by L. P. Maxa
“I’m a teacher, Reggie. Well, at the moment anyway, but that’s going to change. And my mom died, and I miss her so much. I could have been a lawyer. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be such a train wreck. The truth is, I disappointed my father terribly over that. My siblings—do you have siblings? Well, mine hate me for not joining the family business.”
She continued on about a lot of things, and Oscar fell in love with her voice. As she rambled on, there was a lot he didn’t understand, but knew instinctively that her world and things in it made her sad. Parts of her seemed broken, and he wondered if she would let him lick away her cuts and bruises. He vowed right then to grow strong. Oscar would keep her safe. These things she carried on about had made her cry, made her cry for days, and that meant she needed him, he felt it.
“I'm silly, Reggie. No sense crying over spilled milk.” Oscar—he needed to get used to being a Reggie—didn’t agree with the statement, but he held his tongue. Between the cadence of her chatter and her rhythmic steps, he fought not to close his eyes.
###
Although he was still Oscar in his head, he decided he’d answer to Reggie, but he’d always remain Oscar. His new owner showed him all about the cottage, even a small door inside a bigger door that she pushed him through from both sides several times. “It’s a doggie door, Reggie. You will need to learn to go outside to piddle and poop.” Much of what she said he didn’t understand, but he would get used to everything. He had to.
She’d been banging things around in the kitchen, chattering about getting fat, and looking like a house or something, which Oscar couldn’t imagine, so he sat following her movements even when it meant he had to stand, shift his behind, and sit back down facing another direction to see her.
“You won’t judge, will you?” She stirred a pot from which drool-worthy smells slipped out each time she lifted the lid. “Of course you won’t.”
Oscar felt a constant quiver of uncertainty humming beneath her skin. “I’ll be an outcast, but then I’m used to that. I think we have that in common, little man.” Instinct told him this was not a tail-wagging discussion, so he sat still. “And when I start to show, Reggie, you will need to be my very best friend, because,” something caught in her throat, “oh hell, Reggie, who am I kidding? It’s official. You are my only friend at the moment.” She bent down and rubbed behind his ears.
“Do you understand?” He didn’t know how to stop the water that kept spilling down her cheeks, though he wished he could. “I can’t take any more heartache. You must promise you won’t do it too—break it—my heart, I mean. Okay?”
She flopped down beside him on the kitchen floor, and he scrambled into her lap. He lapped at her face, her neck, and waggled against her chest until she stood, and then sat him back on the shiny wood floor. Holding up a single finger, she spoke sternly. “Stay.”
He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d lost all bearings and had no clue where the ranch might be, even if he dared go through the thing called a doggie door. So he sat. The lady seemed pleased he didn’t budge, and once more, she grabbed him up. “Oh, good puppy. Good, good dog.” He immediately learned the reward of following her instructions.
“All right then. I’ve cried enough for one day.” She began to sing and turned back to the counter, but stopped yet again, and stared down at him. He didn’t know how to tell his owner that she made him dizzy.
“Goodness, not that it matters, but we failed formal introductions.” She bent and grasped one of his paws between a thumb and index finger. “Shake, yes, shake. That’s a good dog. Call me Phee. It’s Fiona actually, Fiona Prudence Kavanagh. As it turns out, nothing about me is prudent.” She released his paw and again scratched one ear. “The only thing sensible about my life is my middle name, and despite having worn it for some twenty-nine years, I remain anything but circumspect.”
Whatever that last big word meant, Oscar disagreed. Phee, he’d been trying her name out in his head, had been sensible enough to bring him home. And if she stepped into a street without looking, or had too many things in her arms going downstairs, well, he’d nip at her shoes and make her think about what she was doing. He vowed to practice curling his upper lip to show off sharp teeth in a powerful jaw, which of course he would emphasize with a terrifying growl, should anyone threaten his Phee. His would be a deep baritone sound, the kind that says, I can bite you, but I won’t—or maybe I will.
