Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Rosalie
I leaned through the open truck window, pressing closer to peer at the tiny ball of fur tucked into the far corner of the crate.
“Hi there, sweetheart.” I tried to keep my voice gentle and failed completely. “What are you doing all the way back there?”
The puppy didn't move. Just a trembling lump buried in an old towel, its face turned away from me.
“You don't have to be scared. I know this is all very overwhelming, but—”
“Step back.”
I jerked upright, nearly smacking my head on the truck's doorframe.
Pressing a hand to my chest, I willed my heartbeat to slow. “You scared me.”
Cal stood three feet away, breathing hard like he'd sprinted from the barn. In the daylight, I could see him properly—sharp jawline covered in stubble, shoulders broad under a faded work shirt, brown hair sticking up like he'd been running his hands through it.
“The puppy needs quiet,” he said flatly.
“I was just—”
“You're stressing it out.” He moved past me, checking the crate through the window. “It needs to be left alone.”
I stepped back, watching him adjust the towel in the crate without touching the puppy. His movements were careful, gentle. Completely at odds with the blunt edge in his voice.
“Is it a boy or girl?” I asked quietly.
“Didn't check.”
“Oh.” I tilted my head, trying to see into the crate. “What's its name?”
“Doesn't have one.”
“You didn't name it?”
Cal straightened, fixing me with a look that was part exhaustion, part exasperation. “Found it less than an hour ago. Been a little busy since.”
“Sorry. I just...” I bounced on my toes, unable to help myself. “Can I name it?”
His eyebrows drew together. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's not yours.”
“Well, is it going to be yours?”
His jaw tightened. “That's not—”
“Because if you're rescuing him, then technically it's not anyone's dog, right? It's a temporary rescue waiting for a forever home.” I crossed my arms, channeling every bit of confidence I could muster. “So if it's not yours and it's not mine, what's the harm in me suggesting a few names?”
He stared at me. Not like he was thinking it over, more like he was trying to figure out why I was still talking.
“It doesn't need a name right now.”
“But—”
“I need to finish Buddy's exam.” He turned toward the barn. “And the puppy needs quiet.”
“Wait.” I jogged after him. “You're just going to leave it in the truck with no name?”
“Yes.”
“That's so sad.”
He stopped walking, shoulders tensing. When he turned back, his expression was flat. “It's been alone behind a dumpster for who knows how long. Having a name is not what's going to make the difference right now.”
The bluntness hit like cold water. I opened my mouth, then closed it.
Cal scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look, I appreciate...
whatever this is. But I'm running an hour behind schedule, I've got two more farm calls today, and a puppy that needs to be dewormed, vaccinated, and checked for a microchip before I can even think about finding it a home.
So naming it isn't exactly my priority.”
Fair. Also, he did look exhausted. Like bone-deep, haven't-slept-in-days exhausted.
“You're right,” I said. “I didn't mean to—”
“It's fine.” He was already walking back to the barn.
I followed, chewing my lip. The puppy did need quiet. And Cal clearly had enough on his plate without me pestering him about—
“Peanut?”
Cal's stride hitched. He didn't turn around.
“Pancake?” I continued. “Muffin? Oh, Biscuit!”
He stopped at the barn entrance, one hand braced against the doorframe. “You're just naming breakfast foods.”
“Nugget? Marshmallow?”
His head dropped forward. “Those are not—”
“Pudding.”
Silence.
Then Cal turned, and something almost human flickered across his face. Not quite a smile. Maybe the ghost of one.
“You like Pudding,” I said, pointing at him.
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't not say it.”
His jaw worked like he was biting back words. Finally, he exhaled through his nose. “Fine. Pudding.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He turned back toward the barn. “Now can we finish the exam?”
I followed him, grinning at the small victory of naming Pudding.
Inside, the barn was cool and dim. Buddy stood exactly where we'd left him, ears pricked forward with mild interest.
“So?” I moved to Buddy's side, running a hand along his warm neck. “What's the verdict, Doc?”
Cal pulled his stethoscope from around his neck. “He's fine.”
“Well, that's vague.”
“He's healthy.” He listened to Buddy's heart, then checked his teeth again. “Good weight. No signs of arthritis. Heart sounds good. He's in excellent shape for eighteen.”
Pride swelled in my chest even though I'd had exactly nothing to do with it. “Walt took good care of him.”
“He did.” Cal stepped back, coiling the stethoscope. “Keep him on the same routine. Light exercise, grazing or walking around the pasture. No hard riding.”
“Wasn't planning on taking him barrel racing.”
Cal just stared at me.
Right. Jokes weren't his thing.
“Annual checkup next year,” he continued. “Call if anything changes—limping, loss of appetite, lethargy.”
“Got it.” I patted Buddy's shoulder. “Hear that, Bud? You're perfect.”
Buddy huffed, unimpressed by the praise.
Cal gathered his supplies, sliding instruments back into his bag. “I'll write up the invoice—”
“Oh! Walt left a check.” I gestured toward the house. “He said to give it to you. I'll grab it.”
