Fifteen minutes later, a work van sped down the street, and her Good Samaritan flagged it down. The van parked at the curb, and a guy hopped out. He was dark-haired and built like a linebacker, but the burnt-orange Texas Longhorns pajama pants made him look much less intimidating than he would’ve otherwise. She didn’t see any familial resemblance to her rescuer—who was taller, leaner, and blonder—but the brother, obviously used to handling emergencies, was calm and efficient as he assessed the situation and the dog. That took the edge off some of her panic.
After setting up a few things to make the dog as comfortable as possible, the three of them gingerly got the injured animal into the back of the van. Rebecca sat with the dog on the way to the clinic, watching every ragged rise and fall of his breath. She probably should’ve considered that getting into a van with two strangers wasn’t the wisest idea, but no alarm bells had gone off in her head. All she could focus on was getting help for her canine hero. As long as she focused on that, she would be okay. She wouldn’t have to think about how close she’d come to dying.
Or how she hadn’t fought back—or even tried.
She closed her eyes.
She wouldn’t have to think about the small sense of relief she’d felt at the thought that it was finally done. Debt paid.
* * *
“What the hell happened?” Marco asked as he stood next to the exam table, applying pressure to the dog’s wound with one gloved hand and pointing to the things he needed Wes to grab with the other.
Wes had left the woman in the lobby of the animal clinic with the cops and paramedics. Meanwhile, he’d become his brother’s makeshift assistant. He handed Marco the items and tried not to look at the injured animal. He could deal with blood, but ever since his birth father had demonstrated his vicious method of getting rid of a neighbor’s nosy cat when Wes was eight, animals in pain made his stomach twist. How Marco dealt with this stuff every day, he’d never know. Of course, Marco would probably say the same thing about Wes dealing with delinquent teenagers.
“I didn’t see all of it,” Wes said. “I was too far away, and it was dark. At first, I thought it was people horsing around after leaving a bar because she wasn’t screaming or struggling or anything. But then the dog came out of nowhere and attacked. I ran over there to help and didn’t realize it was a robbery until I heard the shot and saw one of the guys running off with her purse. I thought she was the one who’d been shot. Scared the hell out of me.”
Marco glanced up, concern flickering through his eyes. “You both got lucky then. You could’ve gotten shot running up blind on that kind of situation.”
Wes crossed his arms, daring his brother to say he should’ve stayed out of it and just called the police. That was probably what Marco would’ve done. Think first. Act second. Wes had heard that particular lecture enough times. Screw that. Not in this case. “She needed help.”
Marco glanced toward the lobby door, even though they couldn’t see what was happening on the other side. “Well, I’m glad she’s okay and that you didn’t get yourself killed. Someone who’s willing to shoot a dog probably wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a person.”
“I don’t know,” Wes said with a frown. “I didn’t get a good look at the guys, but she thinks they were pretty young. Maybe they didn’t plan to use the gun, but the guy reacted to being bitten. The dog was like Cujo.”
Marco lifted a brow. “So you’re defending the attackers now?”
Wes didn’t bother answering that. Mr. Do-the-Right-Thing wouldn’t understand. Once upon a time, Wes had been one of those kids. Now he taught those kids.
Wes peeked at what Marco was doing but then grimaced at the sight of the matted fur. “Is he going to be okay?”
Marco’s brown eyes narrowed, focused on the intricate work. “They got him in the hind leg and he’s lost a lot of blood, but I think he’ll be all right. At least for now.”
“What do you mean?”
A line appeared between his brows. “This guy’s got to be a stray, so I don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with. If he’s rabid or violent, he’s not going to last long anyway. The shelter will have to put him down. He attacked someone.”
Wes frowned. “He was defending someone. They should give him a damn medal and some steak.”
Marco gave him that wary, big brother look that said he was about to deliver news Wes wouldn’t like. “She’s not his owner. It’d be odd for a normally docile dog to defend a stranger. Chances are high that he’s got issues.”
“Because he’s a stray.”
“Yes.”
Wes scoffed. He knew what being a stray was like and couldn’t deny the charge. Marco’s parents—technically Wes’s aunt and uncle—had taken Wes in at age fifteen when his parents had gone to prison. Carolina and Ed had treated Wes like their own, but he’d brought a truckload of drama with him. “Well, I hope this dog isn’t really Cujo. The woman out there has had enough bad news tonight. She was more upset about the dog than the fact that she’d just been attacked and robbed.”
“She was probably in shock. And you don’t have to say anything yet. Let her finish talking to the cops and getting patched up by the paramedics. Then, you can give her my number if she wants to check on the dog tomorrow. No need to upset her more right now. Our friend here is going to be staying for a while and will be asleep for hours anyway.” Marco concentrated on the dog, preparing him for whatever it was going to take to get a bullet out and sew him back up. “We’ll figure out what we’re dealing with when he wakes up.”
Wes’s stomach turned as his brother went to work. He looked away and concentrated on a poster about the life cycle of a heartworm. “I think I should probably go out—”
“What were you doing out that late in that part of town anyway?” his brother asked. “You’re not picking up kitchen shifts, are you? Because I told you if you need money—”
Wes’s jaw flexed. He knew it was because Marco cared and worried, but feeling babysat all the time drove him up the fucking wall.
“I don’t need money,” he said, not mentioning the loan he’d inquired about. The one that had earned him that patient, condescending look from the banker. Mr. Garrett, with your credit and history, I’m sure you understand our position… “I was just helping Suzie with a private catering gig she was doing. She had someone no-show and was in a bind.”
“Suzie? The one with the crazy hair?” Marco looked up, deep lines appearing around his mouth. “Wes, you know that environment and the people in it are no good for your sobriety. That whole scene is—”