by Debbie Burns
Chapter 2
Gabe Wentworth ignored the phone buzzing in his back pocket as he snipped through the last of the inner padding from the cast on the back left leg of a basset hound he’d performed surgery on six weeks ago. He couldn’t tell for certain, but his phone seemed to be ringing for the second or third time in a row. The calls were running together, which meant someone really wanted to talk to him. Usually his phone wasn’t on him while he was working, and he was trying his best to ignore it till he was through with the plucky dog who was healing well after a run-in with a car. Tater Tot, the newly named seven- or eight-year-old hound, had been dropped off at his office by the motorist who’d accidentally hit her after she’d stepped into the road from behind a parked car.
The hound wasn’t collared or chipped. When no owner could be located, the driver had paid for the bulk of her surgical expenses and was campaigning to get her adopted quickly from the High Grove Animal Shelter where Tater Tot had been transferred a few weeks ago.
“One more minute and you won’t have to thump around on a peg leg anymore.” He paused to readjust the scissors and scratch behind one impossibly long, silky-smooth ear. Like the most dignified of basset hounds, Tater Tot was standing with her head raised high. She’d seemed more inconvenienced than afraid of the loud Dremel tool he’d used on the outer portion of her cast and, unlike most animals when high up on the exam table, was hardly straining to escape.
Patrick, one of the shelter staff members, was the only other person in the shelter’s closet-size treatment room. He was holding Tater Tot still while Gabe used surgical scissors to cut through the remaining cast interior.
“Smells like a beast, doesn’t it?” Gabe directed the comment Patrick’s way.
A few deep creases appeared along Patrick’s forehead. “I can’t say. Beasts are fictional, and descriptions of them vary widely. If they were real, I assume they’d smell similar to their animal counterparts.” He gave the air over the dog a determined sniff. “Bacterial growth?”
Gabe choked down a chuckle. Since he started taking over Dr. Washington’s cases here at the shelter three or four months ago, he’d come to recognize Patrick as both the most literal and the most direct person he’d ever met. A bit peculiar or not, Patrick was also a master at keeping the animals still atop the table while causing them a minimal amount of distress—better than most vet techs at his office—and Gabe was happy to work with him.
“There’s a bit inside the cast, yeah. Some of the smell is just dog odor times six weeks of no fresh air,” Gabe answered. “But the scar’s healing nicely. No sign of infection.” Finished cutting away the foam-and-gauze interior, he peeled the last of the cast away from the dog’s leg. “Give it a couple weeks, Tater Tot, and all this will be a bad dream.” Now that she was free of the cast, Gabe ran his hands along Tater Tot’s leg and hip. The pins had set nicely.
He nodded at Patrick to loosen his hold, then stood back, leaving Patrick to guard over her. “It’s going to feel weird for a bit, but I’m betting she’ll walk without a limp.”
After holding her leg awkwardly to the side long enough that it grew heavy, Tater Tot gingerly balanced it underneath her without putting any weight on it. She turned to give Gabe a look that, along with her droopy lids, seemed to say, “What now?”
After dumping the cast, Gabe headed to the treat jar, grabbed a handful, and held one out at the end of the table. After a single sniff of the air, Tater Tot shuffled over. She held the leg to the side as she gobbled it up, but then seemed to forget about her discomfort as she sniffed the air and nuzzled his palm until he produced a few more. By the time she’d munched another two more, she was standing equally on all fours.
He nodded, more to himself than to Patrick. “I’ll watch you lead her for a bit, then you know the routine. Keep her kenneled today, increase her activity slowly, starting tomorrow. Call me Monday and let me know how she’s doing. I bet you’ll be able to clear her for adoption late next week.”
Gabe’s phone started buzzing again. Hands finally free, he pulled it from his back pocket. It was Yun, his study partner from vet school. They’d graduated last year and were still close. She’d called six times; a few must have blended together. “I’ve got to take this.” He started to add that Patrick should go on ahead without him, but saw that Patrick was already lifting Tater Tot to the floor.
