Page 20 of Finding Gideon
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth twitch. But he let it go, and we rolled past the last cluster of houses and back onto open road.
The hills opened wider the farther we drove. I adjusted the vent, the air coming in warm and smelling faintly of dust and sweet hay.
“Do you know all the local spots?” Gideon asked after a few minutes.
“It’s an occupational hazard.”
He smirked, then turned slightly in his seat. “What made you want to be a vet?”
I glanced at him, surprised he’d asked—then surprised by how much I didn’t hate that he had.
“Not the usual story,” I said after a pause. “No childhood dog. No horse that healed my soul.”
He waited, not pushing, just listening.
“There was this chicken,” I said finally. “I was in sixth grade. Supposed to feed my neighbor’s hens while they were away. One of them—Junebug—got her leg caught in some kind of plastic netting. She panicked, thrashed around, which made it worse.”
Gideon turned toward me more fully, elbow still resting on the window, gaze steady.
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” I said. “But I grabbed a pair of blunt scissors and snipped her free. Then wrapped her leg in gauze and painter’s tape because that’s all I had. Sat with her for two hours in the dirt. Watched her fall asleep.”
“That’s the moment?”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t dramatic. But I remember thinking,I want to know how to do this right.”
“Junebug was okay?”
“She walked with a limp. Developed a taste for popcorn and followed me around like I was her god. Lived to be nine.”
Gideon smiled—soft, which caught me a little off guard. “That’s kind of amazing.”
“Or deeply concerning. Who bonds that hard with a chicken?”
“You’d be surprised.”
I glanced at him. The way the light hit his face, I could see the faintest scar on the bridge of his nose. I hadn't noticed it before. I wanted to ask—about the scar, about Oregon, about what made him leave. I wanted to ask how long he was planning to stay in Foggy Basin, if he’d even unpacked yet.
But something about his expression—distant but not closed off—saidnot yet.
So I shifted gears.
“Remind me never to agree to vet a mini pig at a wedding again, though,” I said.
That got him to turn my way. “I feel like you have to explain that one.”
“Summer before I moved here, I got a call from this frantic event planner. Turns out the bride’s father had surprised her with a ‘flower pig’—little wreath around its neck, ribbon on the tail. Supposed to trot down the aisle. Instead, it made a beeline for the reception tent and ate half the wedding cake before anyone could stop it.”
Gideon burst out laughing. Full-out, no hesitation. It startled me—not because it was loud, but because of how sudden and unguarded it was.
His head tipped back slightly, one hand on his chest, the other braced on the dashboard like he needed it to stay upright. The sound rolled out of him, warm and effortless.
I stole a glance.
It changed his whole face.
Not just the smile, but the way it softened his jaw, lit something in his eyes. The kind of laugh that felt earned. Like it hadn’t been around much lately.
He should do that more often.
