you like,” Whitney said, forcing herself to behave, “and are interested in relaxing, there is a spa about ten miles back down the road. I can set up an appointment for you.”
“Ten miles? Where are we, on the back side of Hell?” The woman glared at her husband, who must have been the one to book their trip.
The man smiled at Whitney, clearly embarrassed by his wife’s atrocious behavior. “Is there any way we could have the masseuse come here?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Whitney said, though she was fully aware the local masseuse, Jess Lewis, would throw a holy hissy fit at the request. Yet if they gave her a few extra bucks she would quiet down in no time.
She took down the couple’s names and got them the keys to their room—the nicest private cabin at the ranch, a two-story, nearly three-thousand-square-foot log home with marble and leather everywhere. “Let me know if there’s anything further I can assist you with,” Whitney said, the forced niceties like sand on her tongue.
“Actually,” the woman said, handing over the rat creature, “I don’t want Francesca to be a bother to me this weekend. I need you to handle her.”
Whitney balked at the woman as she stuffed the dog into her hands.
Handle her? The last thing on her long list of duties was dog handler or kennel master. Whitney had work to do. She slowly lowered the dog to the floor behind the desk. “I... Uh...” she stammered.
“That’s great. Perfect,” the woman continued, clearly not used to her requests being denied no matter how asinine they might have been.
The man opened the door and waited as his wife pranced out, her stilettos clicking on the floor like the shrill impatient cadence of fingers. Whitney just stared at the computer screen for a moment as she reminded herself these kinds of people played a big part in why she had left her home state, and she took some level of comfort in the fact that they were outsiders and going to leave just as quickly as they came.
A cold wind kicked up and spilled through the door, whipping dry fragile snowflakes onto the guest book that sat at the side of the desk. She walked over and touched the door. As she looked outside, running toward the entrance of the roundabout driveway was the little rat creature. Its dark fur sat stark against the snow as it sprinted toward freedom. She stood still for a moment, letting it get away. With an owner like hers, the dog deserved to have one go at escaping.
On the other hand, Whitney would have to answer to said owners, and she could only imagine their response if the dog was actually lost. No matter how softhearted Eloise was, Whitney would probably lose her job, and therefore her room at the ranch. She would have to start all over.
This dog’s freedom wasn’t worth it.
What was the dog’s name again? “Fifi!” she called, but the dog didn’t slow down. “Fredrico!” Again, the dog simply kept running. She ran out the door, her cowboy boots thumping on the wooden porch as she made her way to the driveway. “Lassie, come home!” she cried again.
There was the boom of laughter from behind her. She turned to see Colter watching her. “Did Timmy fall in the well again?”
“Really?” she scoffed. “If you’re not going to go after the dog, at least you can be quiet.”
His laughter lightened, but he didn’t stop chuckling. “All right, all right. I’ll come to little Lassie’s rescue. Where did she go?”
She turned back and looked out at the driveway. A ’90s blue Dodge truck was rumbling down the road toward them.
“No. Stop!” she screamed at the truck, almost as though the driver could hear her through the closed windows and the crunch of gravel under the tires. The man driving didn’t even seem to see her.
He barreled down the road. Just as he was about to cross over the steel cattle guard, the little rat creature ran out. It wove in front of the truck, stopping as it stared up at the blue beast careening toward it.
“No!” Whitney yelled.
The dog took off running toward the truck. Just as they were about to collide, the dog slipped between the bars of the cattle guard that stretched across the end of the driveway, and disappeared. It wasn’t Timmy or the well, but it looked like they would have to pull off their own version of a rescue.
He’d been at the save-a-life game for a long time now, but this was the first time Colter Fitzgerald had to save a dog from the jaws of a cattle guard. He waved at the guy driving the truck, motioning for him to go ahead. The guy had dark, oily hair that sparkled in the winter sun. Sitting on the man’s dashboard was a wooden bat, and the sight made chills ripple down Colter’s spine.
In a split second, everything could have really gone downhill. The driver’s grim face and demeanor were far from friendly. So much so, Colter was thankful he had not climbed down to confront them about the dog that had appeared from nowhere in front of his vehicle. He watched in relief as the trucker drove past them with a curt wave and the taillights vanished in the distance. The last thing he needed, especially in his quest to impress Whitney, was a run-in with a hard-edged stranger.
Whitney Barstow hadn’t been his mother’s employee for very long. From his recollection, it had been exactly three months since she set foot on his mother’s porch and asked for any job that didn’t involve the care and maintenance of horses. At the time, he had thought it was odd anyone would want to come to a ranch and not work with the animals, but he had let it go—everyone had their quirks. Besides, every time he caught a glimpse of her gray eyes, they made him nearly forget his name, not to mention any of her faults. To him, she was perfect, even the way she seemed to be constantly annoyed by him.
He glanced over at her as she stared into the grates of the cattle guard. “It’s okay, sweet puppy. We’re going to get you out. Don’t worry,” she cooed, her voice taking on the same soft edge she must have used with small children.
Colter smiled as she looked up at him and the sunlight caught in her hair and made it shine like each strand was spun out of gold. “What are we going to do?” she asked, motioning toward the grate.
The steel bars had been bent, apparently just enough for a small pooch to fall between. Yet instead of staying where they could simply pull it, the dog had wedged itself deep into the corner of the trough beneath. The pup shook as it stood on the collection of cracked ice and looked up at them, its eyes rimmed with white. It had to have been cold down there, and the poor creature was ill-prepared, with its short hair and low body fat, to withstand frigid temperatures for long. They’d have to act fast.
He stood up and rushed toward the barn. “I’ll grab the tractor,” he called over his shoulder.
She nodded but turned back to the dog. “Come here, baby.”
He didn’t know a great deal about the little animal that looked like a Chihuahua, but he did know that no amount of calling was going to get that dog to come to her. A dog like that was notorious for being a one-person animal. According to one guest he’d talked to, who had owned a similar dog, that was the allure—to have an animal that fawned over only its owner. It was like owning the cat of the dog world.
The barn doors gave a loud grind of metal on