Gabe answered the call and stepped out into the hall. “Where’s the fire, Yun?”
“You know I hate it when you ignore my calls.”
“I was taking a cast off a basset hound.”
“It’s quarter to one. I thought your office closed almost an hour ago.”
“It did. I swung by High Grove.”
“Oh…that basset hound. How’s she doing?”
“Leg’s healing nicely. But you didn’t call me six times for that. What’s up?”
“Last week at lunch…you had that look. The one you get when it’s been too long between adrenaline rushes. And those ants in your pants are only going to get worse if you ignore them.”
Gabe dragged a hand through his hair. “What’re you getting at, Yun? Even if you’re right, life’s entirely too busy of late to heed the call of an adrenaline rush.”
“Didn’t you say you’re not on call this weekend? What’re you doing this afternoon that’s got you so busy on your half day off?”
“I’ve got Samson with me. He’s been moping around all week with all the hours I’ve put in. I was going to take him fishing, but the rain’s not letting up.”
“Fishing in the rain isn’t fun for human or dog. I’ve got something way better for both of you. Remember that closed Facebook group I asked you to join? The one that lists emergency cases needing veterinary assistance?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Down south near the Bootheel—New Madrid, actually—they’ve got a warehouse full of animals that’ve been caught in the floods, and they’re seeking volunteer vet services for several different dogs. And you love triage work. I’d ride down with you, but I’m on call.”
Gabe suppressed a groan. He could feel the yes rising in his throat but held it back. “Yun, I don’t know. It’s been a long week…twelve-hour days and a string of tough surgeries.”
“Samson would want you to say yes. He loves riding in the car.”
Gabe closed his eyes, thinking of all the things he could be doing this afternoon, some tasks that needed to be done, others guilty pleasures—like fishing—that he’d put off far too long.
“One of the dogs is a golden retriever like Samson,” she added into his silence.
“Yun, you’re killing me.”
“No, I’m helping you stay connected to a giant part of you that you’re trying to shove away in a box. You need this, Gabe. Trust me. Remember, it’s me. I know things. This triage event has you written all over it.”
He sighed. Yun was right. Ever since he’d needed to retire Samson from their search-and-rescue volunteer work over a year ago due to Samson’s arthritis, weekends had been more something to get through than to enjoy. For the last six months, he’d not been honoring the part of him that missed some of what he’d left behind when he’d walked away from two years as a firefighter and EMT to enter vet school. “Tell them I’m a yes and text me the address. I take it there are supplies on-site?”
“Ahh…I think so, but I’ll text you that answer.”
Gabe hung up as Patrick led Tater Tot into the hall, cajoling her forward with treats a foot or two out of reach. The easygoing dog was using her leg hesitantly but without any sign of flinching or sharp limp to indicate she was in pain.
After watching long enough to feel good about her prognosis, Gabe gave her a pat on the shoulder as Patrick rewarded her with a few more treats.
“She’s the last one for me today, right?”
Patrick nodded. “Affirmative.”
He headed through the double doors that separated the dog kennels and the treatment room from the cat area, gift shop, and adoption center. Samson was sprawled on the floor in a quiet spot in front of the cat kennels. Gabe blinked in surprise to spy Trina, the shelter’s resident cat, down on the floor tenaciously grooming Samson along his cheek and behind his ear. Samson was soaking it in, his eyes blinking open and closed in a partial doze.
Even in the bustling room, Samson’s ears pricked to attention when Gabe clicked for him. Always at the ready, Samson rolled from his side to his feet and hoisted up with a touch of effort that was typical of a ten-year-old retriever. Looking put off at having her charge disappear midlick, Trina hopped to the adoption counter with the ease of a cat that had four legs instead of three and began to give herself a bath instead.
“Sorry, Treenz,” Gabe said, stepping over to give her a scratch as he scanned the room to see if one of the senior staff was available. The place was bustling. Fidel caught his eye and nodded from the other side of the adoption counter. With no need to hang around, Gabe offered him a thumbs-up.