“That pond is my special place, Reggie. I go there to pray. It’s like church for me. Oh, I suppose you don’t get a word of what I’m saying, but I’m so glad I rescued you.”
He thumped his tail against the wooden boards of her kitchen floor, and she smiled.
Eventually, the things in the pot were declared “done” by his Fiona. The agony of waiting for what had simmered under that lid to cool served as a test of his endurance. She called the stuff in his bowl leftovers. None of which mattered to him because his hunger had grown beyond reason.
At first, the portion seemed small, and Oscar worried she could not feed him enough to end the gurgling empty ache he’d lived with for a week. But she’d been right because she also said he had to start out slowly or get sick. He licked the bowl clean and, looking down, was surprised how his tummy stuck out almost to his feet when he sat.
Fiona smashed things about, humming and scrubbing until the small kitchen sparkled. Then she took him outside, letting him smell everything within the parameters of a short picket fence that surrounded the yard. She sat on the porch step, smiling at him as the sun went down behind the mountains across the valley floor. He peed and pooped and when she called for Reggie, Oscar bolted across the small yard and sat at her feet.
He didn’t let on he could slip through the spaces between the posts. Why would he? Oscar was home.
Chapter Four
Cabe
Jackson was an all-American asshole. The town of Benton’s Mill knew it, Cabe knew it—hell, a stranger passing through who made the mistake of accidentally walking across Jackson land knew it.
The only reason Cabe was speaking with the man at all was the bitch and her pups. Unsure why he’d decided to pay for unpedigreed seven-week-old puppies, Cabe righted his brain. He knew enough about Jackson to accept the cold hard facts. Despite appearances, Maggie’s brood were mutts, and for the heartless old rancher, that meant a single deadly solution. Cabe prepared to hand Jackson the check from his pocket, knowing it was the only way to keep the shitheel from shooting Maggie and drowning the entire litter.
In truth, Cabe hadn’t exercised much charity toward anyone except animals since his wife died. But he couldn’t hold on to that anger forever and had even taken to reading some self-help books on recovering from loss. Thank God for the Internet. Without being able to order those materials online, Cabe wouldn’t have gotten as far as he had, because nothing could have dragged him to the self-help aisle in a bookstore except a court order or a twelve-gauge shotgun at his back.
Load of crap. Most of it, but something must be working because Cabe had smiled and said hello to Macy Rogers in the supermarket last week. Somewhat attractive, divorced, and self-advertised as eligible, Macy was soon hinting at meeting for a drink. Her veiled invite ended with his offering to check his calendar and taking her number. A lie. Cabe wouldn’t call. He wasn’t that ready. Even as the pain of being without Cass continued to fade, his adeptness at excuses to avoid close contact with women remained intact.
“You in there, McCain?”
Cabe snapped to attention. Reliving a Sunday afternoon trip to the store in the middle of a business transaction with a haggler like Max Jackson was stupid. “I’m here. And listen, Jackson,” he said, waving the cashier’s check as bait because it was common knowledge the man’s favorite food was money, “this is a fair price, you know it, I know it. Besides, your problem becomes mine.”
“Ain’t that fair. Not really. I could get two more litters out of that slut.” He spit at Maggie’s feet, and she leaned into Cabe’s leg.
“Whatever.” Jackson snatched the check. “Either way, I better not see those mongrels on my land, McCain. Ever.” The prick held up his arms like a fake rifle, pulled a thumb back, and whispered, “Pow.” Then without a backward glance, he jumped into his half-paint, half-primer pickup, ground the gears, cussed at the inanimate beast, and raced across the parking lot.
Cabe watched the man’s careless right turn onto the highway, tires screeching. He suspected many of the truck’s dents were put there by Max. No doubt Jackson took his fury out on objects as well as horses, dogs, and maybe even women.
