Rescue You

by Elysia Whisler

  “Sweet and raw, beautiful and gritty. This heartwarming romance about the power of healing was everything I wanted in a story.”

  —Sarah Morgenthaler, USA TODAY bestselling author of The Tourist Attraction

  ELYSIA WHISLER

  rescue you

  Elysia Whisler was raised in Texas, Italy, Alaska, Mississippi, Nebraska, Hawaii and Virginia, in true military fashion. A mother, a massage therapist and a CrossFit trainer, Elysia is dedicated to portraying strong women, both in life and in her works. She lives in Virginia with her family, including her large brood of cat and dog rescues, who vastly outnumber the humans.

  For Magdalena—

  and all those who fight for the ones who can’t

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  one

  Constance slammed on her brakes. Steam rose from the street as rain gurgled through the ditches. She killed the engine, stepped into the pattering droplets and scanned the shoulder of the road. Nothing there but the remains of a goose carcass. “Where are you, boy?” Constance gave a low whistle.

  It hadn’t been her imagination. The picked-over goose only made her more certain she’d seen a dog, weaving through the foggy afternoon air like a phantom. A lost dog, with his head bent against the rain as he loped along the muddy ditch.

  Constance whistled again. Silence, but for the sound of rain hitting the trees that lined the road. “Maybe I’m just tired.” She’d done a lot of massages today, which made her feel wrung out. Constance almost ducked back into the van, but halted.

  There he was: a white face with brown patches, peeking at her from behind a bush. “Hey, boy.” Constance squatted down, making herself smaller, less threatening. The dog watched, motionless. Constance drew a biscuit from her coat, briefly recalling the cashier’s amusement at the grocery store today when she’d emptied her pockets on the counter, searching for her keys. Five dog biscuits had been in the pile with her phone, a used tissue and the grocery list.

  “Dog mom, huh?” the elderly cashier had said.

  “Something like that.” More like dog aunt, to all of the rescues at Pittie Place. Her sister, Sunny, had quite the brood.

  Constance laid the biscuit near her foot and waited. A moment later, the bush rustled and the dog approached. He had short hair and big shoulders. He got only as close as he needed to, then stretched his neck out for the prize. As he gingerly took the biscuit, Constance noted a droopy abdomen and swollen nipples, like a miniature cow.

  So. He was a she. Constance inched toward her. The dog held on to the biscuit, but reared back. Constance extended her fist, slowly, so the mom could smell her. “You got puppies somewhere?”

  The dog whimpered, but crunched up the biscuit.

  “Where are your puppies?”

  The dog whimpered again. Her legs shook. Her fur was muddy, feet caked with dirt. She had blood on her muzzle—probably from the dead goose. By her size and coloring, Constance decided she was a pit bull.

  Constance rose up, patted her thigh and headed toward her van. She slid open the side door, grabbed a blanket and spread it out, but when she turned around, the dog was several yards away. Her brown-and-white head was low as she wandered beneath a streetlamp, the embodiment of despair in the drizzle that danced through the light.

  Constance followed, slipping on the leaves that clogged the drainage ditch. The dog glanced once over her shoulder, but her pace didn’t quicken. Constance decided her calm demeanor was working, keeping the dog from fleeing. And let’s be honest: the biscuit hadn’t hurt. Chances were, the dog would be happy to have more as soon as she got wherever she was going. “Let’s see where you’re headed, then. Show me if you’ve got a home.”

  Constance followed her across the road, around the curve and down the narrow lane. Frogs popped like happy corn all over the slick street, but the chill of the oncoming winter slithered through Constance’s blood.

  She followed the dog for a good quarter mile. Even before she hooked a left down the unpaved road hidden behind the trees, Constance had figured out that the mama was headed to one of the handful of empty places that sat decomposing on the hundred or so acres the Matteri family owned. Constance paused only long enough to squelch the sizzle of anger that bubbled up inside before she pressed on, determined to know if the dog was a stray or a neglected mother from Janice Matteri’s puppy mill.

