Then he turns to me. “We take it one step at a time. You set the pace.”
My shoulders drop—relief mixed with something fragile I'm afraid to name.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Something warm flickers under my ribs?—
Not safety.
Not yet.
But possibility.
Chapter 5
Sadie
We turn onto a long gravel driveway lined with trees. Beyond the bend, a wide-open field unfolds, blanketed in snow. Work lights blaze near a broken fence line. Figures move—shadows and winter coats and the unmistakable energy of a farm emergency. Headlights carve a tunnel through the dark, reminding me it’s still the same night as the auction—just later, colder, and somehow more real.
Wyatt parks, kills the engine, and turns to me.
“You okay to help?” he asks, as if I’m the one with authority here.
I nod. “Yes.”
He studies my face a second longer, making sure the yes is real. Then he gives a curt nod.
As we cross the field, the icy wind cuts at any exposed skin. Snow crunches under my boots. A cluster of men is knee-deep in the mess—two repairing the fence, one kneeling beside a black and white border collie lying stiff-legged on a blanket in the snow.
I glance at Wyatt. "What’s her name?"
“Maisie.” My feet move before my brain catches up. There’s a med kit open on the blanket beside her, supplies scattered in the snow. I don’t have the right equipment, but instinct overrides fear. Animals have always been my compass when the world spins too fast.
“Hey, Wyatt!” a man calls, his tone bright despite the cold. He’s tall, all denim and flannel, with a grin that could sell hot chocolate to Satan. “Friend of yours?”
Wyatt doesn’t bother answering the joke. “Sadie, this is Tom Sutton. One of the owners of Havenridge. Tom, Sadie is here to help with Maisie.”
I approach the injured dog, dropping to my knees beside her. Maisie whines—a painful, high-pitched sound that punches me in the sternum.
A tear in her right foreleg oozes blood, and the surrounding fur is matted and sticky. Not arterial, thank God, but deep enough to need cleaning, maybe sutures or staples.
“Hi, Maisie,” I coo, kneeling slowly. “That looks like it hurts, baby.”
Tom crouches beside the dog, swiping at his nose with the back of his glove. “She was tryin’ to get the cows back in the pen and caught herself on the broken wire.”
“You’re a brave girl,” I tell her softly.
Maisie trembles, eyes glassy.
“May I?” I ask because consent isn’t just for humans.
Wyatt leans in with a flashlight without needing to be asked. He angles it for the best visibility. Tom holds the dog’s head gently, murmuring nonsense comfort words.
I touch her fur above the wound. Maisie flinches but doesn’t snap. Trusting. Good sign.
My internal checklist kicks in: Stop the bleeding. Assess the damage. Prevent infection. Stabilize the animal for transport.
“I need clean water or saline if you have it,” I say.
