Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Callum
“You're going to be fine, little guy.”
I kept my voice low, one hand resting gently on the puppy's side. His breathing was steady now, shallow but even. The anesthesia was wearing off slowly, little tremors running through his legs as his body fought its way back to consciousness.
“Worst of it's over. I promise.”
The past few hours had been all about stabilizing him. Fluids. Tests. Waiting for his tiny body to be strong enough to go through the surgery. But I'd found it—a plastic wrapper lodged tight in his intestine, twisted in a way that would've killed him in another day or two. Maybe less.
I stroked the soft fur between his ears, careful to avoid the IV line taped to his front leg.
“You're a fighter, Pudding.”
The name still felt ridiculous. I usually went with something normal—Max, Tucker, Duke. But Pudding had this sweetness to it that... fit. And it'd gotten Rosie to stop pestering me, which was worth something.
The door behind me opened.
“How's he doing?” Sharon's voice was quiet, careful not to startle the puppy. She crossed the room and peered down at the small body on the recovery table.
“Stable. Surgery went well.”
Sharon rested her hand briefly on my shoulder, a rare gesture from someone who usually kept physical comfort to sharp words and pointed looks.
“Are you monitoring him overnight?”
“Yeah, I'll keep an eye on him. Make sure he—”
“I'll bring dinner around seven.”
“You don't have to.”
Sharon's blue eyes fixed on me, sharp and unyielding. “I'll bring dinner around seven.”
No argument. No discussion.
I nodded, my throat tight.
She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the frame. For a moment, she stood there, shoulders squared in that no-nonsense way she carried herself. Then she turned back, her expression softer than I'd seen in weeks.
“You're a good man, Callum.”
The words hit sideways, unexpected and too much all at once. My chest constricted. I didn't know what to do with kindness like that, the kind that saw past the bluntness and awkward silences, to something I wasn't sure existed.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
Nothing came out.
Sharon glanced back, her expression gentle in a way that made my eyes burn. She knew—had always known—that I wouldn't find the right words. That I couldn't. But she also knew I heard her, that it mattered.
“Get some rest after he wakes up.” Her voice returned to its usual briskness, a lifeline back to familiar ground. “You look like you could use it.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. “Thanks.”
The front door chimed.
We both froze.
Sharon's eyebrows lifted. “We don't have—”
“Anyone there?” The voice drifted from the waiting room, bright and slightly breathless.
I recognized it immediately, the warmth and energy unmistakable even through the wall.
Rosie.
Sharon's gaze swung to me, curiosity flickering across her face. “Friend of yours?”
“No. I mean—” I straightened, suddenly aware of how long I'd been sitting here, how rumpled I probably looked. “She's Walt Sullivan's niece. Took over the farm.”
“Ah.” Sharon's mouth curved into something dangerously close to a smile. “Well. I'll let you handle this.”
“Actually, could you—” I gestured toward the waiting room, then back to Pudding. “I need to stay with him.”
Sharon's expression shifted, something knowing flickering in her eyes.
“Of course.” She drew the words out just long enough to make me uncomfortable.
She left before I could respond, the door swinging shut behind her.
I turned back to Pudding, trying to focus on his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Professional. Clinical. Nothing to do with avoiding—
“Hi there.” Sharon's voice carried clearly through the door. “I'm Sharon, Doc Sterling's assistant. What can I do for you?”
“Oh, hi! I'm Rosie. I was there earlier when Pudding started moaning, and I just—I wanted to check on it. Pudding.”
The worry threading through her voice caught me off guard.
“He's doing a lot better. Surgery went well.”
“Oh, it's a he? And that's such a relief. I've been thinking about him all afternoon.”
She'd met the puppy for five minutes. Maybe less. And here she was, driving back into town to check on him.
Of course she did.
“Would you like to see him?” Sharon's voice carried that careful neutrality that meant she was up to something. “Doc Sterling's monitoring him in recovery.”
“Oh, I don't want to intrude if he's busy—”
“He's not.”
