Part 6 (1/2)

”How is he now?”

It seemed like a genuine question, but Brenna didn't quite get ita”or his presence here. He didn't seem apologetic or abrasive. More like . . . questing. So she shrugged in response to his question about Druid, crossing her fingers where he could see and not bothering to vocalize above the renewed spate of barking from the Husky in the bottom crate. The dog that would take the longest to dry, of coursea”fate decreed that those were the noisiest. When the dog paused for breath and perhaps to see if he'd impressed anyone, she said, ”Can I do something for you? I've got to get Mr. Congeniality bathed so I can get that Dobie out of here. Her mom's coming in twenty-five minutes.”

”Let me do the Westie,” he suggested.

She raised both eyebrows high in astonishment, then laughed, short and loud and not quite truly amused. ”A week, I said, Mr. Masera. Not one little Westie.”

”You did. But I don't have a week, and I never will. I do have the time to do the Westie, thougha”and it looks to me like you could use the help.” There it was again, that tease of an accent.

”That's the understatement of the year,” Brenna muttered, a.s.suming he wouldn't hear it and surprised when he responded.

”Things change this time of year,” he said.

”You a fortune-teller?”

”You want the help?” He nodded at the Westie.

”Yes,” she said, and indicated the smock hanging on the corner of the metal shelves. ”There's an extra, if you want it.”

He gave it a looka”at least it was basic black, and not blinding pink as some of the excessively perky smocks often werea”and shook his head. She wasn't surprised; it was cut for a medium woman; on her the sleeves fell short and the hem barely covered her thighs where they hit the table edge, leaving the shorn hair a chance to work its way into her jeans. And while Masera wasn't hugea”not the beefy type, but somewhere between that and whipcord, with legs as long as her owna”the smock would probably be more annoying than protective.

”Call me Gil,” he said. ”Or Masera. Mr. Masera is reserved for Boy Scouts.” He rolled up the cuffs on his ubiquitous flannel s.h.i.+rt. Blue today.

Gil. It didn't suit him somehow; she wasn't sure why. And she knew she should tell him to call her Brenna, but when her mouth opened, nothing came out. By the wall, Druid sat wary and watchful, and Brenna suddenly realized that, for some reason, she felt exactly the same way. Wary. So instead she reached for the correct squeeze bottle of diluted shampoo, and tipped it at him like a drink. ”This is what he needs,” she said, stepping out of the way. And then, though she wanted to hover and supervise, she got a grooming noose from the hook by the door and went to the Dobie's crate. Sweet Sara Dobie with her extreme overbite and her worried eyes; Brenna always tried to get her done first. Druid, who had quickly learned the patterns of activity here, already waited by the door.

When she glanced at the tub, she discovered that Masera had removed the muzzle. Of course. ”You'll want that,” she told him, turning off all the dryers for a moment of respite and easier conversation.

He looked at the muzzle and said, ”Does Mickey ever help out back here?”

”Mickey?” she said. ”Why would he? He's in stock. If I've talked to him twice, I don't remember the second time. And really. You need the muzzle.”

He said mildly, ”I don't.”

”You know what?” she said, discovering that she just didn't care enough to be angry or annoyed, not with the dogs waiting to be done and Sara s.h.i.+fting nervously by her side. ”Yes, you do. Because no matter how good you are, no matter how many dogs you've trained, you're not going to train that one out of biting in the tub and bathe it within the next fifteen minutes. And that's what it's all about in here, you know? Not training them, not civilizing them, not trying to socialize them in the few moments every three months that I might have my hands on them, and not getting bitten. Cleaning them up, making them as comfortable as possible so they can get through another seasona”that's what it's about. And doing as many as possible in one day, and getting them done when we've told their owners we will. So if you're not going to use that muzzle, tell me nowa”because I can bathe that dog and have it dry by the time you even get it near a crate. We don't train them. We handle them as best we can without getting hurt. Do you get that now?”

For a moment he looked unaffected; she waited for his gaze to grow lidded and hard. Instead his eyebrows drew together to pinch the high, thin bridge of his nosea”just for a moment. Then the expression smoothed and he said, ”This is killing you, you know. You care too much.”

Her eyes widened; deep inside something twisted, and in that moment she hated him. ”What an astonis.h.i.+ngly personal thing to say,” she told him, her own voice as hard as she'd expected from him. Sara the Doberman gave her hand a nudge with a cold nose and offered a whisper of a whine; she put an absent and soothing hand on the dog's head. ”Are you going to put that muzzle back on, or should I put Sara back in the crate and do the bath myself?”

”I'll use the muzzle,” he said, still mild, and had it back on the dog almost before he'd finished speaking.

She didn't know what to say thena”thank you might have been good, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. Not when she didn't entirely understand why he was here in the first place, or why he was making this peace overture when he'd also made it so clear how he felt about groomers. Or how quickly, when he wanted to, he could nail down things she knew better even than to think about. You care too much. ”He'll try to slip the noose,” she muttered, and flipped the dryers on in quick succession so that if he had anything else to say, maybe he wouldn't.

He didn't.