Cabe smiled down at his new charges. “Well, Mags. What say we get you something to eat?” The tilt of her head and the sound of her tail brushing the dusty asphalt banished the dirty feeling that came with being near Max Jackson. “I suspect it will be a while before you trust me, girl, but you and your babies are safe now.” Squatting, he pulled the large box that held the bitch’s raucous offspring next to his feet. He looked Maggie direct in the eyes, “He can’t take you back, so what say you let me examine all of you? We both know that vermin-infested barn on Jackson’s property should be torn down.”
He studied the dog’s upturned face, “No offense, girl, but it’s not the best place to bring a litter of puppies into the world. Still, I know you did your best.” Cabe turned and lifted the box before it could inch farther over the pavement, pushed along by the tumbling dogs inside. Allowing Maggie a quick reassuring glance, he smiled to himself and passed by the front door of his office to the kennels in the back.
It didn’t matter that he had no clue what he’d do with six mutts. He might keep one, but he’d have to find homes for the rest. The voice of Cass McCain came out of left field, settling in his head. Though this phenomenon had long stopped worrying him, he pulled up, wondering if the Emotional Recovery for Dummies book—or whatever the title was—actually worked. Either way, he didn’t feel like fighting Cassie’s voice in his head at this moment. “You’re a rescuer, Cabe, that’s a good thing.”
Was he? Putting the carton down again, he plucked a female from the group in the makeshift carrier. Some would be put off by his naming the puppy after his dead wife, but then Cabe McCain didn’t give much of a damn what people thought. “Cassie okay with you, Mags?” His new dog popped her nose into the box, then sniffed at the puppy in Cabe’s hands, and barked approval.
He glanced up at some feather-like clouds, assuming that’s where the once Mrs. McCain hung out nowadays. “I guess we’ll see if I’m a rescuer, Cass, we’ll have to wait and see. But meantime, don’t give me any grief about naming this puppy after you.”
Chapter Five
Changes
Phee had been right. That jackass, Halsey, rejected her lovely resignation letter out of hand, saying it was too late. She’d been unable to get a word in, and just like that, he let her go. Fired. Out. Final. Summarily dismissed, not even allowed to complete the last two weeks of school.
It was super shitty. And it shouldn’t have caught Phee off guard, but it had. Now, staring at the letter in her hand, she remained uncertain whether to pee her pants or vomit. “That’s something, ain’t it?” The paper slipped from her fingers. Drifting, it settled on the passenger seat, increasing the despair she felt at losing her job until a puppy yip from behind her forced a smile. At least she had the dog.
“You okay, Reggie?” Reaching around, she tipped the plastic container toward the gap between the two front seats. There was a crack in one side, but it was the only available thing she had for transporting him in the car. Grabbing her new pet by the scruff of his neck, she buried her nose in the soft fur of his head. “Reggie, you’re going to have to be my best bud ever, ’cause I don’t think I can manage all of this crap by myself.”
The puppy licked her nose, and then her cheeks as if to help with the dilemma she faced. No job. Unemployment, yes. But no job. No insurance, well, except that Cobra thing she had to pay for, and the inheritance from her mother’s estate not likely to be of help any time soon since it was tied up by her backstabbing siblings. “It all pretty much sucks, pup.” Reggie slobbered her chin and neck, and it made Phee love him even more.
She sat the pup in her lap. “Here’s the thing. I figure you need an examination and shots, and we’d best do that now while there’s still some money lying around.” Pulling Reggie back against her chest, she let him burrow in where her sweater met the elastic waistband of her skirt. Yech. Elastic waistbands. What next? But she knew. She could don bulky sweatshirts and baggy sweatpants. Let the town think her life had gone to hell in a handbasket−which it had−but even if she hid it for a bit, her pregnancy would be apparent soon enough. Still, maybe she could avoid questions for a month or two.
“Who are you kidding, Phee? Face it, the Reverend won’t be able to keep his tongue.” Judge not, lest ye be judged, you moron. Thinking ill of anybody never did much good, and knowing it, she rubbed behind Reggie’s ears. She imagined all the mean things that might be said to her face, or leastways in a way intended for her to overhear. Like at the market.
