by Wendy Tyson
But Denver dismissed her concern. “Why don’t you get the cat settled and feed our other patient?” When his assistant was gone, he turned back to Megan. “It’s almost eight and I’m starving. Would you like to join me for dinner?”
Megan, thinking of Bibi home alone all day, was about to decline. But Denver looked hopeful, and he’d done a great deal for her animals. A few hours wouldn’t hurt. She nodded. “But I can’t stay out long. Bibi’s alone. Plus, we open the store tomorrow.”
Denver looked surprised. “You got approval?”
“We did. Oddest thing too. Roger Becker came by and hand-delivered the approvals not long after Simon’s death.”
“Did he say why Simon had been sitting on them?”
Megan shrugged. “Not really. It’s a mystery.”
They were on their way to dinner in Denver’s Forerunner when an emergency call came in. Megan watched as Denver’s face tensed, his cell phone pressed to his ear. “Calm down,” he said several times. “I can’t understand ye. Okay…okay. We’re not far. I’ll be right over.” He clicked off the cell, flipped on his left turn signal, and looked at Megan. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident. I can take you back to your car if you’d prefer, but we’re already halfway there. Besides, this is someone you wanted to meet.”
Curious, Megan said, “Of course I’ll come. Maybe I can help.”
“Don’t you want to know where we’re headed?”
“Based on the direction, I’d say Porter’s place.”
Eyebrows arched, Denver said, “So you did go on your own after all my warnings.”
“I stopped by, but he wouldn’t answer the door.”
“He’ll answer this time.”
“What happened?”
Denver sighed. “Hit and run. His dog, Sarge.”
Sarge turned out to be a hundred-pound German shepherd. As Denver had predicted, Brick was standing outside, gate open, waiting for the vet. When Denver introduced Megan, Brick stared at her for an uncomfortable moment before pointing to the dog. Sarge was lying in the front yard, whimpering, a plaid wool blanket covering him. Floodlights illuminated the small yard. Megan didn’t see blood.
Denver jogged over to the dog and knelt beside him, gently peeling down the blanket. The dog strained to look at him, his tail thumping against the grass. He placed one huge paw against the doctor’s chest and whimpered again.
Denver examined the dog, all the while asking questions. Brick answered without taking his eyes off his companion.
“What happened?”
“Damn bastard hit him and ran off.”
“Did you see who did it?”
“Nah. It was all I could do to lift him off the road. Will he be okay?”
Ignoring his last question, Denver asked, “Why was he in the road?”
“Don’t know,” Porter said, running a shaking hand through closely cropped hair. He was wiry and muscular. Tattoos snaked along his arms, partially hidden by a black Coors t-shirt. A day or two of stubble shadowed his face. He looked young—maybe mid to late twenties—but his reddened, old-soul eyes made Megan wonder what horrors he’d seen overseas.
Denver moved to the dog’s back end, clearly the source of the animal’s distress. He leaned in farther to get a better look in the dim light.
Megan ran to Denver’s car and retrieved the large flashlight she’d spied earlier lying on the passenger side floor. When she returned, she flicked it on and held it over the dog’s hindquarters. Denver nodded his gratitude.
Porter crept closer to his dog, his eyes darting nervously from his dog’s face to the dog’s rear legs to Megan. “Sarge must’ve heard something. I went outside to see what was going on and someone had opened the gate. He ran out. Went after an animal or something. I called and called and finally spotted him coming back. He was almost across the road when a car hit him. Car wasn’t going too fast. That was the only thing saved his life, I think.”
Denver manipulated the dog’s rear left leg. “Did you happen to see the license plate?”
“I was too focused on getting to my dog. I only noticed it was out of state. Florida.” He paused, and Megan heard the slur in his speech—a slur that had nothing to do with alcohol.
The veterinarian stood, wiping strong hands against his thighs. He stared down at the dog, brows creased. Turning to Megan, he said, “Will you stay with Sarge for a moment? I want to talk to Brian alone.”
