At Trace’s look, Shane laughed and nudged him around the corner. “Hey, we don’t name them, Marie does. My guess is she had some old-school cartoons on that morning. Be glad she didn’t pick Underdog.”
Twenty minutes later, Trace realized he hadn’t thought about Meatball once. He’d been on the floor of a kennel with two of the most incredibly sweet and ridiculously cute golden retriever pups with soft yellow fur and fat little paws and brown eyes that looked through a man’s soul and saw only good.
He lay down flat and let the dogs climb over him and played a little hide-and-seek with Natasha, who was clearly the top dog, and stroked Boris’s belly every time he rolled over and begged for love. Shane had gotten called away a few minutes earlier, and Trace was relieved he wasn’t asked to leave.
Both of these dogs were born for therapy—they were giving comfort right now. And one of them, Natasha, had that magical combination of calm but outgoing, a clue that she had that innate ability to connect, which was key for a service dog.
So if—
“Excuse me, Trace?”
He rolled over and turned, looking up, way up, at Daniel Kilcannon. Shane stood behind him, and both of them wore serious expressions.
“I’ve come from the vet office.”
Still clasping one of the puppies, he automatically stroked his thumb over the little head in his hand, desperate for reassurance but getting none from the look on the older vet’s face.
“Meatball’s taken a turn for the worse,” Dr. Kilcannon said. “Not only did his numbers drop, but he vomited a brownish fluid, which tells us we need to go back in for more surgery.”
“To do what, exactly?” Trace asked.
“We need to take out part of his stomach.”
“Good God.” Trace gently set the puppy down, not wanting her to pick up the sudden trembling in his hands. Very slowly, he stood and opened the kennel gate, the little dogs he’d just met forgotten as he tried to imagine the hell the one he loved was going through. “How can he live like that?”
“He can,” Shane assured him, stepping next to his father. “It’s like bariatric surgery in humans for weight loss.”
Trace looked from one to the other, feeling his whole shaky world fall out from under him.
“He will function just fine without most of his stomach,” Dr. Kilcannon assured him. “Though I’ll be honest, it’s a difficult recovery. He’ll have to be under very close observation, fed through an IV for a while, and very slowly introduced to food. He’s not going to live a normal life for some time, but he will. He’s four, right?”
“About that, I think. No one is sure since he was a rescue.” The words came out husky, the thought of Meatball not living a normal life cutting him in half. That’s all they both wanted, to work, eat, sleep, and be free.
“He’s got a lot of years ahead,” Shane said.
He must have still looked skeptical, because Dr. Kilcannon took a step closer. “Trust me, Molly’s done this surgery before. She saved a Dobie in town not two years ago.”
“Oh, yeah,” Shane agreed. “That dog was banging on death’s door when they brought him in, and I just saw him a few weeks ago running around Bushrod Square. Not the biggest dog in the park, but damn healthy.”
That gave him some comfort, but still. “So two surgeries and observation? Like, here? Or somewhere else?” Because how the hell would he get here every day?
“We don’t want to transport him,” Dr. Kilcannon said. “The days Molly is at the town office, I’m here, and we have a nursing staff prepared to work overnight when we need them to.”
Holy crap, overnight nursing. “That…can’t be cheap.”
Shane and his father shared a look that Trace couldn’t begin to interpret, but he definitely got the sense that this had been discussed.
“Trace,” Dr. K said, “we are short on trainers at Waterford.”
“Really short,” Shane interjected, but Trace was riveted on the older man, sensing but not quite believing where this was going.
“My guess is that you don’t want a handout for Meatball and you could use a job,” Dr. Kilcannon said. “Why don’t you work here a few weeks? We’ll pay you a fair wage and just deduct the expenses of Meatball’s medical care.”
Which would be like a dream come true. Except, he was an ex-con. And this place was paradise. “Are you sure? I haven’t been to any special school for training.” He had to be sure they knew that. “I read books, watched videos, and…” He glanced over his shoulder at the two pups, now playing with each other, oblivious to the conversation. “Did a lot of hands-on work. But I’m not qualified to—”
“I’ve seen enough to know you’re good with dogs,” Shane said.
“Meatball is not going to bounce back quickly,” Dr. Kilcannon added. “He will bounce back, but he should be under a vet’s care for a few weeks. In a special recovery room for at least ten days, minimum. This way, you could see him every day, take him for short walks, and know that he’s getting the best possible care.”
“I don’t have a car, and I’m living at a house”—if you could call the leaky, dilapidated shack that his mother left him a house—“on the other side of Bitter Bark.”
“How did you get here?” Shane asked.
“Last night, I shelled out for an Uber to get Meatball here. This morning?” He gave an embarrassed smile. “I walked.”
Dr. Kilcannon’s blue eyes flashed with something that might have been surprise…or he was impressed. “We have living quarters for students who stay for long-term training,” he said. “It’s not much more than a studio apartment and a communal kitchen, and we provide lunch for the staff. We have a space now. Stay, work, and keep an eye on Meatball.”
His jaw loosened as both his shoulders sank a little at the enormity of the offer. “I’m really grateful,” he murmured.
