Chapter Seven
DAVIS
X-ray images in hand, I paused near the observation window of the exam room door and watched Callie stroke the Border Collie mix, whispering in his ear, while being careful to avoid the IV line in his uninjured leg.
Something like regret niggled into my conscience.
Since opening my clinic, I’d worked with many Good Samaritan types—compassionate folk who rescued lost and injured animals, offering to foot the bill before heading back to their tightly regimented lives. But rare was the Samaritan who stayed with the animal for half a day so I could gather test results in between appointments.
I’d judged her unfairly that day in her studio.
She wasn’t to blame for Brandon’s poor choices.
If not for her unmistakable hair—loose waves that framed her face and stretched to the center of her back—I wasn’t positive I would have recognized her. Gone was the tattered artist smock, the charcoal streaks on her arms, and the globs of war paint smeared across her forehead.
Under the fluorescent lighting, her porcelain skin took on a pearly sheen. A faint scattering of freckles trailed her delicate nose and cheekbones. Kindness shone from her eyes as she reassured the nervous dog, speaking to him in a tone I suddenly wished I could hear for myself. She inclined her head toward the animal and tucked a wispy lock of hair behind her ear, exposing more of her face to the light overhead. My hand stilled on the doorknob. This woman was absolutely—
I pushed the door open, tying a tourniquet around my thoughts before they could travel any further.
She straightened as I entered the room and offered me a polite smile. Unfortunately, the test results I held fell short of the hope in her eyes.
I dragged the corner chair away from the wall and lowered myself into the seat, anchoring my elbows on my knees. “I’m sorry for the long wait today.”
“It’s not good news, is it?”
I’d get to that in a moment, but first . . .
“I’d also like to apologize for the other afternoon. I was . . . stressed, but I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you.”
She responded with a slow bob of her head. “I’m not a parent, and I won’t pretend to understand what raising a son alone must feel like.” She paused. “But for what it’s worth, I think Brandon’s a really special kid. And I’m not just saying that to be nice. I’ve worked with a lot of children his age, and I enjoyed spending time with him.”
“I appreciate that.” More than she could know.
Her gaze dropped to the images suspended in my grasp. “Okay, Doc.” She sighed. “Let’s talk about what this guy’s up against.”
“I’m afraid our friend’s injury is a bit more complicated than I realized.” I held up the film, pointing to the fracture in the Collie’s front leg. “This area here—the shadowed area—this is where his wound is, and as you can see, there’s a fracture in his ulna. He’ll need to wear a splint, and he’ll need a dedicated caregiver who can change his bandages every other day for roughly four weeks.” I set the films aside and clasped my hands together. “I’m also concerned about his infection.” Among other things. “He’ll need a daily oral antibiotic, a dewormer, and a regimented diet to get him up to his ideal weight again. But if you’re willing to take him home, I can have Marie suggest the right size kennel for him and provide you an emergency supply list.”
For the first time all day, Callie’s upbeat demeanor dimmed. She twisted a spiraled lock of hair around her finger so tight her nail blanched white. Over and over she wound and unwound as I waited for her to say something, to put words to her scrunched-in eyebrows and expressive sighs.
“I can’t take him home.”
I wasn’t certain which baffled me more—her defeated tone or her lack of explanation. The woman didn’t seem the type to be at a loss for words.
“Okay,” I began. “Well, then we’ll need to call the local shelter and hope they have sufficient funding and volunteers to work with him.”
“No.” She shook her head. “There has to be another option. What if I paid for him to be boarded here? At least for a little while. He’s already perked up so much since you gave him the IV fluids. He just needs a little time to heal his leg and fatten up, and then I know he could make somebody a wonderful pet.” Her preoccupied expression cleared. “What if I could help find him a family?” She lifted the dog’s muzzle. “I mean, look at this face? Granted, he needs to be bathed and possibly rubbed down with some good cologne—and I could do all that! I could come here—daily, if need be, but . . .” And then she turned those almond-shaped eyes on me, the delicate hue unlike any I’d seen before. “I won’t let him go to a shelter.”
