Hidden Treasures

Meghan scrambled to collect her belongings and managed to squeeze through the door just before it closed. She hurried to catch up with him. “I’ll help you.”

There wasn’t a hitch in his long-legged stride. “Not necessary, Miss McBride.”

“Two are better than one, for they have a good return for their work.” It was a verse from Ecclesiastes Meghan liked to use to encourage Caitlin when she went into control-freak mode. He shot Meghan a look that should have sent her scurrying for cover. If she was the scurrying kind. Which she wasn’t.

“We’re…I’m…looking for a dog. A spoiled-rotten, annoying, undisciplined dog.”

Meghan would have laughed except it looked as if he meant every word. “Does this, um, spoiled, annoying, undisciplined dog have a name?”

“Of course it has a name,” he replied irritably.

Someone had definitely skipped the Mister Rogers’ episode about good manners. “Dogs have been known to respond when their owner calls their name.”

“That might work. If I were the ungrateful rodent’s owner.”

The animal lover in Meghan rose up in immediate protest. Points for good looks, major demerits for the rodent comment.

“What kind of dog is it?” Meghan followed him onto a footpath that disappeared into the woods. Only the flashlight beam Bert swept back and forth kept her from tripping over the roots that had erupted through the hard-packed soil.

“I told you.”

“You told me it was annoying and spoiled—”

“And undisciplined.”

“Right.” Meghan cleared her throat. “That may or may not describe its temperament. But what breed of dog is it?”

“Some kind of powder-puff thing.” The words came out grudgingly.

“I don’t think the American Kennel Club officially registers those.” Meghan heard a snort from the shadow moving ahead of her.

She stumbled over another root and dropped the duffel bag she now wished she’d left at the boathouse. Pressing a hand to the stitch in her side, she made an executive decision. She put her fingers between her lips and let loose a piercing whistle.

The flashlight beam pooled on the path and then swung in her direction. “If you wanted to get my attention, all you had to do was tap me on the shoulder.”

Meghan planted her hands on her hips. “Actually, I’m trying to get the dog’s attention. But it would help if I knew his name.”

Silence.

“This is crazy, Mr….” Was Bert his first or last name? She had no idea. “He could be two feet away—” Hiding from you. “But if the storm scared him, he won’t come out unless he hears a familiar voice call his name.”

“It’s a she,” he finally said. “Miss Molly. And please don’t sing the words to the song,” he added swiftly. “It’s been done before. Frequently.”

Meghan hummed a bar instead and heard Bert groan. She grinned, not sure why she took such delight in irritating him. She didn’t even know the man. “Thank you. Now we’re getting somewhere. Miss Molly—”

Her lips had barely gotten the words out when a small, furry object suddenly hurtled out of the brush and bumped against her leg, whimpering. Meghan lifted Miss Molly up and cuddled the animal against her chest. From the shape of the dog and its soft coat, she guessed it was a bichon. “I think I found her.”

He turned around and strode back down the path, eyeing the bedraggled animal in disgust when he reached Meghan’s side. “It’s about time.”

You’re welcome, Meghan thought. If he would have swallowed his manly pride and simply called the dog by her name, they probably wouldn’t have had to trek through the woods to find her.

Miss Molly wiggled in Meghan’s arms and gazed adoringly at Bert.

Hey, who was the one who rescued you? Meghan wanted to remind her. This guy called you a rodent….

Bert stripped off his lightweight nylon jacket and tucked it around the dog. Then he took Meghan’s duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Meghan smiled as she followed him back down the trail. So there was a heart beating underneath the little polo player embroidered on his shirt.

When they emerged from the woods, Bert ignored the flagstone path and cut across the yard toward the house. Meghan could see a collection of strange silhouettes in the shadows and silently kicked herself for falling asleep in the boathouse. Now she’d have to wait until morning to explore the island.

“Did you find her?” Light spilled onto the grass as a woman suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“We found her,” Bert replied tersely.

“We?”

Meghan felt a sudden urge to jump behind a shrub as the woman’s head turned in her direction. For the hundredth time that day she wondered what she’d gotten herself into. Or, more accurately, what had her dad and Nina Bonnefield gotten her into? And why had she agreed?

Because Ms. Bonnefield had somehow figured out that while Meghan wouldn’t be swayed by a generous personal check, the offer of a sizable donation to a ministry close to her heart would tip the balance in her favor.

“Come inside, both of you. You must be soaked to the skin.” The woman stepped back as they reached the semicircle of flagstones in front of the weathered red door. The elements had stripped most of the original paint away and left the lion’s head door knocker tarnished.

What exactly was the caretaker taking care of? That’s what Meghan wanted to know.

She unveiled Miss Molly and the little dog almost leaped out of her arms when she spotted the other woman standing in the hall.

Their reunion gave Meghan a chance to covertly study Miss Molly’s owner. She looked to be in her late fifties, but the combination of a petite figure and ash-blonde hair, shot with silver and cut in a short, low-maintenance style, gave her an almost pixielike appearance.

“I take it she belongs to you.” Meghan gently eased the dog into the woman’s arms but not before Miss Molly swiped Meghan’s cheek in a polite doggy thank-you.

“She does, but over the past few days, I think she’s decided she’d rather belong to him.” The woman’s eyes sparkled behind delicate gold-framed glasses. “That’s how she got lost. She snuck out of the house and went looking for her new friend.”

Meghan hid a smile when Bert winced.

“Follow me. I have a fire going in the library. I know it’s the middle of summer but on nights like this, there’s nothing more comforting than a cup of tea in front of the fireplace.”

Meghan liked the woman immediately.

“I’m Meghan McBride. The wedding photographer.” Maybe if she said it often enough, it would eventually sink in.

“Elizabeth Ward. But call me Bert—everyone does.”

“Bert?” Meghan frowned.

“I’m the caretaker here.”

“But he told me that he was the caretaker.” Confused, Meghan shot a glance at the man who’d dropped into the chair closest to the fire and stretched out his long legs.