Dr. Kilcannon nodded and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “We’re grateful for the help. Shane will get you started and show you around, and I’m going back to assist on the surgery with Molly.”
Molly. He’d completely forgotten that problem.
“Look, you don’t have to worry about this surgery.” The older man added reassuring pressure on Trace’s shoulder, obviously misreading his thoughts. “I promise you that Meatball is in the best, most capable and loving hands of a fantastic vet.”
But how would that fantastic vet feel about him hanging around to pay off the bills?
Don’t leave yet.
Something told him she hadn’t meant stick around for weeks. But that was the opportunity life had just handed him, and life didn’t hand too many of those to Trace Bancroft. So he was going to take it and hope that, like so many other things, it didn’t blow up in his face.
* * *
Molly whipped around from the sink, pulling her soapy hands from the scalding water, her whole body still humming from the surgery she’d just performed. Not to mention the bomb her father had just dropped while they both scrubbed down. “He’s going to work here and stay in the trainers’ housing?”
“It’s the perfect solution to many problems,” Dad said simply.
Not hers. “He doesn’t have to pay for this.” She shook off her hands and reached for a paper towel. “I’m just happy Meatball came through okay. We can take care of the dog gratis. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“That’s not what this man wants or needs.”
“Dad, we’re not running a charity here.”
Dad drew back, clearly surprised by her words and tone. “For one thing, in some ways that’s exactly what we run, for dogs. Why would we treat a man with any less dignity, Molly, than a dog?”
How much dignity would they treat him with when they found out the truth? “Sorry. Surgery stress,” she said quickly, remembering that the only person who knew her as well as Pru did was her father. Too much of this conversation, and he’d figure out the whole damn thing. As it was, he was scrutinizing her expression a little too closely.
>
“Surgery doesn’t normally stress you.” Concern darkened his eyes. “You’ve been so tense, Molly. I don’t think you even relaxed at Garrett and Jessie’s wedding.”
Because it had been New Year’s Eve, and she’d promised Pru the truth after the start of the new year. She’d been dreading telling her daughter she was conceived during a one-night stand with the town bad boy in the back of a minivan. And that was before she’d known he was still alive.
And now he was going to be living and working at Waterford? She closed her eyes and let out a little moan.
“Would you please be straight with me?” Her father took her newly washed hand and closed his much bigger one around it. “You promised.”
She let out a sigh, knowing the promise he referred to. She’d made it right after her mother had died, when Dad found her sitting at Mom’s gravesite on a distant acre of Waterford.
“I can be your mother and father,” he’d said that afternoon as she plucked petals from a handful of daisies she brought for Mom. “But you have to share all the things you used to share with Annie. Will you?”
She’d given her word she would, and from that day on, their already close relationship got even closer. Dad had been her sounding board for every veterinarian decision, and many of her parenting problems. And Molly had slipped into her mother’s role in so many ways in the family, acting as a hostess for many events they held at Waterford and making sure every birthday and special occasion were remembered and celebrated.
But this new twist in their lives? She wasn’t ready to share this with her father.
“It’s nothing, Dad,” she said, hoping that lie was little and white enough not to come back and haunt her. “Really, it’s just been a difficult morning with that surgery.”
“Then you agree it’s a good idea,” he said.
“A good idea? He was in jail for murder.” It was all she had, and even as she said it, she knew that wouldn’t fly with Daniel Kilcannon.
“Now you sound like Pru, and I had to scold her for that last night.”
“It worked,” she said. “She felt so bad that you reprimanded her that she went over and sat with him during last night’s surgery.”
“Is that what she told you?”
“We haven’t talked about it, but I know her pretty well.”
They hadn’t talked about anything yet. Shane and Chloe had taken Pru home last night and Molly had stayed late enough at Waterford to be certain Pru would be asleep when she got home. This morning, Molly had slipped out early. She’d left a note for Pru to have a good day and remember she had choral practice after school and then a history project with a friend to work on until six. With a promise to pick Pru up then, she’d drawn a great big heart and happy face and a row of x’s and o’s.
Which did nothing to ease her guilt or worry about the pending conversation.
“Good to hear she was concerned about him,” Dad said. “I want Pru to learn tolerance and kindness.”
Well, she was going to learn something. And soon. “I was supposed to go away with her this weekend,” Molly said. “Tomorrow afternoon, actually.”
“And you’re worried about this dog?” Dad guessed. “I’ll be here. I can watch him, and we’ll staff with twenty-four-hour nursing if he’s still struggling.”
She barely heard him. All she could think of was what she’d tell Pru in their much-anticipated truth-telling weekend. About that man in the waiting room…
Oh Lord. She needed to talk to Trace. Needed to finish that conversation and make a plan. “Why don’t you check on him now, Dad? I want to talk to Trace about the surgery.”
A smile flicked over his face.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m glad to hear you use his name. I got the sense you were a bit chilly with him last night, and I would be disappointed if you’re passing judgment on a man you don’t know.”
She gave her dad a grateful smile, then added a quick hug. He couldn’t be faulted for his altruism, or his bone-deep belief in human nature, or even for wanting an extra hand at Waterford Farm.
