Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Callum
“Sign here. And here.”
The Coopers sat across from me in the clinic's front office, reading through the adoption contract. They were in their sixties, empty nesters looking for a calm companion. The perfect match for Hank.
Mrs. Cooper adjusted her reading glasses. “It says he needs quiet for the first few weeks.”
“He does.” I tapped the relevant section. “Hank's not aggressive, just cautious. Give him space. Let him approach you.”
“Like at the market,” Mr. Cooper said. “That worked.”
It had. They'd sat on the ground near Hank, talking to each other while ignoring him. Within minutes, he'd crept close enough to sniff Mr. Cooper's hand. By the time they left, Hank had been leaning against Mrs. Cooper's leg while she scratched his ears.
Mrs. Cooper signed the last page. “We can't wait to bring him home.”
“He'll be happy with you.” I stood, collecting the paperwork. “Let me get him.”
The barn behind the clinic smelled like antiseptic and the particular musk of twelve dogs. Hank occupied the corner kennel at the back—the quietest spot, away from the younger dogs who barked at every sound.
He looked up when I walked over, bushy eyebrows scrunched in his permanent scowl.
“Time to go, old man.” His ears twitched, interested. I opened the kennel and crouched down. “You're getting out. Real house, real bed. People who won't mind when you grumble.”
Hank tilted his head, studying me with those dark, knowing eyes.
“You get to have a family again.” Hank's tail gave a single, hesitant wag. “I know you lost your human before. I'm so sorry about that. But the Coopers? They'll take good care of you.”
Hank stood, stretched with exaggerated slowness, and walked past me toward the kennel door. I clipped the leash to his collar and followed him outside.
Mrs. Cooper crouched. “Hello, sweet boy.”
Hank padded straight to her, pressing his grizzled head against her palm. Mr. Cooper knelt beside his wife, and Hank leaned into both of them with a soft sigh—the closest thing to contentment I'd ever seen from him.
I handed Mrs. Cooper the leash. “He's all yours.”
She stood slowly, Hank staying close to her side. “Thank you for saving him.”
“You're the ones saving him.” I watched Hank walk calmly between them toward their sedan. No pulling, no hesitation. He knew. “Eight years old isn't too late for a fresh start.”
Mr. Cooper opened the back door. Hank hopped in without coaxing, settling onto the blanket they'd brought. Mrs. Cooper climbed into the passenger seat and turned to scratch his ears through the gap.
The engine started. Hank's face appeared in the rear window as they pulled away, ears perked, looking forward instead of back.
Eleven dogs left in the barn.
I crossed the yard toward the house, stepping over the loose board on the porch that I kept meaning to fix. The front door stuck—had been sticking for months—and I gave it the familiar shoulder bump that forced it open.
A sharp yip echoed from the kitchen, followed by the scramble of tiny paws on linoleum.
Pudding skidded around the corner, toenails clicking. He stopped a few feet away, tail wagging tentatively.
“Hey, troublemaker.” I crouched down. He crept forward, sniffed my hand, then licked my fingers once before retreating to his food bowl. He sat beside it, staring at the empty metal dish with laser focus.
“Subtle.” I pushed to my feet and grabbed the bag of puppy food from the counter. “Real subtle.”
His tail picked up speed as I measured out his portion—carefully weighed to account for his healing digestive system. The wrapper I'd removed during surgery had done damage, but his recovery was progressing better than expected.
I set the bowl down. Pudding dove in immediately, eating with focused determination rather than the frantic gobbling I'd seen in starved animals before. He paused between bites to look up at me, checking I was still there, then went back to eating.
“That's it. Take your time.”
Pudding paused mid-bite, one ear flopped forward, tongue still touching his food. I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo before he could move.
The image captured everything—oversized paws, scruffy fur starting to fill in, that ridiculous ear. Rosie would love this.
I stared at the photo on my phone. Pudding had finished eating and was now sprawling across my kitchen floor, belly full, completely relaxed.
She'd want to know about Hank too.
Rosie had been the one who'd connected with him at the market, who'd understood his grumpy exterior hid a dog who just needed the right people.
And Daisy. I had a house visit scheduled for Friday. The family seemed promising—two kids, fenced yard, the father had grown up with Labs. If it went well, Daisy might have a home by the weekend.
Rosie would celebrate that too. She'd been so gentle with Daisy at the market, letting the dog lean against her legs while customers came and went. Understanding that Daisy just wanted to be included, to be part of things.
