by R.S. Grey
THE FOXE & THE HOUND
Copyright © 2017 R.S. Grey
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This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Published: R.S. Grey 2017
[email protected]
Editing: Editing by C. Marie
Proofreading: JaVa Editing & Red Leaf Proofing
Cover Design: R.S. Grey
ISBN: 0990490418
ISBN-13: 9780990490418
CHAPTER ONE
MADELEINE
The love between him and me isn’t right. Some would even say it’s unnatural. Wrong. All they see is his size, and it intimidates them. He is massive, too big for his own good, really, but he’s also handsome—so handsome—with chocolate brown eyes I can’t resist. I won’t sugarcoat it though—he’s not without his flaws. He’s a terrible listener, and frankly, independent to a fault. He’s a sloppy kisser, and he leaves his things everywhere. But every time I come home and run my fingers through those luscious locks, I forget all of his faults. And when that hair falls out and gets all over the couch, and the bed, and my clothes, and the rug, I don’t fret. I always know I’m just one lint-roller away from everlasting love.
Because he’s the love of my life.
And he’s my dog.
Well, technically he’s my puppy.
Barely a few months old and already he’s the size of a small horse. Apparently, he’s going to get pretty big, but I didn’t know that when I adopted him. At the shelter, I walked past a tiny black and brown fur ball sitting in a cage all alone, barely a few weeks old. He sat there quietly, not begging to be petted or whining about his accommodations. He stared up at me quietly, studying me with those deep brown semisweets and I was head over heels.
Just like all the other schmucks filling out adoption papers, I’d walked into that shelter fully intending to leave just as dog-less as when I arrived. I’d even texted my best friend, Daisy for affirmation.
Madeleine: I’m just going to look. That’s all.
Daisy: Oh, sure…Text me a picture of the dog you take home because you are NOT leaving there empty-handed.
I wanted to prove her wrong, but then I stumbled upon that little floof.
He’s really cute, I told the shelter volunteer.
I agree. Unfortunately, he’s too energetic, she lamented. He’s an owner surrender. The man who dropped him off yesterday—I think he was a firefighter—couldn’t handle him. I laughed and had her bring him into a little playpen so I could judge for myself. We played fetch and he acted like puppies do—energetic and happy for the attention—but then ten minutes in, he stumbled into my lap, curled up into a little ball, and promptly fell asleep. I was a goner.
“What kind of dog is he?” I asked, already imagining where he would sleep at my apartment. I’d get a small, cushioned bed and put it right at the foot of mine. I’d try to keep him off the furniture at first, but I knew I’d inevitably cave and give him couch privileges—who can say no to those doe-eyes?
The volunteer, who I now suspect moonlights as a used car salesman, shrugged and told me he was of mixed heritage.
“Do you mean like, a mutt? So how big do you think he’ll get?”
She pretended to study his front paw, on which he’d rested his adorable little snout. “Oh, with those tiny little things? He probably won’t get any bigger than a small golden retriever.”
I chuckle thinking back on that exchange now. His paws—those “tiny little things”—seem to double in size every night. They are now big enough to carry the both of us down the sidewalk at breakneck speeds, even as I tug on his leash, trying to get him to slow down.
“Heel, Mouse! Heel!”
Yes, his name is Mouse, and when people hear it, they think I’m being so funny. A massive dog named Mouse?! How clever. I smile and nod, and I definitely do not tell them I named him Mouse when he was the size of an actual field mouse.
“Mouse, I have organic salmon treats!” I try again, and finally my voice seems to break through his thick skull. He slows his gait until he’s right beside me on the sidewalk, staring up at me with those dopey eyes. His tongue lolls around, and if dogs can smile, Mouse grins ear to ear. He really is a dapper thing.
I feed him a treat and then hold another one in my closed palm so he knows it’s coming. I’ve discovered that while I may not be the best trainer, I am fairly adept at canine bribery. And that will have to suffice for now, considering I’m already in my work clothes.
It’s Monday morning and we’re on our way to the vet. We’ve been multiple times in the last few months—another thing the volunteer conveniently forgot to mention. Puppies apparently need more shots than babies. I seriously think that he has better healthcare than I do.
This morning I formulated the questionable plan of walking Mouse to his appointment before work. Ever the optimist, I dreamed of a nice leisurely stroll, in which he’d finally heed the training I’d inconsistently applied. Mouse, however, is more of a realist. He wants to sniff and tangle himself in his leash. He wants to run and fulfill his destiny as a squirrel hunter. I consider aborting the mission and turning back, but I don’t think I even could at this point. I have a crude understanding of anatomy, and wonder if it’s possible for my arm to pop out of its socket like a fought-over Barbie doll.
He starts to pull again, having locked onto some kind of woodland creature up ahead. I panic and shove the salmon treat in front of his nose.
“Wild-caught Atlantic salmon treats, Mouse! Remember?!”