A beautiful day threatened, so personal doom cloud or not, Phee pushed the button on the car door’s armrest. The window clunked down, raising severe doubts its mechanism would make it through another winter. With the ignition off, she leaned her head back, closing her eyes against the panic and bile that had been present since seeing the envelope in her mailbox yesterday afternoon.
Reggie stretched and yawned. Hundreds of birds chattered unseen in the branches of a big sycamore that hung over this section of the parking lot. With the sun making its presence known against the early morning chill, and Reggie’s rabbit-chasing snorts, Phee felt at peace. Weeks of sleepless nights settled and she drifted off.
Chapter Six
Parking Lots
It was evident the vehicle was in need of a car wash. He could see a plastic container on the back seat, but otherwise, he spied no personal items crammed to the ceiling, rendering it unlikely the car’s occupant was homeless.
Cabe couldn’t believe it, but a young woman was asleep in his parking lot. The window on the driver’s side of the VW was down, and she had the seat tilted back, her mouth was slightly open, and a breeze, typical for Benton’s Mill in the early morning, ruffled loose strands of hair around her forehead.
He studied her a minute longer. She had cute freckles, lots of them, sprinkled across her upper cheeks, and long eyelashes fluttered against pale skin. He heard snoring, however slight, and almost laughed aloud.
For one moment he thought to turn back to the office, but Max Jackson had set him off, which was no excuse to walk around pissed off, but that’s what Cabe was. The car had been sitting at the far side of the lot for at least an hour, and it bugged him. His mind wouldn’t let it go, leaving only one option. Deal with it. Anything else meant the image of the girl in the car, in his parking lot, would continue to interfere with his focus, and he had a full day of patients to see.
###
“Do you need something, miss?”
“Shit.”
“Sorry, but my guess is the kennel trash went out late yesterday. Not likely there’s any shit left to give away.”
“You startled me so.” Which didn’t excuse her wakening expletive, nor did it explain the simpering retort to such a rude awakening. Startled me so? What the hell. Phee sounded like some Southern belle fanning herself on a wraparound porch before the Civil War blew
everything gentrified to kingdom come. She shook her hair loose from the ribbon she’d tied haphazardly to keep it out of her eyes. The action didn’t work to quiet the noises in her head, and besides, whoever he was still stood next to her car—hovering at the open window.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m curious what you were doing in this parking lot before the start of business.”
“You a cop?” Phee ruffled Reggie’s head and sat up straighter in the seat. She purposefully kept her focus on the puppy, unwilling to engage by turning and looking up.
A bark of laughter split the morning serenity. “No, ma’am. Not a cop. But I do work in the building.”
“Well, not that it’s any of your concern, but I’m waiting for the vet’s office to open.” Reggie chose that moment to pop up and plant two paws on the window frame, tail wagging, tongue lapping at air.
“Cute mutt.” One of the stranger’s hands reached and scratched between the puppy’s ears. “You must be waiting for Dr. McCain then. Do you have an appointment?”
Where did he get off calling Reggie a mutt? Or guessing correctly about her reason for being there, not, by the way, that it took a genius. And damn the man for the fact that she couldn’t ignore him despite the intrusion into her space. Top all that off with Reggie’s reaction of instantly liking the stranger and Phee couldn’t help but be irritated.
“No, we don’t have an appointment. But then who said I was here for an appointment? Did you, Reggie?” She recaptured the tail-wagging mutt and held him close. She wanted to respond further, but it was difficult to breathe because she’d peeked to her left and Mr. Nosy’s button-fly jeans were level with her eyes. No farm hick with suspenders, nope. No overweight old fart, parking lot security guard, double-nope. Mr. Nosy was trim. His checkered shirt tucked in under a soft leather belt that dressed up the look and screamed Six-Pack-Within, as if stitched there in bright-colored thread.
