He snorts. “Kellan don’t trust you,” he drawls.
I feign hurt, and look from our joined hands to Kellan’s face. “Is this true, Kello?”
He frowns and twists his mouth: confused, amused, or both.
I shrug. “Sounds like Jello, and everyone likes Jello.”
“I don’t.” Kellan makes a face.
“He don’t trust anybody,” Manning says cryptically. His thick country drawl makes my accent sound almost Midwestern in comparison.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m somebody.” I wink.
“He probably don’t even trust ole Truman,” Manning says. I frown, and at that very second, I hear something clicking against hardwood, followed by a soft jingle. At the end of the hall stretching past the staircase, I see a flash of reddish brown.
A resonant bark echoes through the foyer, and a dog with a jingling collar sails comically toward us. A blood hound, I realize as it launches itself at Kellan.
“WOOF! WOOF!”
Kellan drops my hand and throws his arms around the dog, who’s lost all doggy decorum and jumped up on him, huge paws on Kellan’s chest.
There’s mud caked on the dog’s paws. Every time the big beast shifts its weight, it smears mud on the front of Kellan’s button-up. And still, he leans in close and rubs the blood hound’s floppy ears.
“Tru.” He clasps the dog’s head.
The dog paws at him, leaving deep mud streaks down each of Kellan’s pecs. I notice Manning staring at me and shut my gaping mouth. Our gazes boomerang to Kellan.
His hands around the dog’s nape loosen, and the dog sinks to his haunches, head held high. His tail thumps against the floor.
“This is your dog?” I ask Kellan, leaning down to rub his wrinkly forehead. I sink into a crouch. “Truman, hi.” I tip his face up to mine and peer into his doggy eyes. “What a pretty boy you are. Just like your owner. Such a pretty boy...”
Manning chuckles. “Maybe I do like her.”
“You do,” I smile. I stroke the dog’s soft head and softer ears. “Pretty boy. You’re so pretty.”
“Call ’im handsome,” Manning says. He laughs again then says, “I’m gonna run to the feed and seed. Y’all be here a while?”
“An hour or so,” Kellan says.
“Catch you girls later. Keep your yap shut, snake bit.”
Manning disappears out the door, and I look up at Kellan. “Snake bit?”
He rolls his eyes, despite an amused smile. “I told him that your name was Cleopatra.”
I smile. Snake bit. Makes sense; Cleopatra was killed by a snake. “I’m a queen, what can I say?”
I rise, because the hardwood floor is making my knees ache. I watch Truman shift his lithe, muscular body, so he’s lounging at Kellan’s feet.
“He’s beautiful,” I say sincerely.
Kellan leans down to rub the dog’s ears again. I watch the easy way his fingers stroke the dog’s head. It’s a practiced movement—no doubt.
“He’s been staying here with your friend?”
Kellan lifts the dog’s floppy ear, squeezing it lightly. The dog lets out a comically long breath
, and Kellan nods, his face stuck somewhere between sad and stoic. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I go out of town sometimes.”