Page 105 of Finding Gideon
Chapter 34
Gideon
A plastic bottle of milk warmed between my palms. The lamb’s mouth worked around the makeshift nipple, like it was dreaming its way through the feed. I sat cross-legged on the straw-covered floor, back pressed to the stall gate, watching every swallow like it might be the last.
Malcolm crouched nearby, one knee on the ground, his hand braced against the edge of the pen. His scrubs were rumpled, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but he hadn’t left. Not once since we took the lamb in.
“She’s holding on,” he murmured.
I nodded. “For now.”
We’d been through two feedings. A glucose injection. Blankets. A heat lamp. A lot of waiting. I didn’t know how he was still upright. I didn’t know how I was either.
Malcolm shifted, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Gideon…”
“I’m fine,” I said too quickly.
He didn’t argue. Just stood and dusted straw off his pants. “Come to bed.”
“I should?—”
You’ll be useless to her if you collapse.”
I glanced at the tiny rise and fall of her chest. Still breathing. Still here.
“Just for a bit,” he added. “Come on.”
The part of me that knew he was right lost the fight. I let him pull me up, my joints cracking from hours on the floor. We didn’t speak as we crossed the yard and headed back inside. I followed Malcolm with quiet steps and a heavy heart.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the hallway light spilling in before Malcolm shut the door behind us. He didn’t speak, just helped me out of my clothes with patient hands, then shed his own. Before I could process it, he’d lifted me, strong arms cradling me against his chest, and carried me straight into the bathroom.
Steam curled in the air, lavender and eucalyptus wrapping around us. He’d prepared the bath already, water warm and scented, candles flickering low on the counter. Soft instrumental music whispered from somewhere I hadn’t noticed until then.
He lowered me into the tub like I was something fragile. Heat enveloped me, chased the tension from my muscles. Malcolm slid in behind me, pulling me back against his chest, his lips brushing the side of my temple.
Later, he toweled us both dry, unhurried, and guided me into bed. His kiss was slow, comforting rather than demanding. “You’re a wonderful man,” he murmured against my lips. “You’ve built something good here, Gideon. You’re doing such a damn good job.”
I swallowed hard, my chest tight with something more than gratitude. And then his arms came around me, familiar, anchoring. I could’ve let myself sink into that.
I didn’t.
My eyes stayed open. Fixed on the ceiling.
Fifty yards away, a lamb fought for its life.
Malcolm’s breathing evened out in minutes. I stayed still, barely blinking. I counted heartbeats. The silence pressed in around me, loud in its own way. Somewhere outside, an owl called once, then again.
I thought about the lamb’s pulse under my fingers. Faint, but there. About the slight wheeze in his chest. The way his tiny hooves had kicked weakly when I’d lifted his About how fast something so small could disappear.
My body was in bed. My mind was in that stall.
Malcolm shifted against me in his sleep, warm and solid. He’d done this before—pulled impossible things back from the edge.
I turned onto my side. Watched the way the shadows moved on the wall.
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.
Then I slipped out from under his arm.