“You’re a good man, Dad,” she whispered. “And a wonderful example to Pru.”
He acknowledged the compliment with a simple nod. “I believe the man got a raw deal, and his dog needs help and so does he. That’s all I’m doing here.”
“A raw deal?” she asked. “In what way?”
He started to answer, then stopped. “It’s not my story to tell. But there’s more to Trace Bancroft than meets the eye.”
There sure is. Take a real close look at Pru and you might see it.
“I’m sure it will be fine having him here while Meatball convalesces,” Molly said, as much to herself as her father.
Clinging to that thought, she stopped at her desk to grab her phone and bag so she could head over to the other Kilcannon vet office in town where she worked most Thursdays. On the way out, she headed toward the kennel to find Trace, but she saw him with Shane as they left the two-story student housing building on the other side of the training pen.
Even from a distance, the sight of him slowed her step. He’d skipped a jacket, as the temperature rose in the middle of the day, giving her a chance to see he held his own and maybe even beat Shane in the muscles department.
Prison gym, of course.
She tamped down the thought, digging for the open mind and good heart that her father had just demonstrated. But she’d opened enough for Trace Bancroft. Her whole body, for starters.
And looking at him across the vast expanse of grass and dogs and trees and time, she could still see why. She wasn’t a fan of sleeve tattoos or hair shaved quite that short at the neck or men with prison records and dark pasts, but looking at him objectively? If that was possible, then Cara’s assessment this morning had been right.
He’s hot.
And that would have to be the last time Molly ever had that thought.
Right then, he spotted her, and she could see the slight shift in his posture, the protectiveness that squared his broad shoulders and made him stand up a little straighter.
He got a raw deal.
Then she remembered how quickly Trace had been ready to let Pru believe her father was dead. Not as a cop-out—at least that wasn’t the vibe she got. No, to protect her, to save her the agony of the truth. Maybe to save himself and Molly, too.
She’d never agree to that, of course. As she’d concentrated on every decision, cut, and stitch during surgery today, her mind finally cleared, and the path to what had to be done became obvious.
Lying to Pru wasn’t possible. Yes, she’d carefully dodged the truth for thirteen years by avoiding giving her a direct answer, falling back on Pru’s youth and innocence. But to tell her he was dead? When in fact he was here, at Waterford, under her very nose?
No, Molly wouldn’t consider that. The only questions were when and how, not if. Pru had to know.
She set off toward Trace, hoping that Shane would let them alone long enough to finish that conversation.
Trace met her halfway, crossing the grass with long, determined strides. “How is he?” he called before they even reached each other or Shane caught up with him.
“He’s good,” she said, happy to have the positive report. “He handled it very well. Slept through every minute and is still snoozing off the drugs.”
She saw him exhale with raw relief. “Prognosis?” he asked.
“Excellent. We resectioned his stomach and found a bleeding vessel. It’s fixed now and, barring more complications, he’s going to head into a long recovery.”
His whole expression changed, softening as he closed his eyes. “Thank you.”
Shane put a friendly hand on his back. “Told you Molly was the best in the business.”
“My dad helped,” she said, a little embarrassed by the compliment. Shane had no idea who he was bragging to. Would he be so friendly if he knew this was Pru’s father?
“I’m grateful to both of you,” Trace sai
d, his voice husky with emotion. “All of you,” he added, looking at Shane.
“Yeah, Molly, Trace is going to do some training while Meatball’s here, so he’ll be close-by for the patient.”
And the vet and their daughter, who came here after school at least three days a week.
“I heard.” She met his gaze, easily seeing the doubt in his eyes as he waited for her reaction to that. She refused to give anything away, especially in front of her brother. “That’s really…good.”
She caught the most secret glimmer in Trace’s eyes, like he knew damn well it wasn’t good but appreciated her saying so.
“Can I see Meatball now?” he asked.
“Let him rest for a bit,” she said. “I don’t want him to so much as pick up his head if he saw you.”
Shane looked at his watch. “I have a conference call in about five minutes.” He turned to Trace and extended his hand. “Thanks again, man. You take today to get settled, and if you need a ride or anything, let me know.”
“Thanks, Shane.” They shook hands, and Shane took off, leaving Molly and Trace in the middle of the grass, staring at each other.
“So…” she said on a sigh. “You can rest easy for the next few hours as far as Meatball is concerned.”
“And as far as you’re concerned?”
She gnawed on her lower lip and looked up at him. “I’m at a loss,” she admitted. “I’m supposed to drive to the Outer Banks tomorrow afternoon and settle in for a long weekend of telling my daughter everything she’s always wanted to know.”
He dragged his hand through his hair and looked around for a second, then pinned his dark gaze on her. “That’s not why I took the offer to work here for a while. You know that, don’t you? I don’t want to breathe down your neck or hers. But I have to pay this whole family back for helping my dog.”
“That’s not necessary.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, then looked back at her. “I meant it when I said you could tell her I’m dead.”
“And I meant it when I said I wouldn’t do that. We just have to figure out the best way to break the news.” She huffed out a breath, utterly at a loss. “I guess I’ll sit her down and tell her today or this weekend when we’re off-site.”
Bad to the Bone Page 8