I shot a glare at the door. Thanks, Sharon.
“Really? That would be amazing.”
Footsteps approached. I straightened, one hand still resting on Pudding's side as the door opened.
Rosie stepped into the recovery room, and I forgot how to breathe.
Gone was the mud-splattered woman from this morning. Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders instead of escaping a messy ponytail. And a yellow sundress hugged her frame in a way that made my brain short-circuit.
Professional. Stay professional.
“Hi.” Her smile was immediate, genuine, aimed directly at me. “I hope it's okay that I came by.”
“It's fine.” The words came out rough. I cleared my throat. “He's stable.”
Sharon made a small sound behind Rosie that might've been a cough. I ignored it.
Rosie moved closer, her gaze dropping to Pudding. Something in her expression softened—the same way mine did with every scared animal that crossed my path.
“Poor baby.” She kept her voice low, instinctively understanding he needed quiet. “You've had quite the day.”
“The surgery went well.”
“That's wonderful.” She looked up at me, those hazel eyes bright with relief. “Thank you for saving him.”
“Just doing my job.”
Sharon definitely coughed that time.
Rosie's mouth curved, amusement flickering across her face. “Right. Your job. Which apparently includes rescuing strays on top of everything else.”
Heat crept up the back of my neck. “Someone has to.”
“And that someone's always you?”
I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of how close she was standing, how her perfume—something light and floral—cut through the antiseptic smell of the clinic.
“I have the facilities.”
“Mmm.” She tilted her head, studying me in a way that made my pulse kick up. “And the twelve other dogs in your barn? They all just needed your facilities?”
How did she—
“I saw the posters outside.” She added, gesturing toward the waiting room. “Adoption event this weekend?”
Posters.
My mind went blank for a second before the memory surfaced—Sharon mentioning something about flyers this morning, about getting the word out about the dogs. I'd been more worried about the abandoned puppy, so I nodded without really listening.
“Right, Sharon is taking care of that.”
“They're adorable.” Rosie's smile widened. “I'd be happy to help. I've got a booth at the farmers' market anyway. We could do a joint thing, farm-fresh eggs and adoptable dogs.”
The offer hung in the air between us.
My brain scrambled for reasons to say no. Working with her meant more time together. More chances to say something blunt that came out wrong. More opportunities to be the socially awkward disaster I always was around people who smiled that easily.
Better to keep my distance. Keep her as just another client.
I opened my mouth.
“That would be wonderful.” Sharon's voice cut through my thoughts, entirely too cheerful. “We've been trying to get more visibility.”
“Perfect! I'm there every Saturday through September, so we could—”
“That's generous, but you don't have to do that.”
The words came out stiff, formal. Wrong. I winced internally.
Rosie's eyebrows lifted, amusement dancing in her eyes. “I know I don't have to. I want to.”
“The farmers' market is probably busy enough without adding dogs to it.” I shifted my weight, hand still resting on Pudding's side. An anchor. Something concrete to focus on.
“Oh, I think the market can handle a few extra cute faces.” Her smile widened. “Besides, people love animals. It'll probably bring in more customers for both of us.”
My jaw tightened. She wasn't wrong—logically, it made sense. More visibility meant better chances of finding homes for the dogs.
But working with her meant planning. Coordinating. Making small talk while setting up tables and answering questions about adoption applications.
So much talking.
“You're already managing the farm alone.” The words came out sharper than I intended. “Adding more to your plate when you're still figuring things out doesn't seem practical.”
Her smile faltered. Just slightly, but I caught it.
“I can handle it.”
“I'm sure you can.” The words came out rushed, an attempt at reassurance. Then my brain kept going. “But I select the families carefully. It's not just about visibility.”
The silence stretched between us, taut and uncomfortable.
I should've stopped there. Dropped it. But my mouth kept moving, trying to fix what I knew I'd already broken.
“It's a careful process. I interview potential adopters and schedule home visits.” The words tumbled out, clinical and precise. “Most people don't understand the commitment. They see a cute dog and don't think about training, vet bills, behavioral issues—”
“I'm aware of what dog ownership entails.”
