by Nicole Deese
“You don’t say.” I laughed. “Well, I certainly wasn’t going to leave him there. Although, the next time I attempt a dog rescue I might snag a stroller from an unsuspecting neighbor and push him to the clinic. At least the hot dogs helped.”
“The . . . hot dogs?”
And there, on that firm, well-sculpted mouth, was the tiniest hint of a smile. So out of place yet so impossibly striking. Like spotting a daisy growing out of a cement sidewalk.
“Yes.” I nodded. “He ate about two and a quarter—but don’t worry, they were kosher.”
Another tick to his lips paired with a sideways glance before Davis stretched tall again. He lifted each of the dog’s limbs and checked his eyes, his mouth, his underbelly, and each paw. He combed strong fingers down the mutt’s torso, murmuring something under his breath.
“I was hoping maybe his owner might have chipped him? I saw him about three weeks ago running through the neighborhood, so maybe this little guy just wandered too far away from home.”
With the dog secured under Davis’s firm hold, he pointed to a remote-control-size black box on the countertop opposite the table. “Would you mind handing me that scanner?”
“Sure.” I set the device in his upturned palm and watched him run the scanner between the dog’s shoulder blades and around his neck.
The screen of the handheld machine remained quiet and blank, and my hope took a nosedive. “No luck?”
“No.” The chip scanner clanked against the hard exam table. “My guess is he’s probably a dump dog. It makes sense with the issues he has.”
“A what dog?”
“Smyth Landing—a gulch just east of your sister’s neighborhood—is a known dump site for unwanted animals.”
“You mean, someone just . . . abandoned him out there?” Suddenly, I felt much more connected to this animal than I had walking in. Perhaps our lots in life weren’t so dissimilar after all.
“Happens often,” Davis said. “Surrendering an animal to a shelter requires too much face recognition for some people, especially when the animal’s been neglected and mistreated.”
I roved my fingers through the dog’s matted black-and-white fur again. “So what does he need? What’s wrong with him?”
Davis sighed. “A lot, I’m afraid. He’s in pretty rough shape. See how his skin tents?” He pinched a thick piece of skin between the dog’s shoulder blades. When he released the hold, the skin remained peaked, sagging into place at a snail’s pace. “He’s severely dehydrated. It’s why his gums are so tacky and his eyes look so sunken in. And the wound here”—he combed back the fur on the dog’s front leg—“is infected, which is why he favors it. I’ll need to get an X-ray to know what’s going on with it for sure.” He looked at me then. “With how malnourished this guy is, I’m actually surprised he’s been able to keep something in his stomach this long.”
And then, as if his words had suddenly flipped the Great Switch of Irony, the dog heaved. Davis scrambled for a metal tray just as chunks of undigested hot dog spewed from my docile companion’s mouth.
So much for a second chance at a first impression.
Chapter Seven
DAVIS
X-ray images in hand, I paused near the observation window of the exam room door and watched Callie stroke the Border Collie mix, whispering in his ear, while being careful to avoid the IV line in his uninjured leg.
Something like regret niggled into my conscience.
Since opening my clinic, I’d worked with many Good Samaritan types—compassionate folk who rescued lost and injured animals, offering to foot the bill before heading back to their tightly regimented lives. But rare was the Samaritan who stayed with the animal for half a day so I could gather test results in between appointments.
I’d judged her unfairly that day in her studio.
She wasn’t to blame for Brandon’s poor choices.
If not for her unmistakable hair—loose waves that framed her face and stretched to the center of her back—I wasn’t positive I would have recognized her. Gone was the tattered artist smock, the charcoal streaks on her arms, and the globs of war paint smeared across her forehead.
Under the fluorescent lighting, her porcelain skin took on a pearly sheen. A faint scattering of freckles trailed her delicate nose and cheekbones. Kindness shone from her eyes as she reassured the nervous dog, speaking to him in a tone I suddenly wished I could hear for myself. She inclined her head toward the animal and tucked a wispy lock of hair behind her ear, exposing more of her face to the light overhead. My hand stilled on the doorknob. This woman was absolutely—
I pushed the door open, tying a tourniquet around my thoughts before they could travel any further.
