Page 26 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

EIGHT

GAGE

I’m halfway through mucking out the fox enclosure when I realize I haven’t gotten a damn thing done in the last twenty minutes.

Not really.

The shovel is in my hands. The work is familiar. But my brain? It’s gone. Off somewhere it shouldn’t be. Somewhere with a long-haired, freckle-faced woman curled up on my couch like she’s always belonged there.

Like she hasn’t just shown up in my life a few days ago and flipped it upside down without trying.

I lean on the handle and let out a breath. The air bites, sharp and cold—Jesse’s kind of morning, what he’d call “boots and beanie” weather. I call it leave-me-the-hell-alone-and-let-me-work weather.

But not even the cold can snap me out of it.

Not when I can still hear her voice in my head.

You’re not hiding. You’re healing.

Those words have been living in my chest since she said them. Soft and quiet, but damn if they haven’t taken root somewhere deep.

Which is probably why I nearly jump out of my skin when a loud hoot echoes from the back of the property.

“Shit,” I mutter, dropping the shovel and heading for the trees.

I find the source fast—an adolescent barred owl, tangled in a rusted wire fence. The poor thing’s flapping hard, one leg caught in a twist of metal.

“Easy,” I murmur, crouching low. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The owl snaps its beak, feathers flying as I work the wire loose. It’s not bad—just enough to hold him in place. No blood, thank God.

I’m just reaching for the last twist of wire when I hear a voice behind me.

“Oh my God, is that an owl?”

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

“Tessa,” I say, keeping my focus on the owl. “Careful. Don’t spook him.”

But she’s already at my side, crouching beside me like she’s done it a hundred times. She’s wearing an old sweatshirt, a knit hat pulled low, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her boots are covered in mud. And still—somehow—she looks fucking gorgeous.

“What happened?” she asks.

“The fence gave out. He got stuck.”

“You need help?”

I open my mouth to say no. I always say no.

But she’s already reaching out, voice low, calming. Soft words I don’t catch but the owl seems to understand. He settles, just enough for us to work together and free him.

“Hold his wing,” I say, and she does. Gentle. Confident. Like this isn’t her first time easing pain.

We get him loose, and I cradle him in my arms, checking for deeper injuries.

“He’s lucky,” I say. “He maybe has a sprain. Nothing broken. Mostly scared.”

She grins at him. “He’s beautiful.”

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