Lost and Found
Page 1
Lost and Found
By Rick R. Reed
On a bright autumn day, Flynn Marlowe lost his best friend, a beagle named Barley, while out on a hike in Seattle’s Discovery Park.
On a cold winter day, Mac Bowersox found his best friend, a lost, scared, and emaciated beagle, on the streets of Seattle.
Two men. One dog. When Flynn and Mac meet by chance in a park the next summer, there’s a problem—who does Barley really belong to? Flynn wants him back, but he can see that Mac rescued him and loves him just as much as he does. Mac wants to keep the dog, and he can imagine how heartbreaking losing him would be—but that’s just what Flynn experienced.
A “shared custody” compromise might be just the way to work things out. But will the arrangement be successful? Mac and Flynn are willing to try it—and along the way, they just might fall in love.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
More from Rick R. Reed
Readers love Rick R. Reed
About the Author
By Rick R. Reed
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
This book is dedicated to my heart, my soul, my snoring sweetheart, Lily.
“If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”
―Will Rogers
“All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn’t a dog.”
—Charles M. Schulz
“Petting, scratching, and cuddling a dog could be as soothing to the mind and heart as deep meditation and almost as good for the soul as prayer.”
―Dean Koontz, False Memory
Chapter 1
THAT’S MY dog. The thought popped into Flynn Marlowe’s head almost unbidden. No, seriously, that’s Barley. Flynn took a few steps closer to the red-haired man walking the dog he’d lost last fall on a hike at Discovery Park.
Flynn shook his head. It can’t be. Yes, that’s a beagle, about the same size with similar markings. He even has that same little black thumbprint on the top of his head! Flynn lowered his gaze away from the dog and the man walking him for a moment, his heart seizing up with despair. For a moment he was back to that awful day when Barley had disappeared in the park’s hundreds of wooded acres, beaches, and trails on a quest for a squirrel who refused to be caught but was only too happy to lead Barley on a merry chase—a chase from which he never returned. Flynn’s vision blurred a little as he looked up at the man and the dog once more, coming closer.
It’s wishful thinking. Barley isn’t around anymore. A whole winter has passed. I did everything I could to find him—and no luck. But God, he looks so much like my little guy! Flynn considered simply turning and leaving Green Lake Park, where he’d gone for a run this July morning, dashing back to the safety of his Mini Cooper, which no longer had a dog-hair-covered blanket in the backseat or chew toys on the floor. He knew leaving right now would be the best thing he could do for his mental health—and his heart, which felt like it was breaking all over again.
But he couldn’t. He stood rooted to the same spot on the trail where his eight-minute-mile pace had come to an abrupt halt after first spying the dog. His mouth dropped open at the sight. It felt like his heart was going to stop beating as man and dog came closer, closer.
He tried hard to find a difference in this beagle from his Barley but failed. He took in the guy walking him and even allowed himself to think how he was exactly Flynn’s type—a relatively little guy with a taut build, short red hair, and—oh Lord—a red beard. His nose sported a ridge of freckles. He wore a green tank top and camo shorts with a pair of Chuck Taylor high-tops. Under other circumstances Flynn might attempt to cruise him, doing the head-turning thing all gay men had done at one time or another in their romance careers.
But these weren’t those circumstances. That redhead, cute as he was, had his dog! It was possible, after all. It wasn’t like Barley had run off that day in the park and been found later, sadly, by the side of the road, a victim of a hit-and-run. No, Barley had never been found.
Or… maybe Mr. Redhead here had found him.
And kept him.
Flynn narrowed his eyes, wanting to make certain the dog, now within three or four feet of him, was truly the dog he’d lost.
Everything was the same. Right down to Barley’s rapid little waddle, as if he perpetually had too much junk in his trunk. It was something he and his best friend, Clara Brown, used to laugh about as they trailed after Barley in this very park on a Saturday morning.
Flynn wasn’t absolutely certain this was Barley until he made eye contact with the beagle. When their gazes met, the dog stopped, and Flynn swore his face and warm brown eyes registered surprise, shock even. Recognition? Flynn nodded. Certainly. That pup knows me.
The clincher, though, was when the dog opened his mouth and barked. See, beagles in general have a bark that could be described as mournful. It’s characteristic of the breed. But Barley’s was mournful-plus. Mournful over-the-top. So mournful you felt like clutching your chest when you heard it to prevent your very heart from breaking in two. That bark clenched your heart for all the sadness and world-weariness it personified. Adding to the general effect was Barley’s raspy voice. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Barley was a two-pack-a-day kind of hound.
Barley’s bark was unique.
Flynn felt a rush of joy flood through him as he automatically squatted down in front of the dog, now almost close enough to touch. “Barley!” he cried, reaching out.
And the dog charged toward him, ears flapping, baying as though he were on the trail of a rabbit. Could this be it? Flynn wondered. The reunion I thought would never, could never, happen? A laugh escaped him like a hiccup.
He went from a squat to his knees and held out both arms. His wayward prodigal was coming home at last! Again, tears sprung to Flynn’s eyes.