He bathed the dog, toweled it off, and had it drying in the crate by the time she worked out the bulk of Sara's fine, shedding winter coata”even Dobies hid an amazing amount of insulation on their thin-skinned bodiesa”filled out the paperwork, and returned to the tub room. She found him tossing used towels into the hamper, and she spent a studious few moments adjusting the dryers on each doga”there were never enough, it seemed, especially not with that Husky in the lineupa”and finally couldn't avoid turning to him.

”Thank you,” she said, looking at his wet knees instead of his face. ”That makes my day easier.”

”A little shorter, maybe.” He shrugged, and she looked up to see a fleeting smile. ”Probably not actually easier.” He tossed a final towel into the hamper and headed for the door, where he turned long enough to add, ”Though I meant for it to.”

And left her thinking about it while the door closed in his wake.

Or not thinking about it. She was, she determined right then, far too busy to think about any of it for the rest of the day. She felt a gentle pressure on her leg and looked down to find Druid sitting up on his haunches, one paw c.o.c.ked up and the other barely touching hera”for her attention or for balance or out of concern, she wasn't sure. But he got a big hug all the same.

And then she went on with her day.

Brenna left Pets! feeling more upbeat than seemed reasonable after the way the day had started. But Elizabeth had come in early, and they had taken a moment to present a united front to Roger, armed with enough commonsense arguments to earn themselves a permanent bather for the season. No more grabbing whoever was convenient, no more wasting time training a new temp bather every week.

a.s.suming that DeNise, the cheerful young woman who'd enthusiastically agreed to work with the dogs, didn't quit before the summer was over. Brenna suspected that DeNise had no idea just how much crate cleaning the grooming work entailed. But she seemed sensible enough, and st.u.r.dy enough to deal with the physical part of the work. Most importantly, her nails were already neatly trimmed and she wouldn't spend half of her time trying to protect them.

But when Brenna stepped into the parking lot with Druid on a pleasant heel beside her, her arms full of her coat and her purchases for the daya”more bones to keep Sunny happy in the crate and please, G.o.d, let the danger from the dog pack pa.s.s soona”that upbeat mood blew away with the strong spring breeze at the sight of Masera, almost around the corner of the building with his SUV, tailgate open and down, handing off a wad of money and taking two young pit bulls in exchange. Stout and already muscular despite their early age, probably actually some mix of American Pit Bull and American Staffords.h.i.+re Terrier; people called both breeds ”pit bull” and most didn't distinguish between them.

In between dogs, was he? Looking at a Cardi for his next, was he? That would have made sense, tooa”Cardigans were a herding breed, highly suited to obedience and agility compet.i.tion, and a good showcase for his training business. But pit bulls? And was that Mickey from the stockroom standing with his back to her, looking sullen even from that perspective?

He'd lied to her.

He'd come in and made nice and lied to her.

And d.a.m.n, it bothered her.

She wasn't sure she liked him, but she'd respected him for coming to the grooming room, for offering to bathe the Westiea”and for doing it her way. But he'd lied, and now he had his hands on a pair of pit bulls in a back-lot transaction that didn't make her think of anything good.

”Maybe he's rescuing them,” she told Druid, watching Masera hoist the dogs into the SUV and crate them. But she didn't convince even herself with that one.

So go ask him.

She'd have to run for it, Druid and packages and all, bellowing his name across the parking lot, and he was already climbing into the driver's seat. In the time it took for that thought, she missed her chance; he was pulling away from the building. d.a.m.n. Druid whined, looking up at her, and she s.h.i.+fted her grip on the slipping coat and packages, heading for her pickup. ”As if I care.”

She didn't convince herself with that, either.

Chapter 8.

NAUTHAZ.

Restriction & Pain

A quick stop at the video store netted Brenna a light romantic film she had missed in the theaters, and she splurged on a big bag of malted milk b.a.l.l.s from the bulk section in the supermarket when she ran through to scoop up groceries for the week. She grabbed some seedling flats while she was at it; tomorrow was supposed to be fine and sunny, she had the day off, and she looked forward to a day of puttering. Put the little tomatoes in big pots so she could bring them in if they got a late frost, clear out the leaf mulch she'd had protecting her chrysanthemums, do a little target shooting and give the rifle a good cleaning, let Sunny have a good run . . .

Puttering. And tonight, malted milk b.a.l.l.s, a sentimental happy-ending movie, and maybe if she got her second wind she'd even clean the bathroom. Alone again, of course. Too fixed on her own course, too strong in who she wasa”for good or bada”to suit anyone else for long.

Besides, she liked movie rental nights and puttering days.

By the time she got home it was twilighta”even her early hours couldn't make up for a slow grocery cash-out linea”so she put Sunny out on the cable run she'd constructed several days earlier and threw a pot on the stove for pasta. They all ate togethera”even Sunny, who had graduated to strictly supervised moments in the kitchena”and Brenna tossed Sunny back into the crate with a new bone. ”Poor hound,” she said fondly at Sunny's forlorn look. Sunny was a creature of sinew and long legs and the need to romp, and the crating routine had gone on for far too longa”especially considering that there had been no sightings of the pack. Brenna would give her a few extra moments on the run later on. For now, she was ready to settle in to the old couch in the den, a comforter on her shoulders and a Cardi in her lap. By the time she finished the video she'd be lucky to make it from the couch to the bed, despite the early houra”but that was the norm for her lark's schedule.