Part 22 (1/2)
”She told me to leave the gate open and let him loose in the woods where he belonged. I didn't want to do it, sir. But she insisted.”
The viscount glanced at the dog and then the groundskeeper. He placed the rope in his hands. ”You take care of Thor. I'l take care of my mother on the morrow.”
He turned from the door muttering something beneath his breath.
Hannah glanced back at the dog, her heart pained at the thought of leaving him. She cal ed after the viscount, ”Lord Ashton?”
Thor instantly sat on the doorstep. The viscount turned, equal y attentive.
”I wonder if I could have your permission to look in upon Thor on occasion.” She scratched the fur between his ears.
”I'm going to miss him.”
A smile eased onto his face. He advanced toward the women, offering his arms to escort them back.
”Miss Waverly, both you and Miss Darlington have my permission to look upon him whenever you desire. In fact, I believe Thor and I would like to become better acquainted with both of you ladies.”
A thril slipped down Hannah's spine. Although the viscount had properly addressed the both of them, as wel he should, she had the distinct impression his words were meant particularly for her.
”However, I do foresee one difficulty, Miss Waverly.”
”What is that, sir?”
”Given the way my dog responds to Lord Ashton, I believe you shal have to address me in a different manner.”
She remembered how the dog sat at her feet whenever she mentioned the viscount's name and imagined the man responding similarly. She suppressed a giggle. ”Did you have a suggestion, sir?” she asked.
He stopped and turned expressly toward her. ”I thought perhaps you could address me using my Christian name. I know that implies a familiarity that may be premature in nature.”
She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face and prayed that his request was not premature at al . On impulse she moistened her lips and tilted her face toward his. ”And what, sir, might that be?”
”Harry,” he responded. ”Lord Harry Ashton.”
To read more about the special cla.s.ses at the Pettibone School for Young Ladies, see The Education Of Mrs. Brimley, published by Berkley Sensation, October 2007, ISBN #978-0-425-21830-3.
DANNY'S DOG.
Sarah McCarty.
CHAPTER ONE.
”No one dies today.”
Two or three shelter volunteers looked at Kathy askance, before immediately going back to what they were doing, sorting the living from the dead, the healthy animals from the terminal. The stench of urine, feces, and rotting flesh burned through the mask Kathy held over her face as she surveyed the house. So clean on the outside with its blue siding and cream shutters, so much suffering inside.
Footsteps crunched on the dry gra.s.s. Jim, the shelter director came up beside her. ”You know we can't guarantee that.”
Only a few inches tal er than her five-foot-four he was una.s.suming in appearance, but when it came to the battle to save animals in need, he had what it took. Commitment and the ability to bounce back from one loss to fight another day. In six months, she'd never learned to do that. Kathy pushed her hair out of her face, her fingers catching on a tangle in the blond strands. Turning her hand, she observed the bra.s.sy remnants of her once impeccably maintained highlights. She only knew how to fight.
”You heard me.”
Jim motioned a volunteer with a crate of skinny, fussing kittens to the van on the right. Placement in the vans was the first step in a sort of rough triage. The two white vans contained the animals most likely to live. The blue van was for animals with a question mark. The yel ow van was for the ones who might be too far gone for saving.
”Be practical.”
She'd been practical her whole life, planned everything.
Fol owed through. The only thing she had to show for it was . . . nothing. ”That's your job.”
Hers was to coordinate the medical care and fostering for the animals that needed it.
She watched as a big black dog with more sores than hair struggled to fol ow a seasoned volunteer's urging to come with her. From his size, square muzzle, and big floppy ears, she determined he was probably a lab or lab mix. Though every step had to be agony with his infected wounds, the dog went with Susan, even sitting quietly when she stopped in front of the vans. Reflex more than anything else had Susan's hand dropping to the dog's broad head.
The dog flinched. Though the touch had to hurt, he leaned into Susan's side and kissed her wrist. At some point in the dog's life, he'd known love. And somehow, he'd lost it.
Kathy flinched as her eyes met his across the smal yard in silent empathy. Nothing hurt like that. Nothing.
Susan looked at Jim. Mouth tight, he motioned her to the yel ow van again. Blinking rapidly to dispel tears, giving the dog another pet, Susan nodded.
”No.” The denial burst from her. Oh, G.o.d no. The dog was so close to another chance. Kathy waved Susan back.
Jim cut her a hard look. He'd been doing that a lot lately.
Could he see how fragile her control was becoming?
”You find the money, the foster home and I'l save him.
Hel , I'l save them al .”
It was a fact of life in a shelter. Money was tight.
Volunteers tighter. When it came to who to save, it always boiled down to potential adoptability, and big black dogs were the last to be seen as wonderful, even if they were. To make matters worse, because of their size, they were expensive to treat and expensive to house. When operating on a shoestring, expensive mattered. Kathy and Walt had always planned on adopting a lab mix when Danny got old enough to have a dog. Except Danny was never getting any older, and she'd somehow lost Walt.
”You can't save them al ,” Jim reminded her in that no- nonsense voice he used on everyone who lost perspective.
You couldn't save him. There was nothing you could do.
The aching sense of loss that had been Kathy's constant companion for the last six months almost swal owed her whole. The horrible sense of guilt and failure fol owed immediately. She pushed them back. She couldn't take her gaze from the dog's, couldn't stop feeling his trust and joy.
He thought he was being saved. ”Not him.”