she opened her practice, and she’d be lost without him.
Carlotta’s soft lips nibbled the piece of banana that Skye held out to her, and she and Napoleon easily got her back into the pasture with the two sheep. Skye had gotten the sheep for Carlotta to tend and keep her from being lonely. It had worked until today, and the arrangement would continue to work as long as Skye remembered to give her a bit of attention now and then. And a banana.
As Napoleon drove her over to the clinic in the Jeep, Skye thought about what Gabe had said. Sam might have made her as giddy as a teenager with her first crush, but she couldn’t imagine him fitting in with her lifestyle. Sometimes she got so angry and disgusted with herself that she wanted to scream. Maybe she should consider therapy again.
SAM WAS STANDING AT THE SINK shaving when he heard the siren outside his townhouse. He dropped his razor and grabbed his gun as he hurried to the door.
An ambulance had stopped at his elderly neighbor’s home. Two EMTs raced for the house while her maid stood on the porch calling, “Hurry! Hurry!”
“What’s going on?” Sam asked.
“It’s Mrs. Book. I think she’s had a stroke.” The woman was bug-eyed and wringing her hands.
A small hunk of fur came racing out of Mrs. Book’s place, shot between Sam’s legs and zipped inside his house.
“Oh, that dog! She’ll be the death of me!”
“What can I do to help?”
“Lord, I don’t know. They’ll be taking Mrs. Book to the hospital, and I need to go along with her. Can you see to Pookie?”
“Sure,” Sam said.
In a couple of minutes, the EMTs wheeled out his neighbor, loaded her in the ambulance and took off, siren screaming. The maid slapped a key in Sam’s hand, ran to her car and peeled out behind them.
Sam checked to make sure his neighbor’s door was locked, then went back inside to finish shaving the other half of his face. Slapping on some aftershave, he walked around calling the dog.
Why in the hell would anybody name a dog Pookie?
He was sorry about Mrs. Book’s stroke—if that was the problem. Since he hadn’t lived there long, he didn’t know any of his neighbors very well, mostly just enough to nod to them. He’d met Mrs. Book when she’d pecked on her window one day as he’d walked by. She’d needed a light bulb changed and wondered if he’d mind doing it. She’d seen his Ranger badge and gun and figured he was safe. Since then he’d done another small favor or two for her, and she’d baked him cookies. Good ones, too. Chocolate chip with pecans.
She didn’t have much family except a nephew who never came around. Pookie was her constant companion. The dog was cute, spoiled rotten, and the little rag mop had taken to Sam. Every time he grilled on the patio, she managed to crawl through a little hole in the fence between their places and dance around his feet until he gave her a bite of whatever he was cooking. She was partial to rib eyes.
“Pookie! Where are you?”
Sam heard a faint whimper under his bed and got down to check. He found the dog there, cowed down and shaking like a leaf. “Come on out, girl.” He scooped her from her hiding place, held her in the crook of his arm and stroked her. “It’s all right, darlin’. I know you’re scared. Just calm down.”
He could almost hear the dog sigh as she relaxed, and she rooted closer to him.
In a few minutes, Sam set her on his bed. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
He went next door and gathered up Pookie’s stuff, including food and bowls, her toys and bed. He even found a small carrying crate and lugged it back to his house as well. He figured he could handle one small dog for a day or two. At least she liked him. Most animals did. Except for Gus.
Thinking about Gus reminded him of Skye. Then, of course, lots of things reminded him of Skye. She’d been in his thoughts a good deal.
He glanced at his watch. Damn! He was going to be late. He finished dressing and turned to look for Pookie. He couldn’t find her anywhere.
Oh, well, she’d come out sooner or later.
He left out plenty of food and water in the kitchen and left her bed and toys in his bedroom. She’d be fine until he returned.
SAM WAS LATER GETTING HOME than he figured on. And later than Pookie had figured on as well, from what he found on the floor. Honestly, he’d forgotten about the dog, so he didn’t scold her. Instead, he let her out the back door and cleaned up the mess without too many cuss words. He’d try to remember to come by home a couple of times during the day tomorrow to let her out.
When he checked on her a few minutes later, the patio area was empty. As he went outside to search for her, he heard whining and scratching. He climbed up and looked over the fence and saw Pookie crying and clawing on Mrs. Book’s back door.
He felt sorry for the little thing and went and got her.
“How about you and me going to get a hamburger?” he asked her. “I’m hungry.”
She seemed happy enough when she stood in his lap and looked out the window as they went to the fast food place a few blocks away. She hadn’t touched the dry food he’d left in her bowl, but she downed a good portion of his second hamburger—except the pickles and onions.
Pookie even whined her way into his bed that night. He could understand that she was confused and probably slept with Mrs. Book.
The next day he called the hospital to check on his neighbor, but the one he’d assumed she’d been sent to didn’t have any record of a Mrs. Book. He tried a couple of others with the same result. He couldn’t contact the maid; he didn’t even know her name. Nor did he know the name of her nephew. Sonny, she’d called him.
Sam was even more concerned when he came home at noon the next day to let Pookie out and saw a van in front of Mrs. Book’s house with the name of an auction house on its doors. He walked over and spoke to a man who was there, hoping it might be Sonny.
“I’m doing an inventory for the estate sale,” the man said.
“What estate sale?” Sam asked.
“Woman who lived here died. Her nephew said to auction off everything.”
That was fast. Disgusted with Mrs. Book’s family, he managed to get the nephew’s name and phone number. When Sam called Sonny to find out what to do with Pookie, the man said, “I don’t give a damn what happens to that dog. Send it to the pound if you don’t want it.”
Sam slammed down the phone and looked at Pookie, who sat watching him, her head cocked to one side, an imploring look in her eyes.
Hell, he couldn’t have anymore sent her to the pound than he could have sent his own mother.
He called Skye Walker’s clinic in Wimberley and made an appointment for Saturday, then he went to the building supply store and bought the stuff to make a doggy door.
WHEN SAM GOT TO WIMBERLEY and stopped at the gate, he wasn’t sure he had the