“I understand your reservations. A shelter isn’t my first choice either, but I’m afraid our boarding facility is booked to capacity through the summer. Even if we had a cancellation today, we have a long wait list.” I leaned back in my chair, still trying to understand her earlier response. “Here’s the thing, if you’re willing to tend to his wounds, wrap his leg with a fresh bandage and splint every other day, and meet his basic care needs, I’m certain we could help you get set up for that in your own home.”
“My house,” she countered, her tone lowering half an octave, “is two hundred and twenty-two square feet. I have no fenced-in yard, and even if I did, my brother-in-law would string me up by my toenails if I brought a dog onto his property. He’s severely allergic. Plus . . . I’m just not the pet-owning type.”
“There is no pet-owning type.” A widespread myth believed by many. “People of all occupations and personalities own pets.”
“Not me.” And again, she fell silent. “My lifestyle simply isn’t conducive. It won’t work.”
It appeared we’d reached our final impasse on the topic.
“Then, I’m sorry.” I stood and collected my clipboard. “I wish there was something else I could suggest for him. If you prefer, I can ask one of my assistants to drop him off at the shelter after we close tonight.”
With a brusque fold of her arms, indignation darkened her face. “So that’s it? That’s all his life is worth? A life that will likely end on some kill list because he has too many needs?”
My lack of response seemed to convey what she knew to be true.
She slammed her eyes closed before raising her chin and releasing a deep breath. “I have a gift, Davis. And sure, call me what you want to—a freak, a hippie, a flower child—I don’t care which one you use. I’ve heard it all before. But I have a gift for seeing potential. In art. In people. And in this case . . . in a stray dog.”
She leaned over the exam table, placing her feminine hands on either side of the dog, her gaze unyielding as she studied me. “So while I sincerely appreciate everything you’ve done here today, I’m afraid I can’t accept the fate you’ve offered him.”
“You can’t . . . accept it?” If I hadn’t been so incredibly stunned by her pronouncement, I’d have laughed at her audacity. But Callie Quinn wasn’t telling me a joke. There wasn’t a lick of humor to be found on her face or in her voice.
“No, and I’m not leaving here until we can come up with a decent solution for him. An alternate plan.”
Despite my best effort to keep a straight face, my lips twitched again. “An alternate plan.”
“Yes.”
Something about the passion she exuded challenged every professional boundary line I’d so carefully constructed.
Still, Callie Quinn was a stranger. To me. To Brandon. And with the exception of the Taylor family, to this entire town. But even as I listed off the reasons why I shouldn’t take another mental step down this path . . . I ignored them all. And took a risk. Partly because I liked this dog.
But mostly because I liked this woman.
“Tell you what,” I began. “I have a kennel in my mudroom at home. And a fenced yard. Why don’t I give you forty-eight hours to find him a foster family. And I’ll make a few phone calls on his behalf as well.” Starting with Stan Yinger.
She pressed her lips together—the same tell my son had when he was bursting at the seams with excitement. He used to beg me to bring animals home from the clinic for him to entertain. Maybe this arrangement would be good for more than the stray dog.
“I’ll give him another round of IV antibiotics and fluids and splint his leg before I get him settled at my place after closing.”
She bounced on the balls of her feet, hands clasped near her chest. “Oh, thank you! Thank you. And please, let me help with him—I insist! I can bring over whatever he needs.”
“It’s only for forty-eight hours—”
“Please, I insist.” Her overzealous expression held firm. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
I relented all too easily. “I live on the other side of the street, five houses down. Six Eleven Mill Street. You can stop by and check on him anytime after seven.”
One thing I’d learned as a veterinarian was that people expressed gratitude in many different forms. I’d been thanked with garden produce, hand-carved figurines, home-baked cookies, and even a donation to my favorite animal charity in my honor. But before I could process the Irish woman striding for me at breakneck speed, Callie’s arms encircled me in a hug, her citrus-scented hair as impossible to ignore as her feminine curves.
This was a thank-you I wasn’t bound to forget anytime soon.