The adoption event had worked. Better than I'd expected.
And it was all because of Rosie. Because she made it feel like we were in it together rather than me standing awkwardly with rescue dogs nobody wanted.
I scrolled through my contacts. Walt had given me the farmhouse number years ago for emergencies. Rosie would most likely be outside doing chores this time of day, probably wouldn't hear the phone ring. I could leave a voicemail. Keep it short. Keep it simple.
Just tell her about Hank. That's all.
And maybe mention next weekend. Ask if she wanted to do the market thing again. The adoption event. Not because I wanted to see her—which I did, but that wasn't the point. The point was that it had worked. Hank had found a home.
I hit call before I could overthink it.
The phone rang once. Twice.
“Hello?” Rosie's voice, slightly breathless, caught me off guard.
“I—” My brain stuttered. “It's Callum. Sterling. The vet.”
Obviously the vet. She knows who you are.
Pudding lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled on the kitchen floor, ears perking at the sound of my voice.
“Is this a bad time?”
Silence. Then what sounded like something metallic clattering to the floor.
“No! I mean, yes? I mean—hold on.”
More noise. Running water. A frustrated sound that might have been a groan.
“Sorry. I'm—” She paused. “I'm making a mess.”
My grip tightened on the phone. “What kind of mess?”
“The kind where I thought I could follow instructions but clearly I was wrong about that.” Her voice got slightly distant, like she'd moved the phone away from her face. “Oh, come on.”
My stomach tightened. “Rosie. What are you doing?”
“Making soap. Trying to, anyway. It's supposed to be easy. The internet said it was easy. The internet lied.”
Soap. Right. The goat milk products she'd mentioned at the market.
Something crashed in the background.
“Are you hurt?”
“What? No. I just knocked over a—it doesn't matter.” She laughed, but it sounded strained.
“I thought this would be simple. Melt some stuff, pour it into molds, boom, fancy artisan soap to sell at the market.
Except nothing's melting right and I think I used too much lye and now it smells weird and—”
“Wait. Lye?”
“The recipe said—”
“You're wearing gloves, right? Eye protection?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Rosie.”
“I have gloves on! Kitchen gloves. The yellow rubber ones.”
“Those aren't—” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “What about your eyes?”
“My eyes are fine. I'm being careful.”
The running water sound intensified. She muttered something I couldn't quite catch, followed by a string of creative cursing that would've made Walt proud.
“Okay. I'm coming over.”
“What? No, you don't have to—”
“You're working with lye without proper safety equipment.”
“I'm fine. It's just soap. People make soap all the time.”
“People who know what they're doing make soap all the time.” I was already grabbing my keys. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Cal, seriously, I don't need—”
“Twenty minutes.”
I hung up before she could argue further.
Pudding tilted his head, watching me with those big eyes.
“Let's go rescue Rosie.”
His tail started wagging before I'd even finished the sentence. The puppy scrambled toward me, tripping over his own feet in his excitement.
It wasn't the best idea. He needed rest, needed quiet. But he also needed socialization, needed to learn that the world wasn't just the clinic and my house.
I scooped him up, grabbed a blanket from the couch, and headed for the truck.
The drive to Sullivan Farm took sixteen minutes. Should've been twenty, but my foot pressed harder on the accelerator than necessary. Lye. She was working with lye in kitchen gloves.
I parked near the house and cracked the windows. “Stay.”
Pudding blinked at me, already half-asleep in the backseat.
The front door was already open. I climbed the porch steps two at a time and knocked on the frame.
“I'm in the kitchen!” I followed her voice through the familiar layout—past the living room with Walt's worn recliner, down the hall lined with family photos, into the kitchen.
Rosie stood at the counter, surrounded by what could only be described as a soap-making disaster.
Pots everywhere. Mysterious liquids in different shades of colors.
A digital thermometer sitting in something that looked suspiciously chunky.
Molds lined up on the counter, half of them already filled with substances that definitely didn't look like soap.
She glanced up, hair escaping its ponytail, a smudge of something white across her cheek. “You drove really fast.”
“You said lye.”
“I'm fine.” She gestured at herself with yellow-gloved hands. “See? All my fingers. Both eyes. Everything's attached.”
I scanned her more carefully. No burns that I could see. No chemical splashes on her clothes. The weird smell I'd noticed—floral with an underlying chemical bite—wasn't as strong as I'd expected it to be.
“What happened?”
“The temperature was wrong. Or the ratios. Or possibly both.” She poked at one of the pots with a wooden spoon.
