“Heck. Yeah, don’t wake her up. But there’s a dog on my porch, a hurt stray, and I need to figure out what to do with it. It won’t let me close.”
“On your porch?” He gestured behind Garrick. A quick swivel revealed the dog at the bottom of Shirley’s driveway, looking expectantly at him.
“I thought I told you to stay!” Garrick said to the dog, then turned back to the young man, who was laughing now. Dimples. Because, of course. “Yeah. That’s it. Seems friendly enough, but I don’t have a leash and I’m not sure what to do once I catch her.”
“Okay, hang tight. Let me make sure Mimi and Molly are secure, then I’ll get a leash and some treats.” The guy disappeared into the house.
“Come on now. You don’t need to be afraid.” Garrick rolled toward the dog, hand outstretched. She let him get closer than she had on the porch, then started backing up.
“Cookie? Who wants a cookie?” Shirley’s grandson reappeared with a black leash and a packet of bacon-and-peanut-butter-flavored biscuits. Mouth cracking into a doggy grin, the hound ignored Garrick’s hand in favor of limping toward the treats.
“Guess you’re Mr. Popular now,” Garrick joked, following her.
“Oh, you know that word! Cookie! Don’t you? Smart cookie!” The guy had a great voice, friendly and musical, not overpowering at all, and for a second, Garrick wouldn’t have minded being the one showered with praise. Which was odd. Not the attraction—that happened some, or at least it used to. But it hadn’t since the accident. Not even hookup apps or porn of any stripe held much appeal these days. But apparently golden brown eyes and bouncy hair and really bad timing did the trick.
“She knows sit too,” Garrick provided as the dog gobbled down a treat. “Sit.”
Obediently, she plopped down on the concrete driveway. Woof.
“Someone wants another cookie?” This time the guy was lightning fast, the sort of reflexes that would be at home on any engine crew, as he lassoed the leash around her neck, clipping it in place. He doled out another biscuit as he straightened. “She’s hungry. Probably hasn’t eaten in a while. Want me to get some water while you call Animal Control?”
Garrick had to laugh. “This is a small town. Very small town. There’s no dog catcher or pound.”
“None? Police nonemergency number maybe?”
“I don’t think they handle stray dogs that aren’t a threat. Fish and Wildlife will come for wild animals like bobcats on your property, but not dogs.”
“Thank goodness you’re not a bobcat.” Giving a nervous laugh, the guy glanced off into the hills before patting the dog again.
“There’s an animal shelter in Bend, about forty-five minutes away, but I think she needs a vet first. I’d go door-to-door to find an owner but that paw has me worried about walking her too much.”
“Good point.”
“Rain? What’s the commotion?” Shirley emerged from the house, walking a little slower than normal but looking pretty with her long gray hair spilling down the back of a dress dyed the colors of an Oregon sunset.
Rain. He had to be one of the Portland grandkids—they all seemed to have hippie names. Rain, Skye, Lark and so on. And he was clearly used to bigger cities than Painter’s Ridge, where no one who worked for the town was coming out for a lost dog.
“Your...uh...neighbor found a dog.” Still holding the leash, Rain walked over to her. The name absolutely suited his lithe frame and natural grace to his strides.
“Garrick.” He offered a handshake after Rain transferred the leash to his other hand. He hadn’t grabbed the wheelchair gloves he usually used for longer treks, so his bare skin met Rain’s. And there it was again. Sparks, sure as a flint meeting steel, right when he could least do a damn thing about it. And because Shirley undoubtedly wouldn’t appreciate him macking on her much-too-young grandson, he glanced away.
“I’m gonna get that water. You think you can hold her?” Glancing down at Garrick’s chair, Rain offered the leash somewhat reluctantly.
“Yup. I’ll put the brakes on.” Garrick engaged the locks for his wheels. He was still getting used to all the bells and whistles on this one. It was a nice chair, far better than the old-fashioned clunky things he’d first had at the hospital. Ultralight. Racing style they called it, though that was a bit optimistic as far as he’d found. The thicker bicycle-like tires and red trim added to the sporty appearance. He’d been reluctant to give up the rental chair, get this one custom fit when he wasn’t sure how long he’d need it, but the insurance, which could be a bastard about some things, had paid up.
“I don’t know as I like the look of that dog. Too big. And you never know, might be aggressive.” Shirley shook her head.