Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Callum
The clinic door stuck when I yanked it open the next morning, swollen from last night's rain. I shouldered through, letting it slam behind me harder than necessary.
Sharon glanced up from the filing cabinet, reading glasses perched on her nose. “You’re not at the farmers’ market?”
“Nope.”
I crossed to the coffee maker and poured myself a cup, black and bitter. Perfect.
“Why not?” Sharon pulled a stack of folders from the drawer. “Rosie's there, isn't she?”
“Probably.”
“And you have dogs that need adopting.”
“They'll survive another week.”
The coffee scalded my tongue. I welcomed it.
Sharon set the folders on the counter with deliberate precision. “Want to tell me what's going on?”
“Nothing's going on.”
“Callum.”
I stared into my mug. The coffee reflected back at me, dark and murky.
“Rosie got a job offer.” The words tasted worse than the coffee.
Sharon's expression shifted from concern to understanding. “Back in Seattle?”
“Yeah.” I set the mug down, gripping the counter's edge. “Art Director position. For a music festival. It's... it's what she used to do before she moved here.”
“And she's thinking about taking it?”
“She asked what I thought.”
“What did you tell her?”
That it wasn't my call to make. That I wouldn't weigh in on her life decisions. That I wouldn't be like her ex, telling her what to do with her life.
“That whatever she decides will be the right choice.”
Sharon's silence stretched between us.
“She's good at it,” I continued, staring at my mug on the counter. “I've seen her sketches, her branding work. The stuff she designed for the farm products—it's professional. Way beyond what you'd need for a farmers’ market.”
“So you think she should take it.”
“I think...” I exhaled. “I think she's too talented to stay here. She could make a difference in Seattle, working on projects that light her up. Not just—”
“Not just what?”
Not just waste her time on a failing farm and a workaholic vet who can barely keep his own life together.
“The farm's struggling,” I said instead. “She's working herself to exhaustion trying to make ends meet. In Seattle, she'd have stability. A career. Opportunities.”
“Two peas in a pod.” She shook her head.
I frowned. “What?”
“You heard me.” Sharon crossed her arms. “Both of you running yourselves ragged trying to prove something.”
“That's not—”
“You could have more stability in Denver. But you decided to move here. In a town where you work yourself half to death and fund a rescue operation out of your own pocket.”
My jaw tightened.
“So who's to say Rosie's going to leave?” Sharon's sharp blue eyes pinned me in place. “Maybe she sees what you see. Maybe she's found something here worth staying for.”
I picked up my mug, her words settling over me.
Maybe Sharon had a point. I'd turned down better opportunities to stay in Alder Creek. Here, I knew every animal, every family. The work mattered in ways a corporate clinic never could.
And Rosie... she'd been just as stubborn about the farm. Refused to quit even when everything went sideways. Found joy in the chaos, built something beautiful out of hard work and determination.
Two peas in a pod.
Maybe Sharon was right.
“That makes me think,” she said as she turned back to the filing cabinet, pulling out a single sheet of paper. “We got an adoption form for Pudding last night. Came through by email.”
The coffee mug froze halfway to my lips. “What?”
“Adoption form. For Pudding.”
“He's not ready.” The words came out sharper than intended. “He still needs to put on a few more pounds. He hasn't been posted on the website yet. Who the hell thinks they can just—”
“Cal.”
“—submit a form for a dog that isn't even officially available? That's not how this works. We have protocols. We have—”
“Callum.” Sharon's voice cut through my rant. “Just read it.”
She held out the paper.
I snatched it from her hand, scanning the form with growing irritation. Name, address, employment history, veterinary references...
My eyes caught on the name at the top.
Rosalie Hartley.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I read the name again, making sure it wasn't a mistake.
Rosie had filled an adoption form for Pudding.
The world shifted, pieces clicking into place with perfect clarity. She wasn't leaving. She was staying. She wanted Pudding, which meant she wanted to build something here, something permanent.
She's staying.
I stared at the printed email, reading her typed response. Under “Reason for adoption,” she'd written: I've fallen in love with this sweet boy, and I think we could help each other heal.
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. She saw something in that scared, abandoned puppy that mirrored herself—both of them learning to trust again after being hurt. Both finding their way in a place that felt foreign at first. The paper trembled in my hands.
Sharon's voice broke through my spinning thoughts. “Still think she's going back to Seattle?”
I looked up. She was watching me with gentle understanding.
“You knew.”