The redhead yanked back on the rope leash. “Hamburger!” he barked. “Heel! Behave! Whatever!” He chuckled, and the dog stopped, turned, and looked back at the redhead and then down at the ground, as though abashed. Barley, or the one who could be his twin, plopped down on his hind legs, looking from one man to the other.
“Hamburger?” Flynn sputtered.
The redhead laughed. “Yeah, that’s his name.” He squatted down by the dog and scratched him behind the ears. “It’s his favorite food. Mine too.” He looked to Flynn, face all quizzical. “What were you calling him? Barley?” At the mention of the word barley, the dog again got to his feet and started straining at the leash, wanting, it seemed, to get near Flynn.
Flynn stood, tried to remember to be kind, to breathe. No good could come from being confrontational. “Barley. Yeah. That’s his name.”
The redhead smiled, though his green eyes shifted away from Flynn to gaze out at the lake, which this morning looked so still and blue it could have been a mirror. He looked back at Flynn. “Sorry, dude, but I think you’ve mistaken Hamburger here for somebody else.” He wrapped the leash tighter around his hand, shortening it so the dog couldn’t come any closer to Flynn.
Flynn didn’t want to argue, but this was Barley. It had to be. No other dog barked like that. No other dog looked like this one. Flynn sho
ok his head. He’d heard the old saw about possession being nine-tenths of the law, so he knew he needed to go easy here, to try to be reasonable, nonaccusatory. It was a tall order, because everything in Flynn at this moment was telling him to give the redhead a good shove, snatch the leash from his hand, and just take off with the dog. He could get away too. Flynn was fast—he could do a 5K in under twenty minutes, no problem. And Barley, he knew, on the trail of a squirrel, was even faster.
But common sense, fear of the law, and the tiny—very tiny—lingering doubt in his mind prevented him from being so bold. Instead he asked the redhead, “When did you get him? And where?”
Again the redhead shifted his gaze away to the left before he answered. “Um, what’s it to you?”
“What’s it to me? Well, um, I kind of think that’s my dog. He looks just like him. He sounds just like him.” Flynn sighed. “I lost him last fall in Discovery Park and never found him.” Flynn tried to stop his lower lip from quivering. He wanted so much to beg, to just say “Please give him back to me, sir. He’s mine. We both know it.” But something—propriety, the miniscule chance of being wrong—prevented him from lowering himself that much.
The redhead smiled, but Flynn could detect nervousness creeping into those handsome features—a little twitch at the corner of his lips, the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Flynn swore he could see the wheels turning in the redhead’s mind.
At last the redhead spoke, smiling. “I’ve had Hamburger here since he was a pup. Eight weeks old. Got him from a breeder out in Monroe. So you see, man, this isn’t your Barley, or whatever you called him. Sorry about your loss, though.” The redhead looked out at the lake again. “Really.”
Flynn didn’t miss that the dog’s ear perked up when the redhead said “Barley,” but doubt was creeping in again. Doubt and desperation.
“You’re telling me the truth? Because I’ve gotta tell you, he is the spitting image of my old dog. He even sounds like Barley. And he seems to know his name too.” Flynn said, very softly, “Barley,” and the dog strained at his harness to come nearer. “See?” Flynn said, eyeing the redhead. It felt like this moment, on this sunny July morning, when all the world had seemed so right, had just transitioned into a nightmare. It was like finding Barley and then losing him again, all in one horrible moment. He tried to keep the wheedling, begging tone out of his voice as he offered, in a soft voice he hoped was convincing and persuasive, “Listen. It’s okay if you found him. I get that. I bless you for taking in a stray. You did the right thing.” Flynn, in spite of how difficult it was, smiled. “I appreciate you taking care of him, giving him a good home. And God knows, I understand if you fell for the little guy. He’s totally irresistible! He’s got the sweetest temperament of any dog I’ve ever known. So it’s okay if you thought you were doing the right thing when you took him in. But please, if you’re lying to me, please, please, please tell me the truth. I promise I won’t be mad, only grateful.” So much for keeping the begging at bay. He stared into the green eyes, which Flynn noticed flicked away once again after only a second or two.
“I’m not lying,” the redhead stated in a tone Flynn thought conveyed the exact opposite. He crossed his arms.
What could Flynn do? Insist? Demand a DNA test? Challenge the guy to a duel at sunrise? Simply punch the dude in his insufferably cute face and run off with the dog?
Flynn stared down at the path, dejected.
The redhead touched him—a tentative hand to his shoulder. A little squeeze. When Flynn looked up through his tears, he could see the distress on the other guy’s face as well. But was the cause of it the fact that he was lying or simple sympathy for another human being in pain? Flynn had no way of knowing without being accusatory.
He stared into the green eyes for a long time, noticed the flecks of mica-like gold in them, hoping to see the truth buried within. But those eyes, with their amazing irises that paired so well with the ginger hair, revealed nothing more than concern for Flynn.
“Look, man, I am so sorry about your dog. I know, from Hamburger, how they become our family. They’re like our kids, right?”
Flynn nodded, shoulders hunched.
