a scared look. She knew what he was going to say. She was way in front of him.
The vet.
‘Do you have any more steak?’ She couldn’t quite get her voice to work. She couldn’t quite get her heart to work. But she wasn’t going to say the vet word.
‘No. You?’
‘I have dinners for one. Calorie controlled.’
‘Right, like Horse needs a diet.’
‘I’ll bring four.’
They worked on. Gabe hauled on a T-shirt and jeans and so did she, but the attention of both was on the dog. Hostilities were suspended.
The dog was so close to the edge that the sheer effort of eating seemed too much. By the look of his muzzle, he’d been sick. ‘Sea water,’ Gabe said grimly as he cleaned him. ‘There’s little fresh water round here. If he’s been wandering since the van crashed he’s had almost a week of nothing.’
That was a lot of speech for Gabe. They should take him to the vet, Nikki thought, but with the vet came a decision that neither of them seemed able to face. Not yet.
Save him and then decide. Dumb? Maybe, but it was what her gut was dictating, and Gabe seemed to be following the same path.
Gabe was encouraging the dog to drink, little by little. He found some sort of syringe and gently oozed water into the big dog’s mouth. Once they were sure he could swallow, Nikki shredded chicken, popping tiny pieces into Horse’s slack mouth and watching with satisfaction as he managed to get it down.
Slowly.
‘If we feed him fast he’ll be sick and we’ll undo everything,’ Gabe said. He sounded as if he knew what he was doing. How come he had a syringe on hand? Had he coped with injured animals before?
He was an enigma. Craggy and grim. A professional fisherman. Broad, but with muscles, there was not an inch of spare flesh on him.
He flashed from silence and anger, to caring, to tender, just like that. His hands as he cared for the big dog were gentle as could be; rough, weathered fisherman’s hands fondling the dog’s ears, holding the syringe, waiting with all the patience in the world for Horse to open his mouth.
Horse.
Why name a stray dog?
Why look at her landlord’s hand and think … and think …?
Nothing.
She should be back on her side of the house right now, enmeshed in plans for the air conditioning system for a huge metropolitan shopping centre. The centre had been the focus of an outbreak of legionnaires’ disease. Their air conditioning system needed to be revamped, and the plans needed to be finalised. Now.
Her plans were urgent—even if they bored her witless.
And Gabe should be fishing. He obviously thought that was urgent.
But nothing seemed more important than sitting by the fireside with Gabe and with Horse, gradually bringing the big dog back to life.
They were succeeding. The shuddering ceased. The dog was still limp, but he was warm and dry, and there was enough food and water going in to make them think the worst was past.
So now what?
The dog was drifting into sleep. Nikki glanced briefly at Gabe and caught a flash of pain, quickly suppressed. His head? Of course it was his head, she thought. That bruise looked horrible. What was she doing, letting him work on the dog?
‘You need to sleep, too,’ she told him.
‘We should make a decision about this guy. Take him …’
‘Let him sleep,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘For a bit. Then … maybe we could clean him up a bit more. If we take him back to the shelter looking lovely, then he has a better chance …’
‘He’s never going to look lovely,’ Gabe said. ‘Not even close.’
Maybe he wouldn’t. The dog was carrying scars. Patches of fur had been torn away, wounds had healed but the fur hadn’t grown back. An ugly scar ran the length of his left front leg. And what was he? Wolfhound? Plus the rest.
‘It’s drawing it out,’ Gabe said and Nikki flinched. She looked down at the dog and felt ill—and then she looked at Gabe and felt her own pain reflected in his eyes.
‘Not yet,’ she said, suddenly fierce. ‘Not until he’s slept. And not until you’ve slept. You have the day off work. I know you’re angry, and you can be as angry as you like with me, but what’s done’s done. Your head’s hurting. Go back to bed and sleep it off, and let Horse sleep.’
‘While you play Florence Nightingale to us both?’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice even. ‘A nurse is the last thing I could ever be, but it doesn’t take Florence to see what you need. You and Horse both. I need to do some work …’
‘You and me both.’
‘Get over it,’ she snapped. ‘You’re wounded, I’m not. So what I’m suggesting is that I bring my paperwork in here and do it at your dining table so I can keep an eye on Horse. I’ll keep checking the fire, I’ll keep offering Horse food and drink, and you go back to bed and wake up when your body lets you.’
‘You’ll check on me, too?’
‘Every two hours,’ she said firmly. ‘Like a good Florence. Though I’d prefer you to leave your door open so I can make sure you’re not dead all the time.’
‘This is nonsense. I need to mend cray-pots.’
‘You’ve got the day off,’ she snapped. ‘I told Hattie you were ill. Don’t make a liar of me.’
‘You really will look after the dog?’
‘I’ll look after both of you, until you wake up. Then …’ She glanced down at Horse and looked away. ‘Then we’ll do what comes next.’
He rang Raff from the privacy of his bedroom. The Banksia Bay cop answered on the first ring. ‘Why aren’t you at sea?’ Raff demanded. ‘Hattie says you hit your head. I thought you sounded bad last night. You want some help?’
This town, Gabe thought grimly. Banksia Bay was a great place to live unless you hankered for privacy. He did hanker for privacy, but he loved the place and intrusion was the price he paid.
‘And Hattie says your tenant’s looking after you. Mate …’ Raff drew the word out—maaate. It was a question all by itself.
‘She hit me,’ he said before he could help himself.
‘Did she now.’ Raff thought about that for a bit. ‘She had her reasons?’
Nip that one in the bud. ‘She thought I was a bunyip. She was searching for the dog. I was searching for the
