Groomed for Love

by Helen R. Myers

  “That sounds just like her. She’s such a thoughtful woman.” Audra Prescott was also turning into her best customer so far, thanks to her preference for having her dog groomed more often than the average person. With a few more clients like her, Rylie knew Gage and Uncle Roy would be convinced that there was definitely a market for another dog groomer in the area. “You’re a good son, too,” she assured Noah, with impish humor, “for helping out in a crunch.”

  “I can’t tell you how that reassures me.” Checking his watch, he added quickly, “I take it that Mother gave you instructions on what she wants done?”

  “Bathing, trimming...the cut still a little shorter since the days are still quite warm, even though it’s shorter than the AKC prefers—” Turning to reach for her reservations book that she’d left on the lower level of the reception counter, Rylie misjudged the distance and bumped her elbow. She hit hard enough to gasp and jerk back, and she had to do a neat little jig to keep her balance. “Oops. Sorry, Bubbles. That’s the last misstep for this visit, I promise.”

  From behind her came Noah’s droll observation. “I take it that it wasn’t runway modeling that you gave up for this line of work?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was,” she replied, her wicked humor kicking in. “Call me crazy, since there’s only so much demand for five-foot-three glamour girls. But I just love animals too much.” She kept her smile bright, determined not to let her disappointment in him show. But who was he to add a jab at her height into his cutting remark? Mr. Glass-Half-Empty Prescott might reach six feet if someone gave him an inch of credit for his ability to look down his nose at her. While he had the face for it, no modeling agency would hound him to sign a contract, either. “As I was saying, aside from the usual care, Bubbles will get—”

  Noah silenced her with a dismissive wave. “Don’t bother. That Mother relayed instructions is all I care about. Good grief, primping is primping. Any of the shops between here and Rusk would do the same thing.”

  Sexy, but grouchy, Rylie thought with renewed disappointment. All because he had to drive a few extra miles for his mother’s dog? She couldn’t resist rubbing it in a bit. “Yes, I am fortunate to have her, Mrs. Collins’s and Mrs. Nixon’s support, as well. They’ve all been very kind about spreading the word. As it happens, I’m a little different from some in the business because I’ve been doing this kind of work since I was old enough to know the difference between the front and back end of animals. And for the record? The term primping is condescending. There are a good number of health issues related to good grooming for animals, just as there are for humans.”

  In a moment that couldn’t have been better choreographed if she’d tried, Bubbles started licking Rylie’s hand as though apologizing on Noah’s behalf. Rylie nuzzled the little dog.

  “Aw...thank you, precious.” She returned her focus to Noah. “I also don’t believe in sedating animals, whatever their temperament. How safe or wise would it have been for your mother, or nanny, to sedate you when giving you a manicure or trim?”

  From the corner of the room the four musketeers chuckled and snickered.

  Noah Prescott stared at her as though she’d just burst into “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” and took a cautious step back toward the exit. “Just call my mother when it’s ready. Ramon should be home by then.”

  Almost before the doors drifted shut behind Noah, Stan Walsh launched the inevitable commentary. “Whatcha trying to do to the poor guy, Rylie? You had him acting like he’d OD’d on sticky buns.”

  As the others laughed, Rylie stroked the adorable animal in her arms and gave them her most innocent look. “Now, Stan, are you accusing me of being an instigator?”

  “Never met a honeybee who wasn’t.”

  “It’s been my experience,” Pete Ogilvie offered, “that the harder a guy tries to convince a gal that he doesn’t approve of her, the more he’s really trying to deny he’s attracted.”

  “That sounds like forced logic to me,” Jerry Platt scoffed.

  “That’s because you have the libido of a rabbit,” Pete countered, “and the mind of one. You think that any female who happens to cross your path is a gift from the gods.”

  As the men burst into laughter, Rylie pretended the need to cover Bubbles’s ears. “This conversation is getting way too frisky for our tender ears, baby girl. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Damn her perkiness.