Megan nodded. Denver and Porter disappeared into the house. While she waited outside, she straightened the blanket on Sarge and knelt down beside him to stroke his head. He appeared healthy, other than the injury from the accident. Short nails, a well-cared for, healthy coat, and clear eyes. He watched her with a look of trust that made her heart ache.
She heard a crash, a yell, and a shout in quick succession. Sarge tried to get up. She placed her hand gently on his shoulder and pushed him down. After another bang, there was silence. A few minutes later, Denver came out alone.
“Do you mind coming back to the clinic with me, Meg?”
“Of course. My car’s there, in any case.”
“I need you to sit in the back with Sarge, if that’s all right.”
“I don’t mind at all.” She gave the dog another stroke. “Brian?”
“I’ll explain in the car.”
It took another ten minutes for Denver to get the dog sedated and situated on the stretcher. He was too heavy for Megan. After a few minutes of negotiation, Porter came back outside looking pissed off and smelling like a fraternity party. His eyes were bright red and watery. He knelt down and picked up one end of the stretcher, then helped Denver carry the dog to the back of the Forerunner, which Denver had decked out like a makeshift ambulance. Megan watched Porter. She noticed sinewy muscles, clenched fists, a set jaw…and the rigid, angry posture of a rage-filled kid. Her mind jumped to the flask in her store, to Simon’s lifeless body. Was it possible this young man had something to do with Duvall’s murder? He seemed unstable enough to carry it out, but what could possibly have been the motive? And why at her farm—she’d never even met him before.
Denver placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “Are you sure you’re okay to sit with Sarge?”
“Absolutely.”
The hand squeezed again. Denver moved it from her shoulder to her chin, tilting her face upwards, towards his. “Thank you.”
He looked into her eyes, searching…for what, she wasn’t sure. She took a step back, the weight of his intimacy suddenly too much. Before he could say or do anything, Megan climbed into the back of the vehicle, next to the dog.
Nine
Megan and Denver were silent for most of the drive back to the clinic. About a mile away, Megan finally asked what had happened inside of Brick’s home. Denver was slow to answer.
“A temper tantrum.”
“Brian was angry that you were taking Sarge?”
“He was angry that Sarge had to be taken.” Denver glanced over his shoulder, and in the faint light of the SUV’s interior, Megan saw him rubbing his temples. He looked tired. “Sarge has a broken leg. Other than that, I think he’s fine. He’ll need to be here a few days, and I think Brick’s scared to be alone. That dog is all he has.”
“Poor kid.”
Denver nodded. “Been back for over a year. Doesn’t say much about Afghanistan, but I think whatever he saw—whatever he did—haunts him.”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder?”
“Would be my guess. That, and alcoholism.”
“They often go hand in hand.”
Denver pulled into the clinic parking lot and stopped right in front of the double doors. A light came on inside and a minute later, his assistant joined them. Her eyes looked sleepy; she was wearing light blue sweats and her curls were pulled into a messy ponytail. At the sight of the dog in the back of
the Forerunner, she pushed the sleeves up to her elbows.
Together, the three of them took Sarge inside one of the surgeries. “Can you get him prepped?” Denver asked his technician.
She nodded.
Megan followed Denver back into the waiting room. She glanced at her watch: it was almost ten. “Do you want me to help?” she asked.
Denver smiled. He looked tired, and Megan resisted the urge to reach out and touch his face.
“Ta, but we’ll be fine. I’m sorry about dinner. I’m afraid this wasn’t much of a date.”
The word “date” lingered between them, creating an uncomfortable silence. Finally Megan asked, “Can I check on Mutton Chops?”
“Of course. He’s right through the double doors. I need to go wash up—will you be okay by yourself?”
Megan nodded. They stood for a moment, listening to the sounds of water running in the adjoining room. Finally, Denver spoke. “Can I get a raincheck, Megan?”
“I would love that.”
