by Dana Marton
Her gaze lingered over the prominent paneled door capped by an elaborate crown, the flat columns that decorated it on each side. The windows, with their many small panes, seemed original to the house, five-ranked on the front façade, with double-hung sashes, perfect with the side-gabled roof.
The door opened as she watched, a shadow filling it, tall and wide shouldered. An orange cat darted out and disappeared into the bushes.
“Can I help you?” The man’s deep voice snapped her out of her trance.
She’d first seen the stray dog directly across the road. It’d take just a second to show that man the poster. The dog might even be his, or he might have seen it around before. He might know who the owner was.
“Hi.” She hurried up the brick walkway, gripping her armload of flyers.
The first wave of dizziness grabbed her at the bottom of the steps. The strangest thought hit her that she’d gone up those steps before, had stood in front of that door. Cold sweat beaded on her skin without warning. The world spun around her for a second.
“Are you all right?” That deep voice reached out to her.
She had to blink a couple of times before she could fully focus on the man. He was solidly built and hard edged, in jeans and a navy T-shirt with some writing she couldn’t make out, the house dark behind him, his face in the shadows.
She held up a poster like a shield as she gathered her equilibrium and went up the stairs so he could see the photo. “I found a dog, and I was wondering….” Her lungs constricted suddenly, making it difficult to breathe, cutting off the rest.
The dusk that was settling on the street behind her seemed to press down on her with a physical presence. She dragged in air that was cold and dense with moisture and felt thick in her lungs.
A phone rang somewhere in the house behind the man. He half turned, oblivious to her struggle. “I don’t have a dog.”
As he drew back, she caught a glimpse of the foyer, with the antique hall table and chair she’d somehow known would be there.
Her heart rate sped up, and the stairs spun with her. She felt like she was falling, but she didn’t seem to land. Colors and shapes blended into each other; then the world turned black except for the prickles of bright light that shot by her.
She was so going to pass out, she thought, a split second before she did.
* * *
“Are you okay?”
She blinked as her surroundings came back into focus. He was holding her up, his long fingers folded around her elbows. He really was a big man, his size more obvious now that he was up close and personal. When had he stepped out of the house?
She pulled away from him, heat flooding her face. “Sorry. Just a dizzy spell.” Again.
She didn’t want to think about what that might mean. She couldn’t handle the thought of complications, of going back to the hospital. The spells would pass. She could talk to Dr. Pratt about them tomorrow. They didn’t have to mean anything. She didn’t have any other warning signs of organ rejection.
“What can I do to help?” The man stood completely out of the shadows now, his face semi-illuminated by the lights that edged the street. The tight set of his jaw made him look guarded. He was late thirties, forty at the most, with dark, short hair, a straight nose, and keen eyes that looked mocha in the dusk.
She backed down another step and nearly stumbled. He caught her again, lightly by the arm. She wasn’t comfortable with him touching her but wasn’t steady enough on her feet to pull away.
“You better sit down.” He gestured toward the house with his free hand.
The dark foyer yawned behind him. No way. She wasn’t scared, but there was a distinct sense of eeriness that touched her and, frankly, weirded her out.
“I’ll be fine. I live just a few blocks from here.”
He regarded her with a long, concentrated look as if trying to decide what to do with her. “I’d be happy to drive you home.”
She wasn’t crazy about the idea of getting into a car with a stranger.
“Ethan Bing.” He seemed to read her thoughts. “Captain Bing, Broslin PD.”
A cop. Of course. Now that they stood closer to each other, she could make out the Broslin PD logo on his T-shirt. She swallowed her embarrassment at having blacked out on his doorstep. “Sophie Curtis. I’d really rather walk. Some more fresh air can only help. But thanks.”
“I’ll walk with you. Let me grab my jacket.”
“It’s not necessary.” She wasn’t an invalid and didn’t like people treating her as such.
But he stepped back inside anyway.
She walked down the stairs on her own, hoping that would show him she didn’t need his help. She was halfway down the walkway by the time he caught up with her.
He flashed her his badge—an attempt to make her feel safe, probably—then dropped it into his pocket. He held out the bag of cookies he had in his other hand. “Maybe you had a dip in blood sugar. Peanut butter chews. A cookie can never hurt.”
Apparently, he hadn’t gotten a good look at her spreading hips in the dusk. “No, thanks.”
But he kept holding the bag out until she took one at last. Maybe it was low blood sugar and nothing worse. And peanut butter was her new favorite since the surgery. Another piece of weirdness.
He shoved the bag into his pocket too. “Let me know if you’d like another.”
She hated being weak, hated that anyone had seen her like that. She would have liked him to leave her alone and go back into his house. She didn’t need a guardian.
But he kept step with her. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”
Her health was none of his business. She wouldn’t let her concerns show on her face, even if the fainting spell on his steps went beyond the occasional uneasiness she’d experienced over the last few months. She’d never blacked out before.