Rosie's voice had gone flat, the warmth leaching out of it. Her spine straightened, shoulders pulling back in a way that made her seem taller.
“I'm just saying—”
“That I don't know what I'm doing?” She crossed her arms. “That I'm in over my head with the farm, so adding anything else would be irresponsible?”
“That's not—” I stopped, jaw clenching. “I'm just trying to be realistic.”
“No, you're being condescending.” The words came out sharp, precise. “You don't think I can handle it. You think I'm some city girl playing farmer who can't manage it all.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.” Her hazel eyes blazed. “You've made it pretty clear since you showed up at the farm this morning. The way you looked at me when I couldn't catch Chip. The lecture about stressing Pudding. And now this.”
“That's not—I didn't mean—”
The words tangled in my throat. I needed to fix this. Make her understand that this wasn't about her competence, it never was.
“These dogs depend on me to find them good homes.” I kept my voice level, clinical. “I can't risk—”
“Risk what? That I might actually care?” Her laugh held no humor. “You really don't know me if you don't think I care.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
She was right. I didn't know her. Didn't know anything beyond the basics—Walt's niece, who took over the farm, showed up covered in mud chasing goats.
But I'd seen how she looked at Pudding. The worry in her voice when she asked about him. The way she'd driven back into town just to check on a puppy she'd met for five minutes.
She cares.
And I'd just made her feel like that didn't matter.
I opened my mouth, trying to find words that would fix this mess. But my brain just kept circling the same useless thoughts—explain the process, make her understand, protect the dogs—none of which would help.
I forced myself to look at her.
The hurt in her eyes stopped me cold.
Not anger. Not frustration.
Hurt.
Raw and unguarded, there for just a second before she blinked it away.
“Forget it.” She turned toward the door, then paused at the threshold, not quite looking back. “Thanks for saving him. Let me know how much I owe for the name.”
Something cracked in my chest as the door swung shut behind her.
Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. The recovery room felt smaller somehow, emptier, despite Pudding's steady breathing and the hum of the equipment.
I'd screwed that up spectacularly.
“Well.” Sharon's voice cut through the silence. “That was impressive.”
I turned. She stood arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in that way that meant I was about to get the lecture I deserved.
“I didn't mean—”
“Mm-hmm.”
I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration building in my chest. “I was trying to explain that the adoption process is complicated. And―”
“Mm-hmm.”
“She took it the wrong way.”
Sharon's eyebrow climbed higher.
“Fine.” I turned back to Pudding, checking his breathing even though I'd checked it thirty seconds ago. “I handled it badly.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I should apologize.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The emphasis on that last one made me wince. I glanced back at Sharon, who hadn't moved. Hadn't needed to. Her expression said everything—the quiet disappointment, the I-told-you-so she was too polite to voice, the you're-an-idiot-and-you-know-it that radiated from every line of her posture.
“She probably thinks I'm—”
“An exhausted, socially incompetent workaholic who pushes away anyone who tries to get close?” Sharon's voice was mild. “Can't imagine where she'd get that idea.”
Heat crept up my neck. “That's not—”
“Callum.” She stepped into the room, her expression softening just enough to hurt worse. “That girl drove all the way into town because she was worried about a sick puppy and you couldn't let her help.”
My jaw clenched. “I know.”
“Do you?”
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
Sharon studied me for a long moment, then shook her head. “Go.”
“What?”
“Go. Apologize. Now. Before you overthink it and convince yourself you were right.”
“I need to monitor—”
“I'll watch him.” She moved toward Pudding, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Go.”
I was already moving, my legs carrying me toward the door before my brain caught up. Through the recovery room. Past the exam rooms. Into the waiting area where adoption posters lined the bulletin board.
The front door chimed as I shoved it open.
The parking lot stretched empty under the late afternoon sun. No yellow sundress. No waves of sandy brown hair.
Just empty asphalt and the distant sound of a truck engine fading down Main Street.
I’m too late.