“Tomorrow?”
Megan laughed. “Sure, why not.” Then she remembered the store opening, and all the work that would go along with it. She apologized. “I may be busy.”
“Later in the week, then.”
“We can talk about it tomorrow. When I pick up Chops.”
Denver nodded. “I’ll have someone call you when he’s ready to go home.” He leaned in and kissed Megan on the mouth, surprising them both. She closed her eyes. He pulled back quickly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“Megan, I—”
“Stop.” Megan took a step, closing the gap between them. Denver smelled of Old Spice and wood chips and she fought an almost overwhelming urge to lay her head against his chest. Instead, she put her hand against his torso, feeling the warmth of his body, the hardness of his chest. “Later this week?”
Denver took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. And then he was gone.
Sleep was a stranger again that night. Around midnight, Megan wandered into the kitchen, now clean and neat after her grandmother’s baking spree. Megan sliced Bibi’s banana bread and popped two pieces in the toaster oven. She slathered them with butter, warmed some milk on the stove, and settled into a chair at the kitchen table. It wasn’t long before she was joined by Sadie and Bibi.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” her grandmother asked.
“Not a wink.”
Bibi took the seat across from Megan, easing into the chair with obvious discomfort. Megan reminded herself that Bibi was in her eighties—a fact she shouldn’t take for granted, no matter how spritely she seemed.
“Would you like some banana bread? Milk?” Megan asked.
“No, thank you. Well, maybe some milk.”
While Megan warmed the milk, Bibi scratched circles on a piece of scratch paper that had been lying on the table. “You seem distracted,” her grandmother said. “Simon’s murder?”
Megan nodded. “And I’m feeling anxious about tomorrow.”
“The store will be a success, Megan. So will the farm. I have no doubts.”
“I wish I could share your confidence.”
Bibi smiled. “Somehow, the older you get, the clearer your vision.” Bibi reached down to pet Sadie. “Don’t get distracted by things you can’t control.”
“Not always easy.”
“When your father was young, he would become fixated on something—some goal, some idea, some vision. Whatever it was, it would be great. The souvenir shop was a great idea. Restoring the farm was a noble project. Even his newest pursuit—this woman, Italy—a great adventure. The problem with my Eddie? Along the way, he would become distracted, usually by setbacks. He would let them overwhelm his vision. We both know what happened then.”
Megan knew all too well. Her ne’er-do-well father had always been ready to claim defeat. Megan’s mixed feelings toward her father stemmed, in large part, from this lack of resolve and perseverance.
Bibi smiled. “I’m saying stick to your plan. Don’t let Simon’s death, or anything else, distract you. No matter how tragic.”
Megan felt like there was more, things her grandmother wasn’t saying. She felt a twist in the pit of her stomach. But sitting there in the dark, a pink fuzzy robe wrapped around thin shoulders, Bonnie Birch looked small and worn. Too small to share in Megan’s worries. Too small to hide big secrets. Megan placed a cup of milk in front of Bibi, sat down, and took another sip of her milk, the banana bread untouched before her. Maybe her grandmother was right. Maybe all of these other things—the bid on the farm, the correspondence between Bibi and Simon—were foolishness.
“I’m worried that whoever killed Simon may come back. That you could be in danger.”
“There is absolutely no need to worry about me.”
How can you be so sure? Megan wondered. But she refused to give voice to her thoughts. Bibi was everything to her, and she had to trust her now. In the weeks after Mick was killed, Bibi had called Megan every day at seven in the morning and again at seven at night. Like clockwork. Sometimes those calls were the only thing that got Megan out of bed. Those were dark, endless days, and Bibi’s voice—clear, warm and without a hint of pity—had been the single flicker of light. She was still Megan’s light. Megan would hold on to that.
Finished, Megan rose. “I’m going to try and get some sleep. Are you coming?”
Bibi shook her head. “Clearer vision doesn’t mean sounder sleep,” she said. “You go. I think I’ll sit here for a while, thinking about the past—an old lady’s folly.”
