Page 1 of Rescued

Gabe

I finish feeding the last dog in the kennels, crouching to let my fingers comb through Jojo’s coarse, speckled fur. The blue heeler stiffens for a moment, his muscles tense under my touch, before he leans into my hand. A soft whine escapes him, the sound half hesitation, half trust.

I smile, scratching behind his ears. “Good boy, Jojo. You’re getting there,” I murmur. It’s been slow progress with him. He’s smart but cautious—his wariness carved into him by whatever hell he lived through before finding his way here. Most of the animals I take in bear similar marks, whether on their bodies, their minds, or both.

Straightening, I close the gate with a soft click, double-checking the latch. Jojo watches me with those amber eyes of his, curled in the far corner of the kennel like he’s still not quite sure what to expect from me. “You’re safe now,” I whisper, though I’m not sure he believes it.

Myboots crunch softly on the gravel as I move to the barn door, pausing to glance back. Jojo circles his spot once, twice, before curling into a tight ball. He keeps one eye half open, still watching me. I shake my head, the familiar mixture of frustration and anger bubbling under my skin. Some people shouldn’t be allowed within a mile of an animal.

This barn, converted into a makeshift shelter, isn’t perfect. Rows of chain-link pens line both sides, each one equipped with a doggie door leading to a small, fenced run. The space is functional, the result of months of work. I wanted a place where the dogs could feel less confined, at least a little. It’s not much, but it’s better than what waits for them out there.

In Shasta, stray animals don’t get second chances.

Out here in this small Texas town, cruelty is the norm. Todd Benson, one of the few decent people I know and a deputy for the Sheriff’s department, has filled me in on the horrors. Sheriff Kaufman takes pride in dealing with strays his own way—cruel, vicious, and needlessly brutal. No one here seems to care, either. It’s just the way things are.

Todd, Adam Soames—the local vet—and I are the only ones trying to make a difference. We’ve built a network of sorts, rescuing as many animals as we can, one at a time. Some days, it feels like we’re bailing water from a sinking ship, but giving up isn’t an option for me.

I glance over the pens one last time, my eyes scanning each latch, each gate, until I’m sure everything is secure. Most of the dogs are already settling down, full bellies and warm blankets doing their work. Jojo still keeps one wary eye on me, but he looks calmer now, his body relaxed for the first time today.

The sun is low, throwing golden light across the fields as I make my way back to the house. It’s quiet out here, the kind of quiet that sinks into your bones. Sometimes, it feels peaceful; other times, lonely. My housesits on the edge of a few acres, a simple structure that’s been my refuge for years.

I inherited it from my grandparents after they passed away. A car accident took them both in an unchangeable instant. It still hurts when I think about it, the band around my heart tightening with a fierce throb, but there’s some small comfort in knowing they went together. Their love for each other was unwavering, and I know the idea of being separated in death would’ve been unbearable for them.

I came to live with them long before the accident, after my parents made it clear I wasn’t welcome anymore. Coming out as gay wasn’t something I planned to do—it was something I had to do. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t had been suffocating.

But my parents weren’t interested in understanding. Their rejection was swift and absolute.

My grandparents were my lifeline. They took me in without hesitation, offering the kind of love I thought I’d never feel again. They showed me that faith doesn’t have to be a weapon, that family can mean something more than judgment and shame.

Reaching the front steps, I pause to stretch, working out the stiffness in my back from hours of bending and lifting. A hot bath sounds perfect right now, but the thought barely takes hold before my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out, glancing at the screen. Todd.

“Hey, Todd,” I answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Gabe,” Todd says, his voice low and urgent. “You’re not gonna believe this. I found a wolf.”

My steps falter. “A wolf? Are you sure?”

A wolf. Here.

Wolves aren’t unheard of in New Mexico—they’ve been reintroduced into the Gila National Forest. But northern Texas? That’s something else entirely.

“How bad is he hurt? Where do I need to meet you?” I ask, gripping the phone. A dozen questions tumble through my mind, but these are the ones that matter most right now.

Todd’s voice comes through, quick and steady. “Well, I got a call from Mrs. Schumaker. She thought she saw a big dog hanging out by her barn, figured it might be rabid or something. Anyways, I get out here, and damned if it isn’t this huge black wolf lying behind the barn. He’s just…there, Gabe. Barely moving. Looks like he’s been starved, maybe sick. I don’t know. Adam’s already on his way, but I could use you out here. Can you head over?”

A wolf.Starved, sick, or both?My mind stumbles over the thought, even as I find myself nodding. “Yeah. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Adam’s involvement in rescues has been a lifesaver for me and Todd. I still remember how hesitant I was to ask for his help. I’d gone to him with a stray, a Lab mix with a shattered leg, thinking I’d have to beg him to discount the surgery. Instead, Adam had waved me off mid-sentence, taking the dog back into surgery without so much as a fee.

It wasn’t until my third or fourth visit with another rescue that Adam finally pinned me with one of his steady, questioning looks. “What’s going on, Gabe? You keep showing up with these dogs—injured, malnourished, some barely alive. This isn’t just you taking in strays, is it?”

I’d come clean, explaining the mess with Kaufman and the horrific treatment of animals in Shasta. Instead of balking, Adam had listened, his expression darkening by the minute. When I finished, he stood up, grabbed a pad of paper, and said, “Tell me what you need.”

Since then, Adam’s been the quiet backbone of our little operation. Medications, vaccines, spaying and neutering services—he provides it all. I don’t know much about his personal life, but professionally, he’s one of the most dependable people I’ve ever met.

I toss the phone onto the counter and grab what I can think of—a few towels, a blanket, and my old digital camera. For a moment, I hesitate by the cabinet where I keep some basic first-aid supplies. Gauze, alcohol wipes, a few syringes—it’s not much, but it might help. Then I remember Adam will be there, and his supplies will be far more thorough.

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