He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t give a shit about my stinky salmon treats, because whatever is up ahead is wild and uncaught. I guess that like a character in a cartoon, squirrels probably morph into bacon-wrapped filets in his eyes. He starts to pull and I trot after him, trying desperately to hang on to his leash. He is encouraged by the resistance and starts picking up speed. Suddenly I’m at a full sprint, and I’m convinced I see sparks flying from my high heels.
“No! Mouse! NO. HEEL!” I’m shouting at the top of my lungs, but he’s not listening.
He’s running and I’m tripping over my feet, trying hard to keep up.
“SIT! DOWN! NO! DO YOU WANT A TREAT?!” I’m shouting nonsense at this point, hoping something will stick, but all he hears is the roar of the adoring crowd. He’s gaining speed and I lose my footing. I nearly go down, but I catch myself in the nick of time.
I realize I look and sound hysterical at this point, but I have no choice. I remember seeing news stories about 90 pound teenagers summoning superhuman strength to lift entire cars off of their fathers, so I close my eyes and tug hard on his leash. Unbelievably, the message registers, and for a moment he stops, turns and faces me.
“Good…boy…Mouse…” I whisper, fearful of breaking whatever spell I’d cast. Though he rarely acknowledges my commands, his eyes light up at the sound of praise. He finally notices the homemade treats in my left hand.
“That’s right, Mouse,” I huff, trying to catch my breath. “All of this can be yours, and more, if you just—no, no, don’t loo
k at that squirrel—”
Mouse resumes course, leaping and jerking the leash out of my hand. I go down, limbs flying, and am greeted by the sharp sting of asphalt digging into my left knee and palm. I wince and squeeze my eyes closed, aware of the tears trying to escape down my cheeks. I will not cry. I will not cry over a dog.
“MOUSE!”
I sound bloodthirsty, irate—and I am. As soon as I catch up to him, I am going to surgically attach his leash to my hand, and then I am going to shove the rest of the salmon treats in the trash because the days of salmon treats are over. No more of the good shit—he can eat the store-bought crap like every other mangy mutt.
“Jesus! What the—” a masculine voice says from around the corner.
I whip my head up and the blood drains from my face. That’s where Mouse has gone. He pulled out of my hold and whipped around the corner. I push to my feet and hurry to follow after him, petrified of what I will find on the other side. He’s a friendly dog, but he can be overzealous at times. Like an escaped mental patient that just wants to lick all of the faces in the entire world.
“Mouse!” I try again as I round the corner and find the most horrifying scene imaginable.
The pieces are easy to put together. There is a man sitting on the sidewalk. Mouse is on top of him, licking his face, and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if not for the mud. I cringe as I stare down at the massive puddle at my feet. I can imagine it now: Mouse rounding the corner, bounding right through the puddle, and then leaping on this stranger with enough force to knock him off his feet. His suit is completely covered in mud—his designer suit from the cut of it.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I cannot afford to buy this stranger a new suit, so I only have one option. I will kill Mouse. I will kill him like Cruella de Vil and make him into a beautiful new fur suit.
“I am so sorry,” I say, but then I realize he can’t hear me because my hand is still covering my mouth, as I’m completely shocked at the audacity of my puppy.
“Are you kidding me?”
That’s what the stranger says.
Though his words aren’t nasty, the tone he uses definitely is.
I leap into action, realizing it’s been nearly a minute and Mouse is still on him, licking his face. I grab ahold of his collar and yank him off.
“Bad dog!” I reprimand, hoping to convey my anger into dog-speak.
Mouse stares up at me, happy and oblivious. To him, it’s been a splendid morning. It’s not yet noon and he’s had a walk, leapt through mud, and mauled a perfect stranger.
The stranger.
I’m reminded that he’s still there as he gets to his feet and wipes at his suit, trying in vain to clear off most of the mud. It’s no use. There are massive, muddy paw prints covering the entire front of his pressed white shirt and blue jacket.
“Are you hu—”
I have every intention of asking him if he’s hurt, I do, but then I finally look up at his face for the first time and I am utterly speechless. Mouse didn’t just maul a stranger. He mauled what Daisy and I would call a perfect male specimen. If Mouse had killed him, I could have stuck a pin in his body and mailed him to the Smithsonian. Homo sapien perfectus.
Even muddy, he gives most of Hollywood a run for their money in the looks department. And if he weren’t currently scowling at me, I’d swoon. Hell, even with the scowl, I swoon a little bit. It’s that perfect combination of piercing green eyes and strong jaw. He’s clean-shaven, and his brown hair has been tousled by careful hands. He’s tall, and even with his suit on, I can tell he’s in formidable shape. It takes all of three seconds to confirm that he’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in real life, and he’s currently telling me to get my dog under control. He says I shouldn’t have a dog like that if he’s not properly trained. He is the preacher and I am the choir.
I can hardly do more than nod dumbly.
“He’s a puppy,” I say. Like that explains everything.
“Puppies aren’t immune to training,” he says, narrowing his eyes on me like I’m the problem—me, not the hellhound now sitting contentedly at my feet.
