Chapter 1
Could you take off your scarf? The movement bothers the animals.” “What? Oh, okay.” I stepped farther into the barn. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the cat’s body materialized around the luminous eyes. The cat’s ears twitched forward, and it gazed at a spot to the left of one of the taller stacks. I turned toward Beryl, my finger to my lips, and then I slowly moved toward the bales. My new boots squeaked, and Bertie was right behind me, his big paws rustling the hay littering the floor. I signaled for him to stay. The moment I heard a puppy whimper, I rounded the stack, blocking the exit. A mutt with matted fur the color of dirty milk faced me. Noting her stiff-legged stance and hackles, I turned my back to her, letting her catch my scent. A few seconds later, there was a soft swish, and I peeked to see Ghost sidling alongside the haystack, holding a pup by the scruff. I moved to block her path and waited. Then I waited some more before I took three steps backward, pausing between each one, until I judged that I’d cornered the mutt. A mottled brown pup came to investigate me, snuffling at my dusty jeans. I lifted the leash until the loop was in front of Ghost’s muzzle. “It’s okay, little mama, I’m getting you out of here.” The fur still stood on her thin spine, but she let me slip the loop over her head and around the puppy in her jaws. I savored the stillness of the dark, cool barn. And then goddamn Beryl do-si-doed in, saying, “Did you get her?” and Ghost dropped the puppy and leaped up, contorting and snapping while I drew the leash high on her neck and ordered, “Get out,” keeping my voice even and low. I was aware of Beryl retreating, but I focused on Ghost. I held on even when she bit through my jeans into flesh. The pain took seconds to register, and I let out a grunt. I knew Ghost’s heart must be racing; I kept calm because she needed me to be calm. The instant she stopped fighting and cowered, panting, I led her straight out of the barn, keeping the leash high to let her know I was in charge. The puppies tripped along behind us, and I walked past Beryl into a day so bright I was blinded by the reflection from one of the steel sculptures marking the property. I blinked rapidly and kept moving forward. A flick of my hand was enough for Bertie to take his place at my heel, and his ease reassured the stray. We strode into the green fields, blooming with chrome yellow star-thistle, black-eyed Susan, and golden poppies. I breathed in air so crystalline it went through me, sharp and pure. I ignored my creaking boots and listened to the pups dashing joyously through the grasses until we reached a narrow creek flickering silver over gray stones. The creek was lower than I’d ever seen this early in the season. The winter rains hadn’t been nearly enough after years of drought. I stopped to let Ghost drink, pleased that she was already accepting me. The puppies approached Bertie and sniffed him, jumping in his face as puppies do, before he gave them a level glare. They scampered off to splash at the edge of the water and snap at skeeter bugs. They were insanely cute, about nine weeks old, with round bellies and soft fuzzy fur. When Ghost didn’t attempt to return to the barn, I knew there were only two pups. I wanted to stay there in the dazzle of light, watching the pups play, basking in the sun’s warmth, smelling the wet soil and the rich vegetative rot at the edge of the water, and hearing dragonflies flitting by. I wanted time to stop and worries to evaporate like the dew from the drying grasses. I wanted to be alone with the dogs and the chilly water and the rocks born before time and a sky that was so very blue, but not blue, an illusion of clarity and color. I looked back and saw Beryl making her way across the field toward me. I didn’t care that my truck was parked by the barn. I peeled off my shirt, tied the sleeves together, and looped it over my neck and shoulder. I scooped up the puppies and placed them inside the sling. They squirmed against my ribs before settling down. I liked the solidity of their little bodies snuggling against mine. I waded across the shallowest part of the creek, hoping to stretch my boots. My right leg throbbed where Ghost had bitten me, and a rivulet of blood ran down to my sock as I cut through another field to reach the road leading into town. My heels clacked against the asphalt as we walked by a vineyard, which was beginning to leaf out, and the dogs and I found a rhythm. The yellow roses planted at the border of the vineyard were about to bloom. Yellow like canaries in a coal mine, my mother used to say, because the sensitive roses would be the first to indicate problems with the soil or water. An engine’s roar broke the silence, and I moved to the dirt path beside the road and glanced behind me. A tricked-out Ford slowed, and I recognized one of the hardware store jerks as he bashed his horn and screeched, “Crazy whore!” before tearing off. Bertie tensed momentarily before dropping to his usual pace. I scratched his head. “The grand thing about you, Bertie, is that you don’t rush into brawls. Now, the mystery is: how can that little prick afford a Raptor?” My dog wagged his long tail. I thanked him for modeling good social behavior for Ghost and discussed my need for a new truck. “Not brand new, but something reliable. I know you’ll miss the accumulated smells, but rest assured that any vehicle of mine will smell like dogs given sufficient time.” We arrived at the edge of the half-mile comprising downtown Coyote Run. Many shops were boarded up and others looked as if they were begging for a wrecking ball to put them out of their misery. The veterinary clinic was an avocado-green stucco bungalow with an adjoining cottage. Kennels were set at the back of the property, under sprawling oaks. A newly painted cream and burgundy sign read Coyote Run Veterinary Clinic, Benjamin R. Meadows, DVM, but Doc Pete’s rusty horseshoes were still nailed to the corrugated metal awning. When we walked into the clinic, Ghost skittered on the slick linoleum. Bertie immediately began a perimeter check of the lobby, sniffing out recent visitors. Douglas O’Donnell stood on the other side of the reception counter, looking like the middle-aged stoner he was, with a monk’s fringe of blond hair gone silver and a turquoise stud in one earlobe. His features were oversized in a weathered face shrunken with the years. He wore a purple and orange aloha shirt and jeans. His blind scruffy mutt, Gizmo, snoozed on a cushion behind his chair. “Afternoon, Maddie. Beryl Jensen just called and said you caught her stray and ditched your truck at her place. You got a baby tucked in your shirt?” “Babies, plural, and, fortunately for all of us, not human.” I reached into the sling, pulled out the puppies, and set them on the floor. “I thought a walk would work off the mama’s anxiety before coming here. Since when is Beryl a redhead?” “With your dark skin and eyes, you’d look hot as a pistol in that color, Maddie. Geez, I think I’ve absorbed fashion tips from the wife’s magazines.” “My sister is obsessed with dying my hair the same color as hers. She’d dress us in matching outfits if she could. Beryl gets on my nerves.” “How many times did Doc Pete tell you that canine valium is perfectly safe for human use?” “Too many. People assume that giving me pharmaceuticals will make me less annoying to them. If they don’t want to be annoyed, they should take the pills.” “Which reminds me, if you need to decompress, I’ve got enough in my personal stash to parcel out.” “I’ll pass. Can’t you get something mellower? Something that will level me out, but not leave me paranoid or comatose?” “I don’t have the time to shop around for you, hon. I take whatever’s available at the Ring-A-Bell.” “The problem with this stupid town is there’s no medical dispensary with reliable product standards. Have you ever thought about opening one?” “Right, because the economy is booming, and I’d love the paperwork of a business where federal law prohibits bank transactions,” he said. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t say anything to Dr. Meadows.” “I don’t want to say a goddamn thing to New Doc beyond ‘Here are the dogs,’ and ‘Adios, sucka.’” Dawg laughed his low hrr, hrr, hrr, which sounded like a dying coffee grinder.