Megan’s problems seemed less heavy in the light of day, even if that light was weighed down by sheets of unforgiving rain. Spring was holding on with a vengeance, and gloomy weather made summer feel far away. Megan rose early, powered up her laptop, and searched the internet for anything she could find about Simon’s murder. The media said little more than she already knew, and thankfully neither she nor her grandmother were mentioned by name. She moved on to Brian Porter. The man seemed to have no online presence—no social media, no news mentions, no 5K results. Nothing.
A frustrated glance at her clock told her it was time to start the day. She slipped on heavy tan cargo pants, a black fitted t-shirt, and a pair of tall rain boots. After pulling her hair back into a ponytail she took a moment to stare into the mirror over her dresser, shivering in the damp morning air.
As always, her jaw seemed a little too firm, her nose a little too pert, her cheekbones a little too broad. She knew her saving graces were clear, rose-tinted skin, a gift from her Irish mother, and deep-set, long-lashed, almond-shaped brown eyes, a feature she shared with her father. Bibi called her looks classic. Perhaps, Megan thought, although she considered herself plain.
She walked away from the mirror, frustrated with her own insecurities. Since when did she care about looks? Only she knew it wasn’t a what, but a who—and that who was a tall, strong, Scottish veterinarian. Stay focused, Bibi had said the night before. She surely wasn’t talking about Denver—she’d be thrilled to know Megan was attracted to the vet—but her words still rang true. No time for distractions.
Megan stopped in the kitchen to grab breakfast and was surprised to find the kitchen devoid of its usual enticing scents. Bibi was nowhere to be found, unusual for this hour—but maybe she hadn’t gotten back to sleep until very late. She wouldn’t wake her. Megan placed coffee beans in the grinder and brewed a large pot of salvation. Once it was ready, she poured it into a thermos, took two mugs from the cabinet—one for Clay—and tucked a few slices of banana bread into a brown bag. She headed outside, grabbing a jacket on the way, Sadie alongside her.
She found Clay down by the chicken tractor. He was holding a heavily producing Plymouth they called Omelet against his chest, stroking the bird’s head gently and whispering something soft and crooning. When he saw Megan, he frown
ed.
“Something has them riled up this morning.”
“A fox?”
Clay shrugged. With one last stroke, he put the bird down on the ground and watched as she half ran, half flew across the yard toward her fellow chickens. “When I got here, they were all squawking up a storm. I thought maybe they were hungry. I came over to see what was happening. I found Omelet and a few others pacing back and forth, making lots of noise.” He shrugged again, his eyes darkening. “Maybe it’s time for some security, Megan.”
“I’m not buying a gun, if that’s what you mean.”
Clay smiled. “No, I mean get a dog.” He glanced at Sadie apologetically. “I mean, another dog. A guard dog. A Great Pyrenees or some other breed used to guard livestock.” He cocked his head. “Could be good for protecting against other things too.”
“You’re worried about our safety.”
“A man was killed on your property.” He glanced at the chickens, calmer now, but still pacing. “We can’t discount the possibility that someone wants to sabotage the farm.”
Megan chewed on the inside of her lip, mulling over Clay’s words. Of course she’d been thinking the same thing for days—or, more precisely, trying not to think the same thing.
“You think someone was on the property?”
Clay hesitated. “Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched.” He took a deep breath, looking past the chickens toward the barn. Megan followed his gaze from there to the house. “I’m probably being paranoid. Chickens have brains the size of peas. Who knows what got them going? Maybe Simon’s death has me more agitated than I’d thought.”
Megan thought of the night at the café, the shadow slinking between the shops—the feeling of being watched. She took a hard look at her farm manager. His manner—older than his twenty-four years—made her forget that he was merely a babe. His family’s lifestyle had been different, to say the least, and with that came an unusual perspective that Megan appreciated. But he was, in many ways, still a kid.