She straightened as I entered the room and offered me a polite smile. Unfortunately, the test results I held fell short of the hope in her eyes.
I dragged the corner chair away from the wall and lowered myself into the seat, anchoring my elbows on my knees. “I’m sorry for the long wait today.”
“It’s not good news, is it?”
I’d get to that in a moment, but first . . .
“I’d also like to apologize for the other afternoon. I was . . . stressed, but I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you.”
She responded with a slow bob of her head. “I’m not a parent, and I won’t pretend to understand what raising a son alone must feel like.” She paused. “But for what it’s worth, I think Brandon’s a really special kid. And I’m not just saying that to be nice. I’ve worked with a lot of children his age, and I enjoyed spending time with him.”
“I appreciate that.” More than she could know.
Her gaze dropped to the images suspended in my grasp. “Okay, Doc.” She sighed. “Let’s talk about what this guy’s up against.”
“I’m afraid our friend’s injury is a bit more complicated than I realized.” I held up the film, pointing to the fracture in the Collie’s front leg. “This area here—the shadowed area—this is where his wound is, and as you can see, there’s a fracture in his ulna. He’ll need to wear a splint, and he’ll need a dedicated caregiver who can change his bandages every other day for roughly four weeks.” I set the films aside and clasped my hands together. “I’m also concerned about his infection.” Among other things. “He’ll need a daily oral antibiotic, a dewormer, and a regimented diet to get him up to his ideal weight again. But if you’re willing to take him home, I can have Marie suggest the right size kennel for him and provide you an emergency supply list.”
For the first time all day, Callie’s upbeat demeanor dimmed. She twisted a spiraled lock of hair around her finger so tight her nail blanched white. Over and over she wound and unwound as I waited for her to say something, to put words to her scrunched-in eyebrows and expressive sighs.
“I can’t take him home.”
I wasn’t certain which baffled me more—her defeated tone or her lack of explanation. The woman didn’t seem the type to be at a loss for words.
“Okay,” I began. “Well, then we’ll need to call the local shelter and hope they have sufficient funding and volunteers to work with him.”
“No.” She shook her head. “There has to be another option. What if I paid for him to be boarded here? At least for a little while. He’s already perked up so much since you gave him the IV fluids. He just needs a little time to heal his leg and fatten up, and then I know he could make somebody a wonderful pet.” Her preoccupied expression cleared. “What if I could help find him a family?” She lifted the dog’s muzzle. “I mean, look at this face? Granted, he needs to be bathed and possibly rubbed down with some good cologne—and I could do all that! I could come here—daily, if need be, but . . .” And then she turned those almond-shaped eyes on me, the delicate hue unlike any I’d seen before. “I won’t let him go to a shelter.”
“I understand your reservations. A shelter isn’t my first choice either, but I’m afraid our boarding facility is booked to capacity through the summer. Even
if we had a cancellation today, we have a long wait list.” I leaned back in my chair, still trying to understand her earlier response. “Here’s the thing, if you’re willing to tend to his wounds, wrap his leg with a fresh bandage and splint every other day, and meet his basic care needs, I’m certain we could help you get set up for that in your own home.”
“My house,” she countered, her tone lowering half an octave, “is two hundred and twenty-two square feet. I have no fenced-in yard, and even if I did, my brother-in-law would string me up by my toenails if I brought a dog onto his property. He’s severely allergic. Plus . . . I’m just not the pet-owning type.”
“There is no pet-owning type.” A widespread myth believed by many. “People of all occupations and personalities own pets.”
“Not me.” And again, she fell silent. “My lifestyle simply isn’t conducive. It won’t work.”
It appeared we’d reached our final impasse on the topic.
“Then, I’m sorry.” I stood and collected my clipboard. “I wish there was something else I could suggest for him. If you prefer, I can ask one of my assistants to drop him off at the shelter after we close tonight.”
