A dozen times Maude Rose had considered leaving, but now it was too late. And anyhow, it was home. She passed by Marcella’s Expert Hair Salon—another place she used to go all the time. Now she did her own. When she got around to it, anyway. She hadn’t stepped foot in there again, not since Marcella told her she looked like a cheap tramp, wearing all that gaudy jewelry all the time.
Past Marcella’s was another curb. She had to wait for a red light. Finally, though, she could see Manny’s Bar—it was still a ways yet, several long blocks’ distance, but the trek was all downhill now. Not like she had anything better to do, even if it was a long hike, and she couldn’t very well drive when she didn’t have a car. Or a license, for that matter.
Halfway across the road, she felt that clenching pain in her chest again—this time sharp enough to steal her breath. In that instant when she couldn’t seem to move, stood there frozen, she noticed the drizzle was letting up. A peek of sun was even showing through the clouds. A car horn beeped at her impatiently. Another scandalized face looked out a window and shook a prissy finger at her.
That sun seemed to gently beam down on her wrinkled face, though, and made her smile. The sun felt so…kind.
Kindness was vastly underrated in this world, but not by Maude Rose. The way she saw it, she was tough. She hadn’t let anyone hurt her in a long time. Since yesterday at least.
She just wanted to get to Manny’s, get that first drink put in front of her. She didn’t need or want revenge against all the people who’d been mean to her. Once she got a few belts in her, she stopped feeling needy altogether. Lately, though, she’d gotten a little obsessed with wanting to pay back the few people in this life who’d been decent to her.
There were only three, and since Bobby Ray was long dead, that left a short list of two women Maude Rose felt she owed a thanks.
The really funny thing was that the two girls likely had no idea how much they’d meant to her.
But they would.
Oh, yes. They surely would.
CHAPTER 1
“Now look, sweetheart. I totally understand why you don’t want a stranger washing your balls. But we’re not strangers, now, are we? I love you. You love me.”
Georgina Loretta Thompson—Poppy—tried to breathe, but it was difficult with a hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight lying on her chest. Something dripped on her nose. She was pretty sure it was drool. Drool was the most logical assumption, when the big black oaf sprawled on her in a snoozing heap was a Newfoundland.
“I don’t want to have to get tough about this,” she crooned affectionately. “I know you’re tired and you’ve been good forever. More than any human has a right to expect. But honestly, love bug, you’re wet and heavy and we have to finish up. Your owner’s going to be here in another hour.”
Beast seemed to realize she was unhappy with him. He reached down with a tongue longer than Poppy’s whole face and, eyes closed, slathered a slow, wet kiss down her cheek.
“I love you, too. Really. But remember how we talked about this? I’m the alpha dog in the pack. That means you’re supposed to obey me. In fact, you’re supposed to cower in my presence. You don’t just get to flop down on top of me whenever you want your own way.”
“That’s it, Poppy, you tell that dog who’s boss.”
Poppy winced. Naturally she recognized the gruff, humored voice in the doorway. She was too old to be humiliated this way. Or so she’d been telling herself ever since she’d taken the job with Webster O’Brien four years ago.
“I suppose you think I can’t get this dog off me,” she said darkly.
“It wouldn’t be the first dog who had you buffaloed.”
“Beast does not have me buffaloed. I’m letting him take a little break. He’s been good as an angel for hours. You saw him when he came in. He was a mess. Naturally he got tired of being groomed and cut and shampooed and fussed with all day.”
“Uh-huh. So he lay on top of you to take a nap. And to drool on your face. But that’s totally your choice, right?”
“There was a reason I permanently gave up men and took up dogs,” she told Beast. And then to her boss she said, “Did you come in here just to pour grief on my head or did you have another purpose?”
“I did. A serious purpose, actually. And I promise I’ll tell you in a minute, but honest to Pete, I have to do this first.” Her vision was blocked by Beast’s big, heavy head, but she heard the click-click-click of a camera. “There now. That should be blackmail power for at least three months—”
“Did I mention recently that I think you’re low-down pond scum?”
“I don’t think it came up…since yesterday anyway.” He snapped his fingers. “Now I remember why I first came in. You had a phone call.”
Poppy normally had more patience than Job, but Beast’s heavy, damp weight was starting to get a wee bit claustrophobic. She tried a tactful shove. It had the same effect as dust moving a mountain. “Since when would you interrupt your day to tell me I had a phone call?”
“Well, Tommy had homework, so I told him he could go home, and Lola Mae left a half hour ago. And King Tut’s owner finally came in to pick him up, so I was getting ready to leave myself when the phone rang. I knew you were tied up with Beast here, but your caller didn’t want to leave a voice mail. He was real urgent about wanting you to call him back, still today or tonight if you can.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah, that’s how it sounded. And it was a lawyer, besides.”
“The only lawyer I know has a pit bull,” she started to say, and Web obviously couldn’t let that go.
“The only lawyer I know is a pit bull.” He laughed at his own joke and then peered over her head with that big, shaggy St. Bernard head of his. “Would you like some help?”
“Have you ever seen me need help with an animal? I’m completely in control of the situation.” Damn it. She was forty-two years old. Her clothes were soaked. Her hair and skin were damp and smelled like dog. Her back hurt. Her knees hurt. She’d never given a hoot about her appearance—what was the point when she was homelier than a coyote? But right now she’d be downright embarrassed to be seen in public—even if the only public around was Web.
“I could get him off you,” the vet said mildly.
“I’ll get him off when I’m good and ready. Exactly what did this lawyer say he wanted?”
“Just for you to call him back. It was Cal Asher. You know, next to the newspaper office?”
“Sure.” Everyone knew Cal. He looked like a reincarnated version of Mark Twain because of the white hair and moustache. And because Cal was an institution in Righteous, people tolerated his little problem with alcohol. He was a bright man. A good guy. People just knew to make an appointment with him before noon—and to get off the road if they saw his car. “That was the whole message? For me to call him? I can’t imagine what he’d want from me.”
“Beats me,” Web said peaceably. “Anyone suing you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You suing anyone?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You smack any men around lately?”
“No