Page 231 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

I lock the gate. Check the barn. Walk the perimeter with him, out of habit. Out of need. Out of a mind that doesn’t tolerate loose ends.

By the time we come inside, the coffee I pour goes cold before I take the second sip.

Ranger eats his dinner without enthusiasm.

I watch him anyway. I always watch him.

"C'mon," I murmur, scratching behind his ear. "Just eat."

He gives me a look like I'm overreacting.

Maybe I am.

Maybe I can't turn it off.

He finishes. He drinks. He lies down near the back door, head on his paws like he's already decided nothing is wrong.

I tell myself the same thing.

An hour later, he stands. Takes one step. Then another.

Then his legs buckle under him.

It happens fast enough that my body moves before my brain catches up.

"Ranger."

His name comes out rougher than it should.

He tries to breathe. His chest rises in shallow pulls. His eyes find mine, confused, apologetic, like he's the one who did something wrong.

My hands are already on him. Checking his gums. His belly. Too tight. Too hard.

No.

Not him.

Not like this.

I’ve carried men twice my size. I’ve lifted weight that would’ve broken other people. I’ve held pressure when someone needed me to.

But this is different.

This is my dog.

My anchor.

My last steady thing.

I scoop him up, and he's heavier than he should be, or maybe it's just the panic pressing into my ribs. He doesn't struggle. Doesn't whine. Just lies there with his head against my shoulder, trusting me the way he always has.

"Stay with me," I say under my breath.

The words aren't dramatic. They're not a prayer. They're an order.

Orders are easier.

I don't call anyone at the farm. I don't ask for help. I don't have time for explanations, for questions, for someone else's panic.