one hand supporting its back legs, the other cupped around its ribcage. Jesus, I could feel every bone.
“I know. I'm sorry.” I kept my voice low, steady. “Almost done.”
The carrier was right where I'd left it. I settled the puppy inside, wincing at the high-pitched whine it made. The sound hit me somewhere in the chest—that same spot that never quite hardened no matter how many times I told myself to stop caring so much.
“Hey. You're okay.” I grabbed an old towel from my bag, slipping it into the carrier. The puppy immediately burrowed into it, still shaking. “There you go. See? Not so bad.”
I checked my phone. Nine forty-two.
“Oh crap.”
Sullivan Farm. Buddy's checkup.
And I was going to show up late with a flea-ridden puppy in my truck.