Fidel was with a customer but paused to give him a quick nod. “¿Has terminado?” he called, honoring Gabe’s request to only speak Spanish with him.
“Sí. Hasta la próxima semana, amigo,” Gabe said, glad at the ease with which the words came. He’d taken a few semesters of Spanish in high school and college but wanted to brush up after struggling through a few appointments at his office with Hispanic customers who spoke little English.
With Samson tagging along at his side, Gabe headed out into the rain. After Samson scent marked on a bush or two, Gabe pulled the step stool from the back seat of his seven-year-old Toyota Tacoma that enabled Samson to keep getting in and out with ease.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
As Samson lumbered onto the stool, then onto the back seat of the Tacoma, he let out a well-timed grunt as if in answer. Not that Gabe could remember a time that Samson wasn’t down for a burger.
Five years ago, when Samson was in his prime and Gabe was smack-dab in his midtwenties, a Saturday hadn’t passed that he hadn’t stopped by one burger joint or another, treating them both to a burger or two, keeping Samson’s plain and his loaded. Now, four months out from hitting thirty and having learned to appreciate human health a bit more as a side effect of vet school, Gabe tended to take Samson on Saturday hikes instead.
Once Samson was loaded into the back, Gabe headed to the nearest gas station, filled up his tank, and pulled up the maps app in his phone, debating whether to swing by his house before getting on the highway. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive south to New Madrid from Webster Groves. Depending on what sort of help was needed, it’d probably be pushing midnight before he was back. But worst-case scenario, he kept enough supplies in the back under cover of the camper shell to spend a night away without wasting the time now.
Yun texted that medical supplies were on-site and followed up with a dozen emoji prayer hands, hearts, and a few thumbs-up—he was betting just because she knew he wasn’t a fan of emojis. Finished gassing up, Gabe sat in his truck and texted back that he was headed out, then followed with two periods, a l, and another two periods, the closest he’d get to sending an emoji.
Funny, Gabe. You’ll thank me later.
She followed with a wink, and Gabe dropped his phone onto his passenger seat, shaking his head. After a pit stop at Five Guys, he made his way to Interstate 55. He drove through the rain, playing music loud to combat the fatigue of a long week, the soft, steady rain, and the blanket of dull-gray skies overhead. The fact that Samson was sprawled across the back seat, snoring heavily, wasn’t helping.
Gabe had driven close to two hours and was fighting off a serious bout of fatigue when he grabbed his phone to dial Yun. He pressed the display to find three missed calls from her.
“Where are you?” she asked without saying hello when he dialed her back.
“Ah, no idea. Middle of nowhere, it looks like. Guess I’m about forty-five minutes out.”
“Forty-five? Then you’ve probably not passed Sikeston? It’s like a twenty-five-minute drive from there to New Madrid.” From her punched breathing, he could tell she was walking.
“Ah, no, I’ve seen some signs for it though. Why?”
“One of the rescue drivers is stranded there. I’ll text you an address. You two are going to the same place. Someone else can haul her dogs back to St. Louis, but they need her crates to move them, and everyone’s got their hands full.”
“Am I picking up crates or a person?”
“Both maybe. Maybe just crates. I’m in St. Louis, friend. I’m not getting all the details.”
“I’ll pick up crates, but I’m not hauling around a stranded motorist.”
“Gabe, you’re such a grouch. You can handle less than half an hour in a car with a fellow rescue worker if you have to.”
“I don’t know; there’s a chance it could kill me.”
Yun groaned. “I’m adding ‘reassimilating back into humanity’ to your to-do list. Text me when you get there. Let me know what cases you get. They’ve listed a few cool ones, but I’m not going to say and jinx it.”
Gabe hung up, and a few seconds later, his phone dinged with a new address that he copied into his maps app. It was twenty-three minutes south of him.