With a brusque fold of her arms, indignation darkened her face. “So that’s it? That’s all his life is worth? A life that will likely end on some kill list because he has too many needs?”
My lack of response seemed to convey what she knew to be true.
She slammed her eyes closed before raising her chin and releasing a deep breath. “I have a gift, Davis. And sure, call me what you want to—a freak, a hippie, a flower child—I don’t care which one you use. I’ve heard it all before. But I have a gift for seeing potential. In art. In people. And in this case . . . in a stray dog.”
She leaned over the exam table, placing her feminine hands on either side of the dog, her gaze unyielding as she studied me. “So while I sincerely appreciate everything you’ve done here today, I’m afraid I can’t accept the fate you’ve offered him.”
“You can’t . . . accept it?” If I hadn’t been so incredibly stunned by her pronouncement, I’d have laughed at her audacity. But Callie Quinn wasn’t telling me a joke. There wasn’t a lick of humor to be found on her face or in her voice.
“No, and I’m not leaving here until we can come up with a decent solution for him. An alternate plan.”
Despite my best effort to keep a straight face, my lips twitched again. “An alternate plan.”
“Yes.”
Something about the passion she exuded challenged every professional boundary line I’d so carefully constructed.
Still, Callie Quinn was a stranger. To me. To Brandon. And with the exception of the Taylor family, to this entire town. But even as I listed off the reasons why I shouldn’t take another mental step down this path . . . I ignored them all. And took a risk. Partly because I liked this dog.
But mostly because I liked this woman.
“Tell you what,” I began. “I have a kennel in my mudroom at home. And a fenced yard. Why don’t I give you forty-eight hours to find him a foster family. And I’ll make a few phone calls on his behalf as well.” Starting with Stan Yinger.
She pressed her lips together—the same tell my son had when he was bursting at the seams with excitement. He used to beg me to bring animals home from the clinic for him to entertain. Maybe this arrangement would be good for more than the stray dog.
“I’ll give him another round of IV antibiotics and fluids and splint his leg before I get him settled at my place after closing.”
She bounced on the balls of her feet, hands clasped near her chest. “Oh, thank you! Thank you. And please, let me help with him—I insist! I can bring over whatever he needs.”
“It’s only for forty-eight hours—”
“Please, I insist.” Her overzealous expression held firm. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
I relented all too easily. “I live on the other side of the street, five houses down. Six Eleven Mill Street. You can stop by and check on him anytime after seven.”
One thing I’d learned as a veterinarian was that people expressed gratitude in many different forms. I’d been thanked with garden produce, hand-carved figurines, home-baked cookies, and even a donation to my favorite animal charity in my honor. But before I could process the Irish woman striding for me at breakneck speed, Callie’s arms encircled me in a hug, her citrus-scented hair as impossible to ignore as her feminine curves.
This was a thank-you I wasn’t bound to forget anytime soon.
Chapter Eight
CALLIE
The violet light of the setting sun paved my way back to the clinic, and I breathed in the fresh, warm air from my open window. The last couple places I’d lived, the use of AC in my car had been a necessity. In Lenox, it was optional. And I’d option out as long as I could.
Hair whipping against my cheek, I smiled at the beauty all around me. Lush green grass. Towering ponderosa pines. Wildflowers planted near a park bench. Lovers strolling hand in hand. Summertime in small-town America. Could there be anything better?
I veered into the driveway of a pewter-colored, ranch-style house with white trim and a wide-set porch. At the sight of Davis’s home, something buzzed to life in my lower abdomen. The same something that had acted up the instant I’d hugged him in the exam room. I had expected the impromptu embrace to feel like hugging a tall block of concrete . . . yet there was nothing rigid about the warm-blooded male who’d kindly returned my sentiment. And that woodsy aftershave of his—yum.