She refused to worry about it. Worry caused stress, and stress was the enemy. “I still need to put these posters up.” She lifted her stack as they reached the sidewalk.
He took the posters and the duct tape from her. “I’ll take care of it.”
And what was she going to do, wrestle them back? Her mouth set in a tight line, she turned toward home. She was beginning to regret ever walking up to his house. She’d had her share of controlling people in her life. Nothing turned her off as fast as the let-me-tell-you-what’s-best-for-you personality type. Which was probably required for a police captain.
He adjusted his long stride to her shorter one. “Lived in Broslin long?”
None of his business. “Almost six months,” she said and didn’t elaborate.
“I’ve lived here all my life.” He sounded pleased about it.
The last thing she wanted to do was exchange personal information with him. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the dog before?”
“Not that I can remember. I’m sure people will call. When did you find him?”
“This afternoon.”
“Is he at your house?”
“Outside.”
“Not a dog person?” he guessed.
“Not really. You?” Hope leaped.
He must have read it on her face, because he said, “Can’t take this one. I don’t have a fence. I’m never home. And the cat would never put up with it. Mango’s got issues.”
Mango must have been the orange cat. Sophie swallowed her disappointment as they turned the corner. She pointed at her house. “That’s me. I can make it from here.”
He raised an eyebrow as he checked out the small nursery on her front lawn. “Planting a forest to go with your fairy cottage?”
Her house was the smallest and oldest on the street, with some pretty fancy woodwork. It did look like an English cottage, which was why she’d been thinking about a garden in the first place. While she was drawn to Captain Bing’s stately home, her little cottage fit her perfectly.
“Good night.” She kept walking, hoping he would turn around eventually.
He didn’t.
&n
bsp; They were almost at the house when the stray walked out of her stand of unplanted boxwood bushes. She froze and began backing away, while Ethan Bing calmly walked forward, then squatted, not the least rattled, holding out a hand in an inviting gesture toward the animal. “Hey there, buddy. Come here.”
Her whole body tightened, anticipating an attack. She was desperately trying to think what would be the right first-aid procedure for a ripped-off hand.
But instead of an eruption of violence, the dog slinked across the street, away from them.
“Nice dog.” The man stood. “Doesn’t look like he’s been on the streets for long. I’ll make sure people at the station know about him, in case someone calls. You should call the shelter and have them come and pick him up. They can hold him until the owner is found. No-kill shelter, pretty decent place. We do a fund-raiser for them every year.”
She should have thought of that sooner. “I will.”
He nodded but didn’t move.
She felt awkward all of a sudden, unbalanced by a flashback—being escorted home from her first date back in high school—there’d been only three altogether—standing nervously at the front door. She’d been scared to death that Bobbie Greene would kiss her, scared to death that he wouldn’t.
An idiotic thing to remember right now.
Did Captain Bing think she might invite him in? She didn’t feel any more comfortable with him than she did with the Rottweiler. Both were clean-cut, good looking, and probably dangerous. He might be a cop, but he did have that hard edge to him she wasn’t sure what to do with.
“You have anyone waiting for you inside?” he wanted to know.
Because, apparently, he thought she needed constant supervision. She was this close to losing patience with the man. And then she caught herself.
Okay, so this was her sensitive spot. She was madder at herself for the fainting spell than at him for reacting to it. He meant well, probably. So when she said, “I don’t need to be transferred from hand to hand,” she made sure her tone carried more amusement than heat.
He didn’t seem impressed with her declaration of independence. “I’ll stay here until you get in.”
He patted his jacket and reached into the inner pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “I’m sure you have a ton of friends and good neighbors, but if you have another dizzy spell and can’t reach whomever, it’d be no big deal for me to run you over to the ER. I’m usually up half the night working on some case anyway.”
“Thank you.” She took the card. “I’m fine. Really. Good night.” And with that, she cut across her lawn and left him.
Once inside, she locked the front door behind her, ready to put him from her mind, but as she shrugged out of her coat, she caught sight of him through the window.
He stood directly under a streetlight, all big and sure of himself. He was handsome, in a manly man, rugged kind of way.
He was leaving cookies for the dog.
The Rottweiler shuffled around but didn’t go any closer.
He watched the animal for another second or two before he glanced toward her house. Then he turned and with strong, purposeful strides walked into the night that had by now fully settled on the street.
She crumpled the business card in her hand as she watched him go. The only thing she was more leery of than big dogs were strong, take-charge type of men. She didn’t want to be anyone’s rescue, anyone’s pet project. She didn’t want another man who got his sense of strength from her being weak next to him. She’d had that with Jeremy.
New heart. New house. New life.
If her future was going to include a man, he was going to be the exact opposite of her ex and nothing like Captain Bing either. He was exactly what she didn’t want. She refused to be attracted to him.
Good thing was she never really had to see him again.
She pulled out her phone and typed in Broslin animal shelter, dialed the number that popped onto her screen, then explained her situation to the receptionist on the other end.