  She was the most annoying female he’d met in some time, and what was driving Noah crazy was that it was for all the reasons that usually attracted him. What the heck was going on? Rylie Quinn was friendly, good-natured, a born optimist. How could he fault someone who tried to see the bright side of things? Yet for some bizarre, quirky reason, he was discovering that he had no problem where she was concerned.

  She was an irritating mix of sweetness and provocation, deceptively packaged in a Peter Pan–size body that her maroon medical smock would mostly hide, except when it wasn’t fastened today any more than on his other visit to the clinic. That gamin-short hair didn’t help make her look fully grown, either. The short, punkish style left her looking more like a nine-year-old boy than a woman in her early or mid-twenties, an ironic observation, since he liked his women slender and sleek. But then she did little to enhance her femininity—maybe just mascara and some lip gloss, and yet every receptor in his molecular being went on full alert the instant she was within sight.

  It was those gray-green eyes that got him on edge, he decided. Sure they were incredibly framed by lashes that would make a sable proud; however, their color was that unnerving shade of storm clouds before a tornado dropped from them and turned your life inside out. That’s it! he thought, feeling as though he’d locked in on some important detail. She looked at him as though she had a secret, and she wasn’t telling. Well, he wasn’t big on secrets. It was one of the chief things that made his work so difficult and, often, ugly: secrets and lies.

  As Noah sped north to Rusk, and the courthouse, he considered phoning his mother again to ask if she really knew what she was getting herself into trusting Rylie Quinn. Just because her equally dog-crazy friends approved of the young woman, Rylie’s claim that she didn’t use drugs to keep animals calm during grooming didn’t mean she hadn’t, or wouldn’t, in a crunch. He also didn’t believe for a moment her self-laudatory proclamation that she got along with any and all critters. Maybe it was working to sell herself as the female rendition of the Dog Whisperer; however, she’d been at the clinic for only about a month. The jury was still out, as far as he was concerned.

  On the other hand, Dr. Gage Sullivan’s reputation was impeccable. He just hoped the guy hadn’t been suckered in by a red-haired con artist the way his mother and others may have been.

  At the thought of his mother, he sighed heavily. He accepted that he was struggling to understand her and had been since the accident that put her in a wheelchair. She had always been a pragmatic, no-nonsense person, but no more. Who registers their lap dog as Baroness Baja Bacardi? he thought with a new wave of dismay and embarrassment. What a title for a creature that could almost fit in a restaurant take-out box. Granted, his mother had little pleasure in her life anymore—a dog, the pool therapy, her painting and the visits from a small handful of trusted and dedicated friends, as well as her minister, lawyer and accountant. Otherwise, her society was “Livie,” Olivia Danner, her live-in nurse, and Aubergine Scott, the resident housekeeper-cook. Considering the whirlwind life of a socialite that she’d juggled before, his mother’s life was as shockingly different as if Hillary Clinton suddenly chose to exit the political world forever and cloistered herself in a nunnery! Under those circumstances, Noah didn’t have the heart to deny her this bit of frivolity even as he groused to others over being inconvenienced. Audra Rains Prescott had earned a certain amount of indulgences, regardless of how silly this one seemed to him.


  Three years ago, his parents were involved in a head-on collision with another vehicle, one whose driver passed out due to side effects of her prescription drugs. The crash had killed his father and the other driver instantly. It was a miracle that his mother hadn’t died, too. She had, however, lost most of the use of the lower half of her body. Nevertheless, there was enough nerve connectivity to trigger chronic pain and insomnia, which in turn added to bouts of depression. If it wasn’t for their dedicated people on the estate, he would need prescriptions, or at least a therapist himself.

  For example, Ramon wasn’t just dealing with a flat tire; there was a recall notice on his mother’s Cadillac that he hadn’t let her know about, due to her fragile perspective when it came to all things motorized these days. It had come only two days ago, so the tire issue had been fortuitous in a way. Ramon knew to keep the more serious issue between the two of them. He just hoped the repair wouldn’t take all day.