After parking, I gathered my purchases from Pet Palace—two overstuffed sacks filled to the brim with random doggie paraphernalia. Who knew organic treats and chew toys would cost as much as my Italian-made oil brushes?
I bumped the car door closed with my hip while the shopping bags cut off the circulation in my wrists. One ungraceful step at a time, I headed down the pebbled walkway and noticed several vibrant bleeding heart plants in full bloom on either side—an interesting landscaping choice for sure. A water feature near a perfectly pruned rosebush gurgled at me as if in greeting. Bags beating a tuneless song against my thighs, I rushed up the porch steps hoping to off-load my merchandise quickly.
The house certainly wasn’t modest in size, or in finishes, but the classic design of the exterior complemented the contemporary curb appeal of the landscape—or so I would have said if I were still writing those ridiculous ads for the Buy Me Now real estate magazine. Luckily, that particular gig had only lasted four months before a mural project opened up for me.
I raised my elbow just enough to jab it into the doorbell.
A half minute later, Davis answered.
Unlike earlier at the clinic, no lab coat adorned his classically athletic frame—broad shoulders, built chest, lean legs. Instead, he wore a simple cobalt T-shirt and well-fitted jeans. Somehow the style seemed far too average for him. Misleading, even. As if he were just any good-looking, run-of-the-mill American male and not the professional dog whisperer I’d clung to only a few hours ago.
“Hi again,” I said, shaking away the hair blowing into my face from the mild breeze. “I found a few things for our friend.”
He regarded the bundle of goods in my arms. “Is that all for the dog?”
I nodded. “Yup. And it’s actually pretty heavy, so . . .”
Without further encouragement, he off-loaded the bags and angled his body for me to enter his home. “He’s all set up in the back, if you’d like to come inside.”
That I would. “Thanks.” I entered the modern living room and slipped off my strappy sandals. “I’m guessing he did okay, then? With the stitches and the splint?”
“Yes, he did fine.” Davis led me through the room as if private home tours were a normal part of his job description. And yet, even though I recognized the oddity in all this, I couldn’t help but feel at ease.
“He perked up quite a bit after that second round of electrolytes,” Davis said. “He appears to be house-train
ed and knows a few commands, too.”
“Oh, wow, that’s great,” I said while scanning Davis’s beautiful home—from the polished hardwoods to the neutral walls to the slightly vaulted ceiling. I’d always believed our chosen habitats told a story about us. And I was currently trying to read his. “How long have you lived here? In Lenox, I mean?”
“Little over six years ago this time around. I grew up here and graduated from Lenox High before leaving for college in California.”
That day in the art studio—while his nostrils flared in time with his temper—he’d mentioned he raised Brandon alone. Yet I still couldn’t help perusing his home for any sign of femininity. Maybe a grouping of delicate knickknacks or a loopy script written on a memo pad or maybe even a bowl of freesia-scented potpourri?
I detected none of the above.
“It’s a sweet town,” I mused. “I was thrilled when Clem called to say they’d settled here a few years ago. I’ve always loved Oregon. My brother-in-law’s job has him traveling a lot, so they were looking for a good place to put down roots for the kids.”
“Lenox is good for that. Roots, I mean,” he clarified.
A part of me coveted the community life my sister had here, but I could no sooner claim roots in Lenox, Oregon, than I could in Colorado or New Mexico or Texas or Montana. I’d always valued my freedom to come and go more than a permanent address.
“Well, your home is beautiful. The neutral palette you’ve chosen works well with the lighting, too. Any darker on these walls, and you would have closed it in.” I swept my gaze around the room. “You obviously have quite the eye for design.”
He gave me a sidelong glance that glinted with amusement. “Actually, I know next to nothing about design . . . or neutral palettes. My role was simply to check a few boxes for likes and dislikes on the builder’s design questionnaire, and well, that was that.”
That was that? I couldn’t imagine giving up my artistic liberties to anybody. For any reason.
“But what about all the lovely landscaping outside? I’m sure you had some say in that. The water feature near your porch is definitely an original piece.”