Behind Gabe, Samson’s snore crescendoed. “Sleep while you can, buddy. If we end up having a rescue worker with us to finish out this drive, I’m sticking you up front and her in back.”
Chapter 3
The address Gabe had been texted was to a repair shop a few minutes off the highway. The garage—this whole section of town, for that matter—looked to have been in its prime forty or fifty years ago. He knew this didn’t have anything to say about the quality of the mechanics working there. Good mechanics could often be found in the most unlikely shops. There were more mechanics in Gabe’s family than anything else, from his dad and his grandpa to a few uncles and several cousins. It was no wonder he spoke shop before entering preschool.
Growing up, Gabe had worked at his dad’s auto body repair center and had had a free ride into managing it. In late high school, he had found himself way more interested in finding out what had happened to the people who’d been inside than he was in repairing mangled cars.
After a thousand jabs of “You could be cut out to be a real doctor, not a car doc like your dad,” from his family, Gabe entered college with the intent of sticking it out through med school. But by the time junior year rolled around, he was losing steam for college life and switched from biology to emergency medical services. He spent a couple years as a firefighter and EMT before switching gears again and enrolling in vet school. Despite the time commitment and cost—and despite the jabs from most of his family—now Gabe couldn’t imagine wanting to be anything else.
The parking lot of the repair shop was half full, and Gabe parked in an open spot facing the building. Samson woke from his doze as soon as the engine shut off.
“Stay here, bud. I won’t be long.” As his dad often commented, Gabe had grown quite comfortable talking to Samson. Maybe too comfortable. Considering Gabe preferred Samson’s company on weekends over any other’s, maybe he was right.
Even this far south, it was still raining. Gabe jogged through the rain to the cover of the wide awning out front. Off to the opposite side at the edge of the awning, a young mechanic was smoking a cigarette a few feet from a redhead who seemed entranced with something on her phone.
“We closed at two,” the mechanic called as Gabe reached for the door. “Can I help ya?”
Gabe froze with his hand paused a couple inches from the handle. A stunning redhead, actually. A stunning redhead, and immediately on her other side, two
crates were lined against the brick building.
Oh, hell no, she wasn’t getting in his truck. Damsels in distress weren’t on his to-do list. At least, not anymore.
“Yeah, I’m here to pick up those.” Gabe pointed at the crates.
The girl looked up, relief washing over her face. She was tall and had long, wavy hair that called to some instinctual part of him to lose his hands in it as he pulled her against him. He was fairly certain she had a remarkable figure to complete the package, but he did his best not to let his gaze stray south of her face.
“You’re one of Deedee’s rescue drivers?” she asked, her tone hopeful.
“Ah, no, but I’m guessing you are. I got a call that I needed to pick up a couple crates here.”
Her shoulders sank, and her eyebrows knit together. “I thought… There must be some confusion. I was told the person they’re sending is giving me a ride to New Madrid where the dogs are being held. My crates, too, I guess.”
The mechanic took a drag on his cigarette. “If there’s a problem, I can give you a ride, sweet thing. It ain’t far.” There was a hint of seediness to his tone that instantly pricked the fine hairs on the back of Gabe’s neck.
The girl gave an immediate shake of her head. “I’m… No. Thanks, but no. I’ve, uh, got to make a call.”
She stepped out from underneath the awning into the light rain, crossing the parking lot as she lifted her phone to her ear. With her free hand, she tugged the hood of her windbreaker over her head. A strong gust of wind blew the rain at an angle, and she tucked her shoulders high as if attempting to create a wind block. She probably didn’t want to get in Gabe’s truck any more than she wanted a ride with the sleazy guy who was clearly trying to pick her up.
Gabe looked from the crates to the mechanic, who was eyeing him like a bee who’d just interrupted his picnic. He could hear Yun the same as if she were still on the phone with him, telling him not to be an ass. Didn’t it matter that he had his reasons? Aside from Yun and some of his immediate family members, women weren’t in his life by design.
