Page 102 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

Porter ignored the pleasantry. “I leave for one retirement cruise—one—and I come back to find you letting civilians run behavioral experiments with traumatized dogs.”

Colter blinked. “What?”

Porter jabbed a flyer at him like it was a court summons. “Your new intern has apparently invited prospective adopters to sit in a room and allow the dogs to choose their owners. Choose, Colter.”

This was news. Interesting, but news all the same.

Colter raised a brow. “And what exactly is the problem?”

Porter sputtered, as if the question itself were offensive. “It’s chaos. Unstructured. Uncontrolled. Liability-laden chaos. We observe canine temperament. We don’t give them free rein to assign mortgages, station wagons, and college funds.”

Colter bit back a grin.

“So walk me through it,” he said, because Porter needed the outlet.

Porter huffed into a spiel. “She wants potential adopters to sit quietly in a room. No touching or coaxing. The dogs are just brought in—one at a time—and allowed to investigate. The theory is that a dog will gravitate toward the human whose energy matches theirs. Trauma-bonding through passive selection.”

“That’s actually smart.”

Porter threw up his hands. “It’s also untested and ripe for disaster. Some of these dogs have anxiety or food insecurity. Some resource-guard. What happens if a shepherd decides to ‘gravitate’ at seventy miles an hour into a four-year-old?”

“That’s a bit extreme and not an issue if the prospective adoptees are sitting, like you said. Plus, she’s putting the dogs first. Letting them dictate their comfortable space, and choose their own safety and preference.”

Porter narrowed his eyes. “You approve?”

“Hell yeah, I approve,” Colter said. “Letting a dog choose its person? That might cut returns in half. Maybe more.”

Porter tried to hold onto indignation, but his jaw worked. He hated good ideas that weren’t his.

Colter pressed gently, “And you know damn well some dogs don’t respond to traditional matching. They shut down under pressure. But give them autonomy?” He shrugged. “That’s giving them dignity.”

Porter stared at him. Not angry now—just begrudgingly impressed.

“I trained you too well,” he muttered.

“Or she’s just that good.”

Porter grumbled into his notes, but the faintest smile betrayed him. “Fine. I’ll supervise but if bedlam ensues⁠—”

Colter cut him off. “Maribelle will handle the bodies. We’ll be fine.”

“Smart-ass.”

Colter glanced toward Sutton again—paint-splattered jeans, a fitted tank top that would've made a lesser man forget his own name, and the kind of trendy white sneakers only someone under twenty-five would wear. That detail used to do something to him—remind him of all the reasons this was complicated, all the what-ifs she threw at him every time things got close to honest. It didn't do that anymore.

Somewhere between the Harvey farm and a waiting room full of stuffed animals, the what-ifs had lost their jurisdiction.

CHAPTER 38

“Who’s here to show off their kitty?” Sutton said to the line of pet owners funneling into the First Baptist meeting hall.

“From the post-O glow, you’ve recently shown off your kitty,” Jo said from the line for large animal signups. So far it had been a cow, two llamas, five horses, and a temperamental emu.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Gurl! You looked like you’ve been tossed over a hay bale and barely lived to tell the tale. Not that I’m judging. I could use a good screw in the stables. I’ve always found tack rooms sexy.”

“Tack room? Isn’t that just where people put their saddles and equipment?”