Where are the rest of you laying?
I ducked back outside, shading my eyes against the sun. The patchy hen from earlier scratched near the equipment shed, oblivious to her bald spots.
Mites. Right.
I had absolutely no idea what chicken mites looked like. Were they visible? Tiny? Did they jump on humans? And why did I suddenly feel itchy?
I headed towards the open barn door. I spotted two more eggs nestled in the hay near Buddy's stall. He watched me with mild interest as I added them to the basket.
“You're the only easy one,” I told him.
He snorted.
Ten eggs total. I headed back to the house, cradling the basket carefully. Inside, the kitchen smelled like yesterday's failed attempt at sourdough—slightly sour, vaguely disappointing.
My first farmers' market was in four days, and I needed this to go well.Reallywell. The income from market sales would cover feed costs for the month, and I couldn't afford to show up with wilted lettuce and three sad tomatoes.
I grabbed my hat from the hook by the door and headed out, determinedlynotthinking about tiny puppies who deserved better than being left behind, alone and terrified.
I had work to do.
ChapterFour
Callum
“You're goingto be fine, little guy.”
I kept my voice low, one hand resting gently on the puppy's side. His breathing was steady now, shallow but even. The anesthesia was wearing off slowly, little tremors running through his legs as his body fought its way back to consciousness.
“Worst of it's over. I promise.”
The past few hours had been all about stabilizing him. Fluids. Tests. Waiting for his tiny body to be strong enough to go through the surgery. But I'd found it—a plastic wrapper lodged tight in his intestine, twisted in a way that would've killed him in another day or two. Maybe less.
I stroked the soft fur between his ears, careful to avoid the IV line taped to his front leg.
“You're a fighter, Pudding.”
The name still felt ridiculous. I usually went with something normal—Max, Tucker, Duke. ButPuddinghad this sweetness to it that... fit. And it'd gotten Rosie to stop pestering me, which was worth something.
The door behind me opened.
“How's he doing?” Sharon's voice was quiet, careful not to startle the puppy. She crossed the room and peered down at the small body on the recovery table.
“Stable. Surgery went well.”
Sharon rested her hand briefly on my shoulder, a rare gesture from someone who usually kept physical comfort to sharp words and pointed looks.
“Are you monitoring him overnight?”
“Yeah, I'll keep an eye on him. Make sure he?—”
“I'll bring dinner around seven.”
“You don't have to.”
Sharon's blue eyes fixed on me, sharp and unyielding. “I'll bring dinner around seven.”
No argument. No discussion.