  Constance took the same turn and watched as the dog neared the abandoned house up ahead. Nobody had lived there in years. It was only a matter of time before it became condemned. The dog bypassed the crumbling porch of the old colonial and went around back. Constance knew little daylight was left, and she hadn’t brought a flashlight. She broke into a trot, clutched her coat tighter around her and didn’t slow until the dog came back into view. Constance followed her, her heart thumping harder with each step.

  The dog passed the rusted chain-link fence and disappeared over a rise in the property, near an old shed so overgrown with trees it was only recognizable by a pale red door. Just as she reached the hill, Constance heard a squeak. The sort of high-pitched noise that echoes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Another squeak came. And another. She crested the hill and saw the dog slink inside the shed door. Constance got to the shed and pushed inside. The dog had reached her destination: a battered old mattress, three shades of brown, lying a few feet inside. The mewls, now loud and hungry, came from a shredded section of the mattress.

  Constance narrowed her eyes. At first, she counted only two bobbing, brown heads, but as she drew closer there was a third. Then a fourth. The last one didn’t move nearly as much, just sort of waded on his stomach. The puppies had cocoa-colored fur and black muzzles. Eyes open. The ones that moved didn’t really walk, just stumbled into each other, like drunks. Mama dog curled around them and they all wiggled toward her abdomen.

  Constance knelt down next to the mattress and watched the suckling puppies. She decided they were about two weeks old. The air in the shed smelled of sour milk, poop and urine. She dug out another biscuit and reached, slowly, her hand in a fist to protect her fingers, her gaze on the mama for any sign she was upset, such as pinned ears, bared teeth or a raised ridge of fur down the back. The energy around the mom and her pups was calm, to the point of exhausted. Constance had certainly helped with enough of Sunny’s dogs over the years to know. She offered the biscuit and the mom took it. With her mouth busy, Constance carefully touched the smallest pu
ppy, who shook so hard the tremble came from deep inside, beneath his skin and fur, straight from his bones.

  Constance rose slowly and did a quick search of the vicinity for more puppies, which turned up nothing but trash, vermin and an old orange crate, which she brought over to the mattress.

  Now to see if Mom was going to accept help.

  Though daylight was precious, Constance waited until the pups were done suckling before she offered a third treat. “Let’s go back to my place,” Constance said as Mom accepted the biscuit. “My sister has a rescue for critters, just like you. And I help her all the time. You’ll be safe there. Does that sound okay?”

  While Mama crunched, Constance reached for the two pups closest to her and, keeping an eye on Mom the whole time, she lifted them and settled them in the crate. Mom’s chewing quickened, so Constance acted fast, lifting the last two pups swiftly but carefully. She rose to her feet, crate in her arms. The mother dog was on her feet almost ahead of her, pointing her muzzle at the crate and whining.

  Constance knew the mom would follow her anywhere she took those pups, but she also lacked any signs of aggression, almost as though she knew that this was their only chance. Or as Pete, owner of Canine Warriors and Constance’s longtime childhood friend, would put it, “You just got something about you, Cici. Everybody trusts you. People. Dogs. The damn Devil himself.”

  Constance headed back to her van, chasing the sunset. As expected, the mother followed. Once to the vehicle, Constance opened the van and set the crate full of pups next to the blanket she’d spread out earlier. The mama dog leaped in after them.

  Constance slid the door closed, settled behind the steering wheel and let out a great sigh. Mission accomplished. She edged down the long, lonely road. The rain pattered on the windshield and the scent of dirty puppies hit her nose. She’d take them home tonight and get them settled in, see how they reacted to a new environment, then text Sunny in the morning. Constance had worked with enough dogs, and people, to know that introducing another new person this evening was bad news. Let Mama get used to Constance first, and get some good food and rest, before she was moved to Pittie Place.

  Tonight, at least, this girl and her