“I’m sorry.” The woman cut her off halfway through. “We have no openings. We have dogs sleeping in the offices. You might have better luck at the county shelter. They have a larger facility.”
Sophie thanked her for the information, then made the next call, but the county shelter couldn’t take the dog tonight either.
“You can always try calling back in a couple of days. We have an excellent adoption program. We do get animals out to new homes as fast as we can,” the guy on duty there told her.
She thanked him, then hung up. Okay. What next?
She checked out the window. The dog was still there, watching her front door as if waiting for her to appear.
Deep breath. She needed to stop stressing and obsessing about the dog, she thought as she turned away and walked into her kitchen. Stress was the enemy. Calm and serene. She was going to make herself a healthy dinner. She needed to visualize the biopsy results coming back good tomorrow, and living to a hundred.
The body’s immune system treated the new organ as an infection. The meds helped with that, but it still needed to be monitored. Depending on how many rejection cells the lab would find in her biopsy specimen, the doctor would update her meds. Maybe she could cut back on her pills a little.
She washed her hands twice with antiseptic soap in the chipped sink that she hoped someday she’d be able to replace. She glanced at the small shabby chic wooden plaque above the faucet. WONDERFUL THINGS ARE ON THEIR WAY. Exactly.
She got out a bowl and in went lettuce, washed twice in a special liquid that came at a high price but guaranteed to free vegetables from all sinister bacteria. She laid grilled chicken strips on top, added some cheese and wedges of boiled eggs, sunflower seeds, topping it all with raspberry vinaigrette—all of it organic.
But she only nibbled on the food as she walked to the front window. Night had fallen outside. She shrugged into her coat, picked up her plate, and walked out to the front stoop.
The Rottweiler watched her with brown eyes that seemed big enough to swallow the world.
“I did what I could,” she told him, pulling the coat closed in the front. She wasn’t supposed to risk a cold. She was to stay as far away from germs as possible. Pets were out of the question. Adopting strays was specifically on her no-no list.
She picked a piece of chicken out of her salad and tossed it to the dog. Of course, it only made it halfway, so he had to come closer. Her heart raced. But she had to toss him another piece now, even closer than that, to get him out of the road.
And then he was suddenly standing at the end of her walkway.
She froze, poised to flee back inside.
He didn’t look too sure about her either, his head down, his eyes on the plate she held.
The overwhelming Captain Bing had said he didn’t have a fenced property. She did. She glanced at the fence that surrounded her backyard, the gate to her right. Would the dog attack if she walked over to open it?
“Come on. You’re not going to hurt me. I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?”
She got no reaction to the deal she was offering. The dog watched her as if he was trying to figure her out, as if she was something strange.
Time for a blind leap of faith. She tossed a piece of chicken to the left; then she hurried right, to the gate. She opened it, stepped way back, then tossed a piece of chicken into her backyard.
The dog watched her.
“Up to you now.”
He moved toward her.
She held her breath.
He came closer.
Don’t attack. Don’t attack. Don’t attack. She tossed another piece of chicken.
And he calmly walked through the gate.
She locked it behind him with shaky hands, dumped the rest of her food inside, and hurried into the house. She ran through, out the back, and opened the shed door while the dog was still busy eating by the fence. Then she rushed back inside, filled a bowl with water, and set that out
on her deck before she pulled the sliding glass doors closed behind her, heart racing.
She did her breathing exercises until she got that under control a little.
“Nothing to worry about now,” she told herself. She’d done it. The dog had food, water, and shelter. That was all she could do for him. To make sure he knew, she opened the door a crack and shouted out, “You get dinner, and you get to spend the night. That’s it. I’m not committing!”
The dog came around and gave her a look. She hoped it was a look of agreement and understanding.
There. Problem solved. For now. All by her dainty little self. Take that, Captain Bing.
Chapter Three
Bing had half an hour before he had to be at the police station. He barely had enough time to drink his morning coffee, let alone to feel lonely. Yet, for the first time since Stacy had died, he wished he had someone to say good morning to when he woke, other than Mango, who would have been a gold medalist if “ignoring humans” was an Olympic event. A great companion he was not. Bing liked him anyway.
He strode up the street with the stack of FOUND DOG flyers in his hand, squinting against the rising sun. He was up to his eyeballs in work at the office. His house needed painting. He had a whole town to take care of. Yet his mind kept going back to Sophie Curtis.
Interesting woman. She’d been scared. Whether just of the dog, him, or something else in addition, he couldn’t tell.
She was pretty—wildest red curls he’d ever seen. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. She must have looked like Orphan Annie when she’d been a kid. Now— Hell, if he’d noticed her—and he’d kept that side of him shut down for the past two years—then other men must have followed her around drooling.
She’d been annoyed with him. She hadn’t wanted him to walk her home. It wasn’t as if he had any romantic interest in her. But he was a cop who’d seen another woman bloodied and lifeless just hours before. And then there was Sophie, alone in the night and not feeling well. Protection was in his blood. It was his first instinct.