  “Hell,” he muttered, “if you can’t trust America’s classy tank, what can you trust?”

  It was a relief to reach Rusk and the courthouse. He’d become the assistant D.A. for Cherokee County soon after his return to East Texas to supervise things at home. Until then, he’d been the hottest “gunslinger” at one of Houston’s top law firms. Had he been able to stay there, he had no doubt there would already be talk about him becoming a partner by now, even though he was only thirty.

  Coming home, it had never occurred to him to just manage the family estate and enjoy a gentleman’s lifestyle, which had been an option. True, he could also have opened his own private practice; however, that didn’t appeal to him, either. Divorces, will probates and small lawsuits needed good counsel to be sure, but not from him. He needed something with more intellectual challenge, and so when Vance Ellis Underwood, the current D.A., discreetly asked him if being the assistant D.A.—with the understanding that he would be seen as Underwood’s heir apparent when Underwood retired—would be something he would be interested in, Noah saw that as his best option.

  If only he was handling his return to a more rural lifestyle as well. While there was no denying the countryside’s beauty, he missed Houston and the nightlife, the buzz and being in the inner circle of what was happening in the city and state. But someone had to oversee the family’s estate—the mansion, the near-thousand-acre ranch and tree farm, along with oil and gas leases. His mother had left all of that to his father, although she had a good basic knowledge of what was what. Unfortunately, she was no longer mobile enough to keep on top of things.

  At the town square, Noah parked in back of the courthouse building, where their offices were on the first floor. Grabbing his briefcase, he hurried inside. While driving, he’d already answered two calls from the D.A.’s secretary, the last time assuring her that he was as good as in the building. Court commenced in minutes, and today they were choosing a jury for a case related to the largest drug bust in the county’s history. The fact that the accused was the son of a prominent family in the area was garnering a lot of media attention, and it would be the worst day to be late.

  Noah rushed into the office just as Judy Millsap exited the D.A.’s office, a bulging file and her steno pad in her arms.

  “Oh, thank goodness.” The silver-haired, usually calm woman exhaled with relief as she set her load on her desk. “This is all for you. He’s coming down with a full-fledged case of some bug or other. He thought he could get things started and then let you do the most of the jury interviewing, but he just admitted that even sitting in court might be more than he can manage.”

  At sixty-six, Vance Underwood had suffered a few health problems in the past year and had confided that he wanted to retire as soon as his term was over in two years. Catching something as common as a virus could turn things serious quickly.

  “Do you think you should get him an ambulance?” Noah asked in concern.

  “I asked. He vetoed the idea, but I insisted he let a deputy drive him home. I’ll take his car and hitch a ride back with the officer.”

  “It sounds as though his heart doctor should be notified, as well.”

  The plump woman with the wedge hairdo nodded her agreement. “So do I, but it’s not up to me. I will call his wife and warn her we’re coming while I wait for the deputy. Perhaps I can convince her that she needs to make that call.”

  “Good luck with that.” As much as Noah didn’t want to seem too eager to take control, he was also discreet about making any comments about Mrs. Underwood. It was well-known in the office and elsewhere around town that Elise had never been given a prescription drug she didn’t develop a loving relationship with. Chances were that she wasn’t even out of bed yet, let alone coherent enough to be of any assistance to her husband.

  Reaching for the stack, Noah said, “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  “Pick an excellent jury.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, Noah was back at his desk. As luck would have it, the judge had come down with the same virus that the D.A. seemed to be suffering from and the entire day’s docket was rescheduled. Minutes ago, Noah had encouraged Judy to take an early lunch, assuring her that he would stay and watch things at the office. She was grateful, having missed breakfast due to the morning’s hectic situation.

