Page 103 of Finding Gideon
It wasn’t pressure.
It was belief.
And for the first time in a long time, I started to believe in me, too.
Now here I was.
Sanctuary caretaker. Spreadsheet keeper. Bottle feeder.
The lamb was barely two days old, maybe less. Farmer Lila Dormer had found him curled up by a fence post just before dawn—no mother in sight. Brought him in wrapped in an old flannel shirt, eyes rimmed with worry.
“He isn’t taking the bottle,” she’d said. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
He was freezing, too weak to stand. His ears were cold, tiny hooves tucked under him like he’d already decided to give up. Malcolm had taken him in without hesitation, warming him under heat lamps, feeding him formula through a syringe until he finally began to root.
Days passed, and no one came looking. So when he was strong enough to leave the clinic, Malcolm handed him over into my care. And just like that, the lamb became ours. Mine.
Now he nestled against me in the nursing stall at the sanctuary, fleece blanket across my lap, suckling noisily at the bottle I held. Outside, dusk was settling over the valley. Soft light streamed in through the high windows, turning the hay-strewn floor golden.
The air smelled of iodine, milk replacer, and the faint sweetness of straw. And for the first time all day, the noise in my head eased.
I didn’t hear Malcolm come in.
Didn’t know he was there until I glanced up and saw his shadow stretched across the floor.
He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me.
Chapter 33
Malcolm
Gideon was on the floor, cross-legged in the hay, a bottle tucked in one hand, his other arm curved protectively around something small and woolly. The lamb suckled greedily, tiny hooves twitching as it fed.
There was hay in Gideon’s hair. A smear of formula down one sleeve. His hair was pushed back in that careless way they always got when he was focused on something. He looked tired. Worn thin and running on instinct.
Beautiful.
The man who thought he was too much. Too broken. Too lost.
I had never in my life seen anything more right.
He murmured something low to the lamb. I couldn’t hear the words, just the cadence, soft and rhythmic. Whatever he said, the little thing relaxed in his arms, belly full and eyelids drooping.
Gideon waited until it finished before easing it into a towel-lined crate beside him. Tucked the edges around its tiny frame. Ran one hand gently over its side, lingering there even after it had closed its eyes.
I stepped forward, careful not to startle the animal, and crossed to the edge of the straw-lined space. Kneeling beside him, I reached for the lamb with slow, gentle hands. “Mind if I take a look?”
Gideon shifted, holding the bottle with one hand while I checked the kid over—ears cool, but not ice-cold anymore. Body a little warmer than I expected. Still too thin. But breathing was okay.
I brushed a hand down its side. “No frostbite, no broken bones. Might be touch-and-go, but… you’ve done a damn good job with him.”
He looked down, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the praise. “I'm not sure I've done enough.”
I shook my head. “You don’t see it, do you? What matters is that he's still here because of you. That's more than enough.”
I nudged the crate a little closer and watched as he lowered the lamb into the towel-lined space. It curled in on itself, small hooves tucked close to its belly, and let out a tiny breath. Almost a sigh.
I stood and offered him a hand. He took it, fingers warm against mine, and rose to his feet.
