She finished her soda, picked up Bill’s can, and tossed both into the trash container. Then she went to find her next appointment.
A monumental woman in a flowered print dress stood behind the examining table with a gigantic black-and-white Maine coon cat, who began to yowl the instant Sarah walked in the door. The cat sounded hoarse. “Mrs. Pulaski, the desk says that Sweetums has a cold.”
BY THE TIME Mark worked through the telephone messages, his stomach was rumbling.
So was the weather, as it turned out. His cubicle was so insulated that he didn’t hear the thunder until he walked into the hall. The yaps and meows seemed to have increased in volume to vie with the cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning—although the waiting room was nearly empty.
Alva Jean on the desk had been replaced by Mabel Halliburton, fiftyish and comfortable. She cocked a motherly eye at Mark and said, “You look like you been rode hard and put away wet.”
“I was hoping it didn’t show.”
“Well, it does. Go home, have a nice glass of wine and a decent dinner. Can you cook?”
“Can but don’t. My idea of a gourmet feast is takeout Chinese.”
“Then take out. You need a good woman, Mark. Somebody to look after you.”
Mark laughed. “My mother gives me a decent dinner most Sundays when she’s not traveling. That’s as close to a good woman as I’m likely to get.”
Mabel shook her head and picked up the ringing telephone. “Creature Comfort Veterinary Clinic,” she trilled as she waved her fingers at Mark.
Damn! He’d forgotten to order that headset. He’d call Beth first thing tomorrow.
He stood for a moment in the doorway of the clinic and watched the rain sluice down. The wind drove it against the building and the cars. He looked at the flapping tarps that covered the remaining piles of building materials and fence posts, and hoped that whatever was underneath stayed dry.
The temperature had dropped about thirty degrees since he’d arrived at the clinic several hours ago. A night for neither man nor beast, as his grandfather would have said.
He took a deep breath and raced toward his car, clicking the button on his remote door lock as he went. As he yanked the door open, he saw a flash of dirty gray that looked like the head of an old mop skitter behind his front wheel.
“What the—”
The mop slid farther forward, flattened under the car. Some damn animal must have gotten loose from its owner. The last thing he needed was to drive over somebody’s pet tabby.
Rain ran down under the collar of his coat and dripped off his eyelashes. He was about as wet as he could possibly get. He hunkered down, and saw only the end of a matted behind. Didn’t look like anybody’s pet anything. But whatever it was, was shivering and soaked, much like Mark, himself.
He moved around to the front of the car and squatted to look under the bumper—and came nose to nose with a small, wet, gray face with shoe-button eyes rimmed in white.
A dog. Something resembling a dog. A terror-stricken little creature. Mark called to it. It stayed flat. He could see the water pouring under its belly. He couldn’t drive off with the thing under his car.
“Come on out of there,” he said.
The button eyes held his. The shivering continued. Damn thing must be half frozen. No way could that matted coat provide any protection.
Lightning flashed, and the dog whimpered, turning its head slightly in the direction of the flash.
It was wearing a collar. Oh God, it was somebody’s lost pet. Long lost, judging from the condition it was in. He’d heard that abandoned dogs tended to go feral, became frightened of human beings. Maybe this one was too cold and too wet and too frightened to run.
But probably not too frightened to bite Mark’s hand if he reached out for it. And it might be rabid.
For a moment he considered going back into the clinic and hunting up Jack Renfro or one of the kennel cleaners to capture the pup. But it might disappear in the meantime. The animal might not be Mark’s problem, but he couldn’t leave the poor thing to suffer.
He took a deep breath and reached out a tentative hand. “Come on, boy,” he whispered. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
He expected the dog to snarl or back away. For a moment nothing happened, then it began to wriggle its body forward toward Mark’s outstretched hand.
Mark ignored the water streaming into his eyes. Suddenly the only thing that mattered was that he win this creature over. He kept talking.
The dog kept inching.
Mark was afraid that if he made a grab for the dog, it would spook, so he kept up his soft patter, kept his hand out there while the rain ran down his arm.
“We’ll both wind up with pneumonia,” he whispered. The rear end of the small body gave an answering wriggle—as though the dog were trying to wag a tail that was no longer there.
The small triangular head had almost touched Mark’s knee. He reached down and touched the wet fur between the ears. The little dog sighed softly and came all the way out to lean against Mark’s leg.
“What the hell am I going to do with you?” he asked as he stroked the pitiful body. His hand felt lumps under the matted fur.
Ticks. The dog was covered with them, buried deep in his fur. Mark hated ticks. He’d had to pull them off Mickey after they’d spent an afternoon in the woods. Pulled them off himself, as well. Fat, bloated, disgusting things. He closed his eyes.
“Okay, up you go,” he said. “But if one of those things comes off on me, you’re in big trouble.”
The animal couldn’t have weighed more than eight or nine pounds. When Mark lifted it, he felt its ribs and heard its heart fluttering. Mark held it against his chest.
He walked back to the clinic, pushed the door open with his hip and walked in.
“Car won’t start?” Mabel asked as she looked up from her registration sheet. “Oh my God, what on earth…?” She came around the counter at a run.
“Stray, found him under my car. Can you take him?”
He held the dog out, but it struggled to remain in his arms.
“Wait, I’ll call Dr. Marsdon.”
Two minutes later, when Sarah reached across the steel examining table to take the dog, he whimpered again and buried his head under the shoulder of Mark’s jacket.
Mark cupped him possessively. “You’re scaring him.”
“I know,” Sarah said. She came around the table. “Hey, sweetie, it’s okay.” She stroked the small body.
Her gentle voice, the soft hand that touched his chest as she reached for the dog, made Mark’s whole body tense.
She took the dog and set it carefully on the table. “Hand me some of those towels over there,” she said, pointing to the corner of the room.
Mark complied. She began to dry the dog gently. It cowered on its belly, eyes never leaving Mark’s face.
“We’ve got to get these ticks off,” Sarah said. “Lord knows how much blood she’s lost.”
“She?”
“She. Didn’t you check?”
“Who could tell under all that matted hair?”
“Well, she’s a she, and…” Sarah raised the corner of the dog’s mouth. “Her gums are pretty red. That’s a good sign. It means she’s not as anemic as I thought she