“You can just—”
“I'll be quick.” I was already backing toward the door. “Two minutes. Don't leave yet, I want to say goodbye to Pudding.”
I didn't wait for his response, jogging across the yard toward the farmhouse.
The screen door banged shut behind me as I headed straight for the small office at the front of the house. Walt's envelope sat on the desk with several others he'd prepared before leaving.
I grabbed the check, then paused by the window overlooking the yard.
Cal was loading his bag into his truck. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, like he carried the weight of the entire world and refused to set it down for even a minute.
What is it with men and their whole martyr complex?
The guy could probably use a decent night of sleep. Then maybe he'd be pleasant to be around. Because so far, every word he'd said to me sounded like it physically pained him to speak.
He was busy, I got it. But would it kill him to manage even a hint of warmth? A tiny smile? Literally anything that suggested he was capable of human emotion beyond irritation and exhaustion?
Though... He did let me name Pudding.
I shook my head, tucking the check into my pocket as I headed back outside.
The chickens scattered as I crossed the yard, clucking their disapproval at my interruption to their morning scratching. I paused mid-step, counting automatically.
One, two, three... twenty-four. All accounted for.
General Cluckington strutted past, head held high, leading her small army toward the garden fence. One hen trailed behind the others, and something looked off. Her back looked patchy.
I crouched down, making soft clicking sounds. “Come here, girl.”
She wandered closer, pecking at the ground near my boot. I scooped her up gently, fingers brushing along her back where several feathers were definitely missing.
Great. Add 'learn about chicken feather problems' to the list.
Cal was opening the driver's door when I reached the truck.
“Here.” I held out the envelope.
“Thanks.” He tucked it into his shirt pocket without looking.
I shifted the chicken in my arms, tucking her more securely against my side. “Quick question. This chicken, she's missing some feathers on her back. Is that normal? Or should I be worried about—”
A low, strained moan came from inside the truck.
Cal's entire body went rigid. He moved before I could blink, yanking open the truck door and leaning in toward the crate.
“What—”
“Not good.” The words came out clipped. He was already climbing into the driver's seat. “I need to get back. Now.”
My stomach dropped. “Is Pudding okay?”
“Don't know yet.” The engine roared to life. “The chicken—check for mites. Call Sharon at the clinic if you need help.”
“But—”
The truck was already moving, gravel crunching under the tires.
I stood there in the driveway, one hand still raised like I was going to say something, the hen tucked under my other arm. She squirmed slightly, and I loosened my grip, lowering her gently to the ground.
“Sorry, girl. Go on.”
She fluffed her patchy feathers and strutted off toward the others, apparently unbothered by her missing feathers.
The dust from Cal's truck hung in the air, a faint cloud drifting across the driveway. I squinted down the empty road, straining for any last glimpse of taillights, but he was already gone.
Please let Pudding be okay.
The thought hit harder than I expected. I'd known that puppy for all of five minutes, hadn't even gotten a good look at it in the crate, but the image of those frightened eyes and trembling body wouldn't leave my head.
And that sound. That awful, pained moan.
My chest tightened.
Cal would know what to do. He was a vet. Probably dealt with emergencies like this all the time. The man had the social skills of a particularly grumpy rock, but at least he seemed competent at the actual veterinary part.
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how quiet the farm was. Just the distant clucking of chickens and the rustle of wind through the trees.
Mites. I need to check for mites.
Right. Because I had my own problems to deal with. A farm to run. Animals depending on me.
I turned back toward the chicken coop, forcing my feet to move even though part of me wanted to jump in my truck and follow Cal back to town just to make sure everything was okay.
Which was ridiculous. He'd probably think I was completely unhinged if I showed up at his clinic asking about a puppy that wasn't mine and that I'd met for approximately three seconds.
But who was I kidding? I was absolutely going to show up and ask about Pudding, and Cal was absolutely going to think I was unhinged.
Then again, that ship had sailed the moment I'd chased Chip straight into him.
Inside the coop, I grabbed the wire basket hanging by the door and checked the nesting boxes. Eight eggs. Better than yesterday's four, but nowhere near the twenty Walt used to collect every morning.
Where are the rest of you laying?
I ducked back outside, shading my eyes against the sun. The patchy hen from earlier scratched near the equipment shed, oblivious to her bald spots.
Mites. Right.
I had absolutely no idea what chicken mites looked like. Were they visible? Tiny? Did they jump on humans? And why did I suddenly feel itchy?
I headed towards the open barn door. I spotted two more eggs nestled in the hay near Buddy's stall. He watched me with mild interest as I added them to the basket.
“You're the only easy one,” I told him.
He snorted.
Ten eggs total. I headed back to the house, cradling the basket carefully. Inside, the kitchen smelled like yesterday's failed attempt at sourdough—slightly sour, vaguely disappointing.
My first farmers' market was in four days, and I needed this to go well. Really well. The income from market sales would cover feed costs for the month, and I couldn't afford to show up with wilted lettuce and three sad tomatoes.
I grabbed my hat from the hook by the door and headed out, determinedly not thinking about tiny puppies who deserved better than being left behind, alone and terrified.
I had work to do.