the Animal Shelter. But Raff put his hands on his cop hips and she thought any minute now he’d get ugly.
‘Henrietta has a van full of dogs to find,’ he snapped.
‘But she runs the Animal Shelter.’
‘So?’
‘So that’s where he needs to go. Surely not to be put down.’
Raff’s face hardened. She knew that look. Life hadn’t been easy for Raff—she knew that, too. When he was up against it … well, he did what he had to do.
‘Abby, I know this dog—I’ve known him for years,’ he told her, and his voice was suddenly bleak. ‘I took him to the Animal Shelter the night Isaac died. His daughter doesn’t want him and neither does anyone else. The only guy who loves him is Isaac’s gardener, and Lionel lives in a rooming house. There’s no way he can keep him. The Shelter’s full to bursting. Kleppy’s had six weeks and the Shelter can’t keep him any longer. Fred’s waiting. The injection will be quick. Don’t drag it out, Abby. Deliver the dog, and I’ll see you in court.’
‘But …’
‘Just do it.’ And he turned his back on her and started directing tow trucks.
He’d just given Abigail Callahan a dog and she looked totally flummoxed.
She looked adorable.
Yeah, well, it was high time he stopped thinking Abby was adorable. As a teenager, Abby had seemed a piece of him—a part of his whole—but she’d watched him with condemnation for ten years now. She’d changed from the laughing kid she used to be—from his adoring shadow—to someone he no longer liked very much.
He’d killed her brother.
Raff had finally come to terms with that long-ago tragedy—or he’d accepted it as much as he ever could—but he’d killed a part of her. How did a man get past that?
It was time he accepted that he never could.
What sort of name was Kleppy for a dog?
He shouldn’t have told her its name.
Only she would have figured it. The dog had a blue plastic collar, obviously standard Animal Welfare issue, but whoever had attached it had reattached his tag, as if they were leaving him a bit of personality to the end.
Kleppy.
The name had been scratched by hand on the back of what looked like a medal. Abby set the dog on her passenger seat—he wagged his tail again and turned round twice and settled—and she couldn’t help turning over his tag.
It was a medal. She recognised it and stared.
Old Man Abrahams had done something pretty impressive in the war. She’d heard rumours but she’d never had confirmation.
This was more than confirmation. A medal of honour, an amazing medal of honour—hanging on the collar of a scruffy, homeless mutt called Kleppy.
Uh-oh. He was looking up at her again now. His brown eyes were huge.
Six weeks in the Animal Shelter. She’d gone there once on some sort of school excursion. Concrete cells with a tiny exercise yard. Too many dogs, gazing up at her with hope she couldn’t possibly match.
‘The people who run this do a wonderful job,’ she remembered her teacher saying. ‘But they can’t save every dog. If you ask your parents for a pet for Christmas you need to understand a dog can live for twenty years. Every dog deserves a loving home, boys and girls.’
She’d been what? Thirteen? She remembered looking at the dogs and starting to cry.
And she also remembered Raff—of course it was Raff—patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Hey, it’s okay, Abby. There’ll be a fairy godmother somewhere. I reckon all these dogs’ll be claimed by tea time.’
‘Yeah, probably by your grandmother,’ someone had said, not unkindly. ‘How many dogs do you have, Finn?’
‘Seven,’ he’d said and the Welfare lady had pursed her lips.
‘See, that’s the problem,’ she said. ‘No family should have more than two.’
‘So you ought to bring five in,’ someone else told Raff and Raff had gone quiet.
You ought to bring five in. To be put down? Maybe that was what Philip would think, Abby decided, though she couldn’t remember Philip being there. But even then Philip had been a stickler for rules.
As were her parents.
‘We don’t want an abandoned dog,’ they’d said in horror that night all those years ago. ‘Why would you want someone else’s cast-off?’
She needed to remember her parents’ advice right now, for Isaac Abrahams’ cast-off was in her car. Wearing a medal of valour.
‘Move the car, Abby.’ Raff’s voice was inexorable. She glanced up and he was filling her windscreen.
‘I don’t want …’
‘You don’t always get what you want,’ he growled. ‘I thought you were old enough to figure that out. While you’re figuring, shift the car.’
‘But …’
‘Or I’ll get you towed for obstructing traffic,’ he snapped. ‘No choice, lady. Move.’
So all she had to do was take one dog to the vet’s and get herself to court. How hard was that?
She drove and Kleppy stayed motionless on the passenger seat and looked at her. Looking as if he trusted her with his life.
She felt sick.
This wasn’t her responsibility. Kleppy belonged to an old guy who’d died six weeks ago. His daughter didn’t want him. No one else had claimed him, so the sensible, humane thing to do was have him put down.
But what if …? What if …?
Oh, help, what she thinking?
She was getting married on Saturday week. To Philip.
Nine days.
Her tiny house was full of wedding presents. Her wedding gown was hanging in the hall, a vision of beaded ivory satin. She’d made it herself, every stitch. She loved that dress.
This dog would walk past it and she’d have dog hair on ivory silk …
Well, that was a dumb thing to think. For this dog to walk past it, he’d have to be in her house, and this dog was headed to the vet’s. To be put down.
He looked up at her and whimpered. His paw came out and touched her knee.
Her heart turned over. Nooooo.
It took five minutes to drive to the vet’s. Kleppy’s paw rested against her knee