The contents jiggled. “This batch separated. That one never mixed properly. And this one—” She pointed at a mold filled with something that looked like cottage cheese. “I don't even know what this one did.”
I crossed to the window above the sink and pushed it open wider. The evening breeze immediately swept through, carrying the chemical smell with it.
“I'm fine,” Rosie said again, but her voice had softened. Almost amused.
“You keep saying that.” I opened the window on the opposite wall, creating a cross-breeze. “Doesn't make it true.”
She pulled off the yellow gloves and set them on the counter. “You really drove over here because I said lye?”
“Chemical burns aren't something you mess around with.”
“I didn't get any chemical burns.” She crossed her arms, hip leaning against the counter. “But you drove over here anyway.”
The way she said it—like she found the whole thing endearing rather than annoying—made my chest do something complicated.
“Someone had to.”
Her smile softened. “I'm fine, Cal. Really. Just frustrated with soap that won't cooperate.”
I surveyed the disaster zone again. Half-mixed batches, separated liquids, that cottage cheese situation in the mold. She'd followed some kind of process, at least. The measuring cups were lined up, ingredients labeled.
“Okay.” I picked up one of the containers, sniffing cautiously. Goat milk, olive oil, something floral. “First, you need to shower.”
“What?”
“You've probably got lye residue on your arms. Even diluted, it's not something you want sitting on your skin.” I set the container down. “Go shower. I'll look up tutorials on salvaging this.”
She blinked at me. “You don't have to do that.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean—” She gestured at the mess. “This is my problem. I can figure it out.”
“Rosie—”
“You're busy enough with the clinic and the rescue dogs. You don't need to fix everything for me.” Her voice stayed gentle, but firm. “I'm not helpless.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Because she was right. I did do that. Jumped in, took over, assumed nobody else could handle things properly.
“I know you're not helpless.”
“Then why—”
“Hank got adopted today.”
That stopped her mid-sentence. Her eyes widened, that sunshine smile breaking across her face.
“They picked him up?”
“Yeah, the Coopers. They came to the clinic this afternoon.” I leaned against the counter, finding it easier to talk when I wasn't looking directly at her. “Did the paperwork and took him home.”
“Cal.” Her voice went soft. “That's wonderful.”
“One less dog in the barn. Frees up some time.” I finally met her eyes. “That's why I was calling. To tell you. To say thank you.”
“Aww, Cal.”
“The market thing worked. You were right about that.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “And I have a home visit Friday for Daisy. If that goes well—”
“Two adoptions in one week.”
“Maybe.” I glanced at the soap disaster, then back at her. “Point is, I've got room in my schedule.”
Understanding flickered across her face. She opened her mouth, but I kept going before she could argue.
“Also brought Pudding. He's in the truck.”
Her whole face transformed. “You brought him? Can I—”
She moved toward the door, but I shifted, blocking her path. We ended up standing closer than I'd intended—close enough that I caught the scent of lavender and goat milk and something distinctly Rosie underneath the chemical smell.
Her eyes widened slightly, meeting mine.
“Not until you shower.”
“Cal—”
“A long shower. Hot water, soap, the whole thing.” I kept my voice firm despite the way my pulse kicked up at this proximity. “You need to make sure any lye residue is completely gone.”
She tilted her chin up, challenging. “And then?”
“Then we'll spend time with Pudding. Outside, away from all this.” I gestured at the kitchen disaster. “And after that, we'll figure out the soap thing together.”
“Together.”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “How's that sound?”
Her expression softened, something warm settling in those hazel eyes. “Perfect.”
She darted around me, already heading for the stairs. I heard her footsteps racing up, then the sound of water running through the pipes.
I stood alone in the kitchen, evening light streaming through the open windows. The cross-breeze carried the chemical smell away, replacing it with fresh mountain air and the distant sound of chickens settling for the night.
My gaze drifted to the windowsill above the sink.
The bouquet I'd given her at the market sat in a mason jar, backlit by the golden sunset. She'd arranged the flowers carefully—purple asters and yellow sunflowers catching the light, stems cut to different heights so each bloom had space to shine.
She'd put them in the best light in the house.
Something in my chest loosened. The perpetual tension I carried—the weight of emergencies and responsibilities and never quite measuring up—eased. Standing in Walt's kitchen, listening to Rosie sing off-key in the shower upstairs, felt right in a way nothing had in years.
I was smiling. Actually smiling.
And I didn't want to stop.