“I got the email first thing this morning.” She returned to her filing. “Figured you needed to work through your feelings first.”
I stared at the form again, my pulse hammering. Rosie was staying. She'd chosen the farm. Chosen Alder Creek.
Chosen us.
“I need to—” I shoved the paper back at Sharon and bolted for the door.
“Go get her,” she called after me.
I didn't answer, already halfway across the parking lot. My house was fifty yards from the clinic, close enough that I usually walked. I ran.
The front door banged open. “Pudding!”
The puppy lifted his head from where he'd been sleeping on the couch, one ear flopped over, the other standing at attention. He blinked at me sleepily.
“Come here, buddy.” I scooped him up, his body warm and soft against my chest. “We're going to find your new mom.”
The word caught in my throat. Mom.
My eyes burned. I blinked hard, burying my face against Pudding's soft fur for a moment.
This puppy had been abandoned, terrified, nearly died from eating trash just to survive. And Rosie—who'd been hurt, who'd rebuilt herself from scratch—wanted to give him a home. Wanted to love him.
She deserved something special. Something that showed her what she meant to me.
What they both meant.
I set Pudding down gently. “Wait here.”
I headed for the kitchen, yanking open drawers. Takeout menus, rubber bands, batteries—nothing useful. On the third drawer, my fingers caught on something silky. Red ribbon, still wrapped around a cardboard spool. A Christmas decoration Doc Hammond never bothered taking when he sold the practice.
Perfect.
I crouched beside Pudding, who'd followed me into the kitchen. “Hold still.”
He sat, tilting his head as I looped the ribbon around his neck, tying it into a lopsided bow. The moment I finished, Pudding twisted, trying to bite the ribbon. His teeth caught fabric, pulling.
“Easy.” I gently redirected his attention, scratching behind his ears. “You look very handsome.”
Pudding pawed at the bow, whining softly. His amber eyes looked up at me, trusting and innocent.
My chest tightened. For weeks, this little guy had been my shadow.
Following me around the house, curling up on my feet while I worked at the kitchen table, sleeping pressed against my pillow every night.
I'd told myself it was temporary—that I was just fostering him until the right family came along.
But somewhere between his first tentative tail wag and the way he'd learned to greet me at the door, Pudding had wormed his way under my skin. The house would feel empty without him.
This is right, I reminded myself. Rosie would give him everything she had to give—a real home, someone who'd be there during the day, someone who'd teach him to trust the world again.
Someone who understood what it felt like to start over.
I cupped Pudding's face in my hands, his soft fur warm against my palms. “You're going to love it there. Big yard to explore, goats to befriend, chickens to chase.” My voice caught slightly. “And Rosie... she's going to take such good care of you.”
Pudding's tail gave a tentative wag, as if he sensed the emotion in my voice.
“She needs you, too,” I whispered, pressing my forehead gently to his. “You'll be good for each other.”
He licked my nose, and I couldn't help but smile despite the ache in my throat.
I clipped on his leash, the metal clasp clicking softly. “Come on, let's go find your mom.”
The market was only a few blocks away. Pudding trotted beside me, his small paws clicking against the sidewalk, occasionally stopping to investigate interesting smells.
Main Street came into view, vendor tents lined up along the sidewalk. Voices carried on the breeze—laughter, conversations. Saturday morning in Alder Creek, the market was in full swing.
Pudding's ears pricked forward. His steps slowed as we approached, the crowd suddenly overwhelming. Too many people, too much noise. He pressed against my leg, uncertain.
“It's okay,” I murmured, shortening the leash. “Let's find Rosie.”
At the sound of her name, his ears perked up.
We wove through the vendors, past the bakery booth and other farm stands. Pudding's nose twitched at every new scent—fresh bread, kettle corn, someone's coffee. His steps grew more confident as we navigated the crowd, though he still pressed close to my leg.
And then I saw her.
Rosie stood behind her booth, bright and animated as she explained something about her herbs to an elderly woman. Her hands moved as she talked, that familiar enthusiasm lighting up her voice. She wrapped a small bundle of thyme with practiced ease, her movements fluid and sure.
My chest tightened. She looked perfectly at home here, part of the market's rhythm. Natural. Like she belonged.
God, I loved her. The realization hit me, even though deep down I'd known it for weeks. Loved her stubborn optimism, her chaotic energy, the way she made everything—even a crowded Saturday market—feel exactly like where I was supposed to be.