I think he’s going to continue berating me, but he shakes his head and turns in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.
No! He can’t leave. The last time a man that handsome stopped in this tiny town was back when Marlon Brando’s car broke down on the nearby interstate in 1954. The chamber of commerce had a plaque made up and everything.
“Hey wait! Could I, umm…let me cover your dry-cleaning bill!” I shout after him. “Or maybe a chiropractor’s appointment? Are you hurt?!”
He waves away my offer and heads back down the street, clearly in a hurry to distance himself from me. I stand there, frozen, admiring his retreating backside. It’s incredibly depressing. I haven’t come across a man who’s elicited that immediate stomach-churning, hands-shaking, brain-short-circuiting reaction in years—maybe ever—and this stranger did. He sure did, and now he’s walking away, retreating into the distance, and I know I’ll probably never see him again.
I sigh and look down at Mouse. He’s watching me with his head tilted to the side.
“You little monster. You could have at least kept him pinned a little longer, maybe given me a chance to win him over with my dazzling personality.”
Mouse barks in response.
I remember that I’m currently bleeding and running late for my vet appointment. I sigh, regretting this latest episode in The Life of Madeleine Thatcher—one in which the stranger in the blue suit will likely have nothing more than a brief cameo.
CHAPTER TWO
ADAM
I hate Texas. I’m a northerner at heart. In Chicago, I could walk down a crowded city street and not have to make eye contact with a single person. Apparently in rural Texas, I can’t even make it to work without getting mauled by a stranger’s dog.
I still can’t believe it.
I’m pissed.
And I’m late for work.
I left the frazzled brunette on the sidewalk yelling something about dry-cleaning—as if a bit of starch could fix the problems she has. Her time would be much better spent training that puppy, which is only going to keep getting bigger. What if I’d been elderly? Injured? Not in the mood to deal with mud on my suit?
I tear it off and toss it aside. There are a half dozen identical ones lined up in my closet, but I convince myself that one was my favorite. She ruined my favorite suit sounds much more dramatic than she ruined my suit.
I’m good at holding a grudge.
I brought that with me from Chicago too. That city knows how to really hang on to something. Just take the weather—eight months of winter just to spite the other four. Here in Texas, it’s late spring and it’s sunny and I wanted to enjoy a nice stroll to work, but she ruined that too.
I add that to my growing grudge as I finish changing and head back out the door. I’ve already notified the staff that I’ll be running late, but it’s still going to throw off the entire day. I wish I could have told that to the brunette, but I settled on berating her about dog training instead—not my most dignified moment, but it’s hard to stay composed when a dog is trying to play hockey with your tonsils. I managed to suppress the obscenities that were filling my head. Just because I’m from Chicago doesn’t mean I have to be a stereotype.
My car is waiting for me outside, so black and shiny. I apologize for thinking I could leave it behind. I learned my lesson the hard way.
The parking lot at work is full when I pull in, which means I’m running even later than I thought I was. I whip into my reserved spot and run through the back entrance. I hate tardiness, and I hate being behind on my schedule. I’ll have to work fast to catch up.
My white coat is hanging on the back of my desk chair; I snatch it as I nod to a few of the office staff and offer up my lame apologies for being late. It’s only my third week on the job, so I haven’t been here long enough to prove how timely I am. I have the brunette to
thank for that as well. I swear, if I ever see her again, I’ll let her have it.
“Dr. Foxe, you have quite a few patients lined up this morning,” one of the assistants says when I step out into the hallway. I’m adjusting the collar on my white coat before she hands me the first file.
I nod. “Right, well, I don’t want to keep them waiting any longer. Who’s the first up?”
“Looks like it’s Ms. Thatcher and her dog,” she squints at the scribbled paperwork. “Moose, I think.”
A half step later, I turn the corner to find the infamous brunette standing at the reception desk, regaling half the office staff with a story.
About me.
She’s telling them about the incident and they’re all laughing, enraptured by her words. Her dog—the one I am now intimately acquainted with—has his front paws up on the counter, begging for a treat.
“And you guys, I wish you could have seen the mud. I mean, I really did feel bad for the guy, but he just took off—poof—and now I swear to god, somewhere in Hamilton, there’s some hot guy tromping around with my dog’s paw prints all over his fancy suit.”
Everyone erupts in laughter.
“Did you catch who he was?” my receptionist asks as she passes over a Band-Aid to the brunette. Apparently my suit wasn’t the only casualty of the morning.
She shakes her head, her back still facing me. “He definitely isn’t from around here. I’d have recognized him.”
“Maybe he’s traveling for business?” the receptionist offers.
“Yeah, he had that look about him.”
“That has to be it. I haven’t heard of any newcomers in town. Well, except for—”
I clear my throat. “Madeleine Thatcher and…Mouse.”
What kind of dog name is Mouse? Moose would have been more appropriate. No wonder he didn’t listen to her earlier when she was trying to rein him in.
She turns at the sound of her name and when she zeroes in on me, her jaw drops and her brown eyes widen in shock.