  Alone in the office—since their clerk, Ann, was finishing a task and directly heading off to lunch, too—Noah called home to check on his mother. “Has Ramon made it back from the dealership?” he asked.

  “I’m glad you called. No, he hasn’t. They just started on my car and told him it would be about two hours. How can a simple matter like a flat take so long?”

  Noah wasn’t about to tell her, and replied instead, “They could be shorthanded. We have a lot of illness going around here, too. Or else they saw that the car’s mileage was close to the next scheduled oil change and servicing and convinced Ramon to go ahead and do that.”

  “Oh. Well, then, will you be a dear and pick up Bubbles during your lunch hour? Rylie called and Bubbles is not liking being locked in a kennel at all.”

  Noah closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why can’t she bring her to you?” She must take a lunch break herself, and since she was eager to build up a clientele base, this would be a great way to make points with a valued customer.

  “Shame on you!” his mother replied. “That’s not her responsibility.” After a slight pause, she said more calmly, “If you have other commitments, darling, just say so. I only feel badly for everyone having to listen to my baby acting up. I’m sure she’s upsetting the other animals, too.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to claim that he was due back in court too soon to do that for her, but his conscience wouldn’t let him. The whole purpose of returning here was to make his mother’s life as stress-free as possible.

  “Judy’s taking her lunch at the moment,” he said. “But she’ll be back in about thirty minutes. I can go then.”

  “Bless you, darling. You’re the best child a mother could hope for.”

  “Give me a compliment that bears repeating,” he replied drolly. “Everyone here knows I’m an only child and that you have nothing to compare me with.”

  At least when he hung up, she was laughing.

  * * *

  When Noah pulled up to the clinic, it wasn’t yet one o’clock and the closed-for-lunch sign was still on the door, although Noah could see the old-timers sitting around their table. He wondered if they ever went home. Or was there anyone at home to go to? He had noticed pockets of seniors around Rusk, too, who collected wherever they weren’t in the way yet could get out of the heat or cold, depending on the season. Loneliness and old age weren’t necessarily synonymous—he knew plenty of senior citizens living full, active lives—but apparently something was going on. It was good of Gage Sullivan to allow the guys to hang out here.
r />   One of the seniors spotted him and pointed around the building toward the back.

  Hoping he understood correctly, Noah drove that way, only to utter a soft, “Whoa.”

  He’d heard that Rylie Quinn was living in a camper in the back of the clinic, but what was parked ahead of him wasn’t just an RV. It was one of those monster coach things that well-to-do traveling retirees and touring rock stars used. Didn’t those things come with a hefty price tag? It seemed a lot of vehicle for a woman only in her mid-twenties. Grooming dogs was apparently more lucrative than he’d first thought.

  As he exited his BMW, he gave the two-tone bronze machine a once-over from behind his sunglasses. This was a model where both sides could extend out from the main structure for extra sleeping and dining space, converting it into a virtual house on wheels. The size of the thing also had him wondering who else might be in there. A boyfriend? Husband? Rylie didn’t wear a ring. Come to think of it, she didn’t seem to wear any jewelry at all. Interesting bit of trivia for such a lively, even flamboyant, person.

  Before he could knock, the door opened, and he looked up into Rylie’s smiling face. A determined smile, he noted.

  “Hey there. Twice in one day—my cup runneth over. I guess your mom managed to twist your arm? When I called her and learned that Ramon was being held hostage at the dealership, I offered to bring Bubbles to her, but she said you would be happy to do it.” Upon seeing Noah narrow his eyes, she threw back her head and laughed with delight. “Oh, how funny! She conned you.”

  “So it would seem,” he muttered. The why bothered him, too. His mother hadn’t met Rylie, so she had better not be getting any ideas about matchmaking.

  “Come on in, you poor oppressed soul. I was having lunch here to let Bubbles have more space, and so the old-timers could hear each other talk. For a little thing, she does have powerful lungs.”