“But this isn’t your dog. He’s mine. Like I told you, I got him when he was a pup, up in Shoreline.” The redhead laughed. “He was the friskiest one in the litter! Little bastard even nipped me. It was love at first sight.”
Flynn tried to smile and failed. “I just hope you’re telling the truth, man.” He glanced up at the guy. “What’s your name, anyway?”
The redhead hesitated for just a second. Was this a difficult question? “Mike,” he said quickly. He extended a hand to Flynn. A hand, Flynn noticed, that was covered in freckles. Almost reluctantly he shook it. Mike’s hand felt rough, like he was used to doing manual labor.
“Flynn.” He eyed Mike up and down, biting his tongue not to throw out another pitch for the guy to just admit that this was Barley. Mike would think he was some kind of lunatic. Leastways, if he was telling the truth. Something about what Mike had just said rankled him, but Flynn couldn’t put his finger on it.
There seemed to be nothing more to say, even though Hamburger had sidled up to Flynn and was now on his hind legs, his forelegs pressed against Flynn’s calves, tail wagging. His brown eyes stared up at Flynn. He knew the look. He was begging for attention, for a pet. Flynn’s breath caught, and it felt like there was a baseball lodged in his throat.
He bent down, scratched the beagle behind the ears. His tail wagged faster, almost a blur. He opened his mouth to pant, but it looked for all the world like he was smiling. “Barley,” Flynn whispered. He didn’t think such speed was even possible, but the dog’s tail wagged even faster.
Flynn patted the dog’s head and then forced himself away, backing up a few steps. He looked around himself, as though he were just coming to. On a day like this, sunny, balmy, with a sweetness to the air, the park was crowded.
And it seemed like everyone, except for Flynn, was walking a dog.
He was going to lose it. Break down in great, heaving, and snotty sobs right here, right now. He tried again to smile, failed. He said quickly, voice hoarse and broken, “You guys have a great walk. Gotta get back to my run.” And with that he dashed off, running as though something was chasing him.
And something was… the memory of the dog he’d loved and lost.
Flynn didn’t look back. He ran and ran, until he came to the grassy space separating the trail from the road that ran along the edge of the park, near the Aqua Theater. He dashed up, over, and without looking out for cars, ran straight into the road, heading for his vehicle in the parking lot. A blare of a horn, loud, then dying quickly, sounded behind him.
When he reached the car, he clicked the remote to unlock it and then flung himself inside. He was sobbing like a baby in moments. The tears were like a cloudburst, sudden and so forceful his shoulders heaved. He placed his head on the steering wheel and just let them come, ripping at his heart and soul.
And then he stopped. His head came up. He sniffed.
His mind, independently of his grief, finally worked something out. He thought of two things Mike had said: “I’ve had Hamburger here since he was a pup. Eight weeks old. Got him from a breeder out in Monroe.”
Contrast that with what Mike said later: “Like I told you, I got him when he was a pup, up in Shoreline.”
He was lying! The bastard! You didn’t just forget what suburb you got your puppy from, especially since the two weren’t even close to each other, geographically or linguistically. And if he lied about “Hamburger’s” origins, Flynn would bet he was lying about his ownership too.
That was Barley! Flynn knew it as surely as he knew his own name.
He felt an adrenaline rush. He was going to get his dog back. He wiped angrily at his face. Flinging open the car door, Flynn put his feet to the pavement. He took off, pausing only long enough to twirl around a bit to lock up the car with the remote.
But Barley and the redhead were nowhere to be found.
Chapter 2
FOR CHRIST’S sake, he’d lied about his name, which wasn’t even the worst of his lies. He’d never stooped that low before, even with a one-night stand he didn’t want to see again. And Mike? Couldn’t he have come up with something more original?
Kneeling on the hardwood floor in the front hallway, Mac Bowersox pulled the harness from Hamburger. “Good boy,” he said, stroking the dog. He then bent a little to give the dog a good, strong hug. The dog wriggled to be free. He’d never liked being hugged.
But Mac needed to hug him. He padded after Hamburger as he walked toward the kitchen. Mac stood in the entryway and watched as the dog paused at his two stainless steel bowls and rapidly lapped up almost the entire bowl of water. Mac supposed the poor pooch was tired and parched after the way he’d made him run from the park. But Mac couldn’t take a chance. If that Flynn guy had come after them, Mac didn’t know if he’d have had the courage to continue insisting that Hamburger wasn’t Barley.
Because he was. He was Barley. Of course, Mac didn’t know that until just a short time ago. But something weird happened the moment Barley spied the gorgeous man in the gray nylon running shorts and form-fitting lime-green tank top. Mac chuckled grimly. The dog had spotted the succulent morsel of masculinity almost before he did. And Mac could plainly read Hamburger’s reaction—joy and recognition in one big tail-wagging bundle.
At first, Mac didn’t understand the dog’s reaction. He didn’t see Hamburger’s interest as recognition. How could he? He simply thought old Hamburger might have the same eye for the fellas as his master did. Takes one horndog to know another! And Flynn was hotness personified—with his lean runner’s build and those amazing blue eyes that contrasted so gorgeously with his black hair and those damn long lashes.