Final Stand

“While you’re sight-seeing, I’ll find out for myself.”

Thank goodness for the unmistakable scent of scotch. It deep-sixed her self-consciousness and snapped her back into full wariness. Drunks were always a problem, big ones could be dangerous, angry ones could be lethal. The poor pooch, she thought with sympathy. Rescued from one predator only to be placed at the mercy of another.

“Front,” she said at the same moment that he glanced through the passenger window.

Bringing up the rear, she wasn’t surprised that the pup cowered at the sight of him. “Easy does it, sweetie,” she crooned. “Believe it or not, this is the cavalry.”

Stonehenge shot her a sidelong look as he opened the door. “What’s its name?”

“Feel free to pick something. But…I believe it’s a she.”

As he began examining the animal, she found herself hoping he wasn’t one of those incompetents who got into a profession because a parent or spouse had decided it was lucrative. Of course, the thought of his parentage then triggered the wry speculation as to which landmass he’d been excavated from. Moments later she had to acknowledge guilty admiration when she noticed his deft and surprisingly gentle inspection.

“She’s filthy. I can’t believe you put her in your van.”

Charming he wasn’t, however. “Me neither. But considering her condition, I doubted she could handle running tied to the sideview mirror.”

He cast her a brief, but unamused glance. “How old is she?”

“Are we having a hearing problem here or a language one? She ran in front of my car not ten minutes ago on the edge of town.”

“People always say that when they bring in a hurt animal they want to get rid of. Thing is, most don’t have the nerve to try that when it’s in as bad a shape as this one.”

If his intent was to intimidate, the man should have stuck with a stern bedside manner. All he’d succeeded in doing was to push her buttons. “Doctor, one more time…this is not my pet.”

The vet tilted his head toward the wary dog. “And I’m taking her word for it. She keeps looking at you for reassurance as to whether or not she should trust me.”

“Can you blame her?” The blunt response was out before she could edit it, the result of a fatigue brought on by too many hours behind the wheel and stress from too much concern over survival. “What I mean is—”

“Never mind. I’m prone to bluntness myself these days. And you’re right, I do look like hell, and my manners are worse.”

He seemed ready to say something else, but the dog, possibly reacting to a gentling of his gruff tone, edged over onto her back, exposing her belly as she had earlier. Frowning, he took new interest in the creature.

“That’s a nasty gash. Doesn’t quite look like an HBC, though. Hit by car,” he added at her blank look.

“If I hadn’t braked in time, you could have been looking at that, too. Whatever happened, it couldn’t have been long ago, could it?”

“No, my guess is a confrontation with a raccoon, or else she didn’t quite make a clean pass through barbed wire.”

“Can you help her?”

“I’ll need better light to examine her more thoroughly. Come on. You’ll have to help.”

“Excuse me?” She stared in disbelief as he scooped the animal into his arms and started toward the clinic. Help how? Slamming the van door, she called, “Wait. Hey!”

He kept walking.

“What do you mean help?” she demanded at his retreating back.

“Assist.”

“Not me. I’m no nurse.”

“You’ll do for this job.”

“But I have to go.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

To avoid raising her voice any more than necessary, she ran after him. “Look, undoubtedly you’ve put in a long day and would much prefer being in bed right now. So would I for that matter. Which is why I suspect we’re not communicating well. What I don’t think you’re grasping is that I’m not acquainted with, or in any way, shape or form connected to this dog.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then you understand that I’m not taking her with me after you treat her?”

“Did you read that sign out front?”

She was sure she had, but her usually reliable memory failed her. At the moment she couldn’t remember if his name was Sawyer, Sanders or…What did the smaller print say under Animal Clinic?

“What’s your point?”

“I don’t run an animal shelter, that’s up at Sonora. I’ll do what I can for her, but after that she’s your responsibility…and so is the bill.”

She couldn’t believe it. She was trying to perform a simple act of goodwill and he was going to stick it to her? No doubt charge overtime rates, too.

“No way!”

“You brought her in, she’s your responsibility. It’s either that or I’ll be forced to put her down straight off. Take your pick.”

As he said that, the dog whimpered and twisted in his arms with increased anxiety, not unlike an infant terrified that it was being abandoned to a stranger. The woman tried not to notice while struggling to figure a way out of her own dilemma.

This was what she deserved for not following training, let alone instincts. Granted, leaving the animal where she’d found it would have bothered her, but there wasn’t a day that went by when she didn’t see worse. It was the price you paid in her line of work. Now all she’d done was shift the pup from one kind of trouble into another. And there was no option of taking her with her; the dog would be miserable even if she hadn’t been in such poor condition, and in just as much jeopardy. Possibly more.

“Doctor, really—”

“The name’s Slaughter, first name Gray. Try to resist any impulses at humor if you don’t mind. I probably heard most of the nicknames before you were out of braces.”

It wasn’t the name that had her lifting her eyebrows. One of the first writers her father had introduced her to when the children’s section at the library had become boring, was surgeon-novelist Frank Slaughter. What startled her was the vet’s obvious misconception about the difference in their ages.

“Dr. Slaughter, I’ve been out of braces longer than you think, and I’m not about to—”

“Can you get the key?”

He’d stopped at the door and half turned toward her. She followed his glance downward, but only briefly.

“Now who’s being the comedian?”

“You interrupt a man when he’s trying to have a quiet drink in the privacy of his bedroom, you get what you get. Come on. This critter might be starving, but she’s still heavier than a feather pillow, and however old you are, I’m too much of a hard case for you to bother trying for a virginal blush.”