Page 140 of Fixing to Be Mine

The shelter looks like I remember—flowers in planters, a faded sign that readsValentine Animal Rescue, and a corkboard full of animals who still need to be adopted. I park my Bronco out front and sit for a moment with my hands on the wheel, staring at the front door like it might shift into something else if I blink.

It doesn’t.

Inside, the air is cooler than expected and smells exactly how I remember, like a vanilla candle and old kibble. Ember waves at me from behind the desk.

“You’re here for Boots, aren’t you?” She stands up and nearly cries. “Thank you! I was hoping I’d be here when he finally got adopted. This makes my whole year!”

I smile wide. “Today is the day.”

Ember stands and grabs the paperwork. All it takes is a few signatures, and it’s a done deal.

A minute later, Boots runs toward me with his nub of a tail wagging. I bend down and hug him.

“Boots,” I say. “Time to go home, buddy.”

“Your house and all that land is gonna be perfect for him. He loves to run,” she says, coming around the counter to put a bow on his neck. She gives him a tight squeeze, then looks up at me.

“You think I need a leash?” I ask.

“No, he listens,” she says. “Just open the door of your vehicle, and he’ll hop in. He’s a cattle dog. He knows his place.”

Before I go, I pay my clinic fee along with a one-hundred-thousand-dollar donation. Ember looks at the check, and her brows furrow.

“Uh, Stormy, you made a mistake. It was one hundred dollars.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m making a donation.”

Her mouth falls open, and she tries to call someone from the back to come up front as I walk out of the clinic, chuckling. I open the door to the Bronco, and Boots hops inside, like Ember said.

I pet his head. “Good dog.”

I roll down the window for him on the ride home, and his tongue hangs out the entire time. He moves from the window, back to me for a few licks, then returns, barking at horses grazing.

When I pull down the long road leading to the farmhouse, the gravel crunches under the Bronco’s tires. Boots shifts in the front seat like he knows we’re home. He’s already memorized the route—sat up straighter when we passed the feed store, perked his ears when we rounded the bend.

The porch comes into view, freshly painted and framed with the new railing Colt finished last week. The house looks different now—solid, finished in ways it hadn’t been when I first showed up here with nothing but a trunk full of secrets and a duffel bag of clothes. The entire bottom floor is done. Floors sealed. Kitchen tiled. Trim installed. And at this pace, we’ll have the second floor completed by Christmas.

I smile to myself, feeling the warmth of that word again.We.

Boots lets out a low, excited whine as I shift the Bronco into park.

“Shh. Don’t ruin the surprise,” I whisper, petting his head. “Let’s do this the right way.”

I step out and round the front as Colt comes out of the house, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s shirtless, jeans low on his hips, hair slightly messy, blue eyes shining for me.

He spots me as I reach for the passenger seat.

“Stormy,” he calls, walking down the steps toward me, “you didn’t text me back. I was worried.”

“Sorry, I was driving,” I say, stepping aside and opening the passenger door. “Both hands on the wheel, ya know.”

Boots leaps down like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact cue.

Colt freezes halfway across the yard.

“Is that—” he starts, but the words fall apart when Boots barrels toward him. His bottom wags so hard that I think he might grow another tail.

Colt crouches, and Boots launches himself straight into his arms like they’ve known each other forever. Colt rubs behind his ears, laughing in that stunned, chest-deep way I’ve only heard a handful of times.

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