Page 3 of Knot the Stray

I walk back to the holding kennels, gripping the plastic microchip scanner. The golden retriever sits up the second he sees me, wagging his tail hard and splashing wet mud over the clean chain-link gate. I pop the heavy metal latch and step inside the cramped enclosure. I press the plastic wand flat between the dog’s shoulder blades, digging it deep into his matted, disgusting fur. The device emits a crisp, high-pitched beep. A long string of green numbers flashes across the digital screen.

I pull my phone from my cargo pocket and snap a picture of the screen. Taking a photo saves me the hassle of hunting down a pen and paper. I give the dog a firm pat on his muddy ribs. “Gotcha.”

I lock the kennel back up and head out to the sweltering van. Winston sleeps on the front passenger seat, stretching his long black-and-white legs across the custom upholstery. I grab his hard plastic travel carrier from the back living quarters and set it on the driver’s seat. I scoop his warm, heavy body up in my arms and guide him into the plastic box, snapping the wire door shut. He lets out a loud, annoyed yowl.

I grab my heavy canvas duffel bag. I gather a sealed bag of clay litter, his empty plastic litter box, and his ceramic food bowls from the van’s storage bins. I balance the awkward load against my chest, grab Winston’s carrier by the handle, and haul my gear through the clinic. I kick the narrow wooden door near the breakroom open. The steep stairs groan under my boots as I climb back up to the second floor.

I drop the carrier on the checkered linoleum floor of the kitchen and unlatch the wire door. Winston struts out, his tail held stiff and straight. He sniffs the retro baseboards, stretches his back legs, and hops onto the window ledge to glare at the street below.

I set up his space. I fill his plastic box with fresh clay litter and shove it into the corner of the tiny bathroom. I place his ceramic bowls near the kitchen sink, dumping a scoop of premium dry kibble into one and filling the other with cold tap water. I drag my heavy suitcase against the wall next to the front door and leave the zipper shut. Living out of a suitcase keeps my mindset right where it needs to be. Ready to leave. I refuse to scatter my shit across a room I plan to abandon in a few months.

I head back down the stairs to the main clinic floor. I pull up the photo of the microchip code on my phone and hit the power button on the clinic’s main desktop computer. The machine hums. I click the web browser open, load the national microchip registry, and hammer the numbers in.

A profile pops up on the screen.

Dog’s name: Duke. Owner: Jake Hayes.

A local Willowside phone number sits at the bottom of the screen. I grab the heavy plastic landline receiver off the base and punch the digits into the keypad. I press the phone to my ear.

The line rings twice.

“Officer Hayes speaking.”

His deep, rough baritone voice vibrates through the cheap plastic speaker and sinks straight into my bones. It carries a thick, grounded Alpha timber that sends a shiver down my spine. A hot rush of dampness floods my underwear. My nipples harden against the fabric of my sports bra. Just his fucking voice triggers a massive pre-Heat response. My breath hitches as my heart stutters, losing its rhythm. I grip the plastic receiver, my knuckles turning bone-white.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, using the sharp pain to ground myself. I clear my throat, forcing my professional mask back into place.

“Hello, Officer Hayes. I’m Dr. Jessica Smith, the new temp veterinarian here at the Willowside Clinic. I have your golden retriever here. He decided to play in traffic today, and he looks like a swamp monster. He lacks a collar, but I scanned his chip. He’s safe in one of our runs.”

A sigh exhales over the line. The sound drags across my ear. It feels way too intimate. “Thank God. The guys and I scoured the entire damn town looking for him. He slipped out of the yard this morning. We’re on our way right now. Thank you, Doc.”

The line goes dead.

Lowering the phone back onto the cradle, my fingers flex to release a death grip on the plastic. A deep ache pulses between my thighs. The blocker spray masks my scent from the outside world, but inside, my instincts hum with energy. An Alpha hasn’t provoked a physical response like this in years.

The sudden shift pisses me off. I refuse to let a random voice hijack my body.

Snatching scattered client intake forms off the desk, I tap them into a pristine pile. Grabbing a bottle of disinfectant spray and wiping down the laminate counters with smooth, deliberate strokes burns off the sudden adrenaline. I need to take control of the space. The lack of support staff means I run the entire clinic solo, and independent power suits me fine.

Leaning a hip against the front desk, I cross my arms over my chest. My gaze drifts through the front glass doors to watch the quiet street. I blame the intense physical reaction on the stress of a long drive. Handing over the dog, collecting the clinic fee, and getting straight to organizing the back pharmacy remain top priorities. I maintain strict professional distance on every contract. This town gets no exceptions.

The bell above the front door chimes. The ring shatters the silence of the clinic.

Pushing off the counter, I square my shoulders. A cool, professional smile slides into place before I turn toward the entrance.

Something's Different About Her

Jake

Icut the engine of my police cruiser in the parking lot of the vintage red brick clinic. The motor ticks in the brutal afternoon sun. I pull the keys from the ignition and shove them into my uniform pocket. The sweat on the back of my neck dries in the arid breeze.

Edward’s heavy-duty truck rumbles into the lot a second later. He parks in the empty spot right next to me. The passenger door swings open. Nolan hops out, pushing his dark frames up the bridge of his nose.

We meet up at the front bumper of my car. A collective sigh of relief passes through the three of us. The call confirming our runaway golden retriever survived his highway stunt took a weight off our shoulders. Losing him to the interstate would wreck all of us.

We walk up the concrete path toward the front entrance. I take the lead, squaring my shoulders against the heat. I reach for the heavy glass door handle and take a deep breath of the crisp Colorado air. I pull the door open. The brass bell above the threshold chimes a bright, ringing note.

Stepping into the confined space of the clinic amplifies our presence. We move as a unit. Years of backing each other up on the job and living under the same roof tie us together into a solid front. A quiet, ingrained trust acts as a constant, grounding weight in my chest. We rely on each other for everything. Our broad shoulders brush as we crowd the small waiting room.