just as she saw it. A man, wearing only trim boxers, coughing, staggering a bit, in front of a small house that looked tidy and well-kept. Except for the huge, smoking hole in the north wall.
Cutter reached the man first. He was either too dazed to be concerned, or he was comfortable with a dog of no small size appearing out of nowhere. She guessed the latter when Cutter nudged him and the man moved to stroke the dog’s head in a gesture that appeared instinctive. From here, all she could tell was that he was tall, with close-cropped dark hair, and thin, although he looked fit rather than bony. A second figure came into view, a woman, running toward the scene from the house next door, apparently using the flashlight of her cell phone to light the way. She arrived at the same moment they did.
“I’ve called the fire department,” she said, looking at the man rather anxiously. “Are you all right?”
The man’s head slowly turned. Hayley saw his face was soot-stained and his right shoulder and left foot were bleeding. Not badly, but definitely. Broken glass? He was looking at his neighbor, his brow furrowed. He gave a slight shake of his head, not in answer but as if to clear it. He didn’t speak.
“I’m guessing his ears are still ringing a bit,” Quinn said.
The woman glanced at them, then at Cutter. Her expression changed, in obvious recognition of some combination of them and their dog. Hayley smiled briefly in return. She and Quinn ran with the dog through the neighborhood regularly, and this was the woman with the amazing vegetable garden who always waved at them as they went by. The woman nodded and went back to watching her neighbor with concern.
“You should sit down,” she told him.
His brow furrowed again. The woman got there quickly. She pointed at her own ears with a questioning look. He shook his head again, wincing. The movement made him sway slightly.
Cutter whined, nudging at the man’s hand. He looked down, smiled, and stroked the dog’s head again. Cutter dropped to the grass and rolled over, clearly asking for a belly rub. Hayley drew back in surprise since Cutter rarely surrendered his dignity so quickly, not even to them, and certainly not in situations like this. She glanced at Quinn and saw he was just as startled.
But the man bent to comply, marking him as knowledgeable about canine body language. A second later he rather abruptly sat down beside the dog, as if he’d had little choice in the matter.
The woman’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “Well, that’s one way to get him to sit down.”
“Ears. Balance. I think he might need medics to check him out,” Quinn said.
“I asked for them, too,” she said. “The house has been empty since Mr. McLaughlin died, but I saw a motorcycle arrive last night and lights on, so I figured somebody must be here.”
“Good thinking,” Hayley said.
“I’m Lacy Steele, by the way,” the woman said.
“Quinn and Hayley Foxworth,” Hayley said. “We live around the corner.”
The woman nodded, clearly thinking anything more by way of introduction could wait, then crouched beside the man, who was giving Cutter the requested rub.
“Let me know if your ears are—”
She stopped mid-sentence as the man looked up quickly. A flicker of relief crossed his face.
“Better?” she asked, smiling.
“Some,” he said. “Still ringing, but I can hear you enough to make it out.”
“Good,” she said. She turned the flashlight on the phone back on and aimed it at his left ear, then moved to his right. “No bleeding there,” she announced.
“Thanks, doc,” he said, rather wryly.
The woman stared at him for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure how to take that. The man said nothing more to her, just leaned over and ruffled the fur between Cutter’s ears.
“Thanks, buddy,” he said softly. For a moment his hand lingered on the dog’s head, gently, as if in thanks. Or benediction.
Cutter’s body language changed instantly. He rolled to an upright position, head cocked back. For a long moment he stared at the man. Straight into his eyes. And then he got up, turned to face Hayley and Quinn. Sat.
And gave them The Look.
“Uh-oh,” Quinn whispered.
“Indeed,” Hayley answered in a tone just as quiet. “Seems there might be something else going on here.”
“I wish I knew how he does that.”
Hayley glanced at her husband, giving him a loving smile. He’d long ago surrendered to the fact that Cutter did do it, and only now and then idly wondered how.
And there was no question about it here. Their new neighbor had a problem, something beyond his immediate situation. And Cutter’s instincts told him it was something Foxworthy, as Liam jokingly put it.
“I get the feeling,” Hayley said, “he’s going to be a prickly one.”
“As long as he’s not a—”
“Hush,” Hayley said, cutting off the awful pun she knew was coming.
She was surprised at how energized she felt. It had been a quiet few weeks, with nothing much happening since they’d returned from California, where her prodigal brother, Walker, was busily setting up Foxworth Southwest with help from her best friend, Amy.
While she’d relished the extra time spent with Quinn, she had been getting a little antsy. And she knew if she was, Quinn was triply so. He’d kept busy, planning, training, teaching, not to mention clawing at the old case of the mole who had once betrayed them, but she knew he was more than ready for an immediate challenge.
“Looks like we’ve got one,” she said softly.
Because Cutter was never wrong.
The chaos had ebbed, the firefighters had assured them the danger had passed and Lacy Steele’s heart had slowed to a near-normal pace after the adrenaline-induced rush of her rude awakening.
The explosion appeared to have originated in a lean-to shed on the north side of the house. The shed and whatever was in it, they said, had likely directed the force inward as much as outward. The shed was destroyed—the only things left were some shattered boards hanging at all angles. The blast had left a gaping opening at least eight feet wide in the house itself, including the roof. She knew the master bedroom was right there, and thought her neighbor was lucky to have escaped as lightly as he apparently had.
“I’d say welcome to the neighborhood, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate right now. You must be Tate McLaughlin. I’m Lacy Steele,” she said, holding out a hand to the new neighbor she hadn’t yet formally met. That he was wearing only boxers made the gesture a bit silly, she supposed, but she made it, anyway. It helped her to not gape at him; even in the dark, it
