CHAPTER TWO
Dex stood just at the edge of the hallway, wearing his usual terrifying expression. The man must spend every moment of his life angry; he rarely didn’t look like he was one wrong word from mass murder.
And that was a shame, in her opinion. He was really good looking otherwise. His eyes especially—they were large, rimmed with long, dark lashes every woman she’d ever known would kill for, and a strange, beautiful grey-blue-green color she didn’t have a name for. He had dimples—the long, deep ones, like parentheses around his smile.
She’d seen him smile like five times in her life, but she’d noticed those dimples every time. Right now, they were buried under his winter beard—and an intimidating scowl.
He was dressed in his winter Sinclair uniform, and he held his arms crossed oddly, supporting a small bulge in his zipped green coat. When Anita had called back to tell her he was waiting for her, she’d said he had a badly wounded pup with him.
Her day was booked solid, but her next appointment was just a vax update, and emergencies took precedence.
So as Brodie dragged Ms. Halliday toward the reception desk, Kelsey gave Dex a smile, lifted one finger to tell him she needed a sec, and followed the Hallidays to the desk.
“It’s time for refills on his heartworm chews and Revolution, too,” she told Anita. “And go ahead and get Fifi started for me, please.” Then she lifted the lid from the treat canister. Brodie’s ears perked at the sound, and his butt dropped to the floor in a perfect sit.
“Good boy!” She gave the dog his treat. He took it gently, then snarfed it down like he hadn’t eaten all week. Laughing, she said goodbye to Ms. Halliday and turned to the waiting room.
Mrs. Baronski, her next actual appointment, sat in the front row, holding a Louis Vuitton cat carrier on her lap, in which lay a Sphinx cat named Fifi. Kelsey kept her smile on and went to her first. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can, Mrs. B. I need to take a look at this wounded pup first.”
Mrs. Baronski—the elderly widow of an Oklahoma oil baron—gave Dex a pinched look, but she also managed a nod. “I do have other plans for the day,” she told Kelsey.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’ll be as quick as I can. Thank you.”
Thus excused, Kelsey went to Dex. “Hey. What you got in there?”
Silently, scowling, he tugged the zipper of his coat down.
Curled against his chest was a very small black pup, probably only two or three weeks old, though she’d have a better idea when she got a better look.
What she could see inside Dex’s coat was devastating. She didn’t need a better look to know that pup wouldn’t live. Its head had been crushed, and the open wound was obviously septic. She was shocked it was alive now, but its thin side heaved erratically. It was trying to hang on.
“Okay, come with me.”
She led him to the exam room she’d just vacated. As Dex opened his coat, Kelsey disinfected the steel exam table. She washed her hands and pulled on a fresh pair of sterile gloves.
When she turned, the pup lay on the table, on Dex’s coat. His hand covered the pup protectively. It wasn’t moving, except for its heaving sides. Each exhale came with a tiny, tremulous whimper.
The only thing Kelsey could remember ever wanting to be was a vet, and she loved her work. But it was hard, too. For all the happy, healthy animals she got to take care of, all the strays she was able to help find forever homes, all the sick animals she was able to make well, there was also a fairly steady stream of animals she couldn’t help—beloved pets dying of illness, injury, or old age, abused animals hurt beyond saving, animals abandoned to the cruelties of an Oklahoma winter.
The only solace she could find in that aspect of her job was the knowledge that she could, at least, end an innocent creature’s suffering.
Before she began her exam, she knew that was the only help she’d be able to offer this pup.
But she would do the exam and be sure. “Let’s take a look.”
First, she determined that the pup’s spine, ribs, and legs were intact. It was a female, and the state of her paws and pads suggested that Kelsey’s first guess about her age—three weeks or so—was correct. The head generally provided much better age markers—teeth, eyes, etc.—but in this case, with the magnitude of the injury, she didn’t think she could trust any information the pup’s head might offer about age.
She didn’t get a temp; the pup was so hot to the touch she could confirm fever that way, and she didn’t want to distress her any more than necessary. She didn’t need a number for the temp unless she were considering remedial intervention. So far, she was not.
“Tell me how you found her,” she asked Dex as she gathered the supplies to flush the head wound.
Dex focused on the pup, shifting his hold so Kelsey had better access to her head. When Kelsey began to flush the wound, the pup cried weakly.
“Shhh, baby girl,” Dex crooned. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
As Kelsey began to work, and Dex comforted the pup, he answered her question. “On the side of the road, under a bush. Her mom’s body was under there with her. I’ve got her mom out in the back of my truck.”
“So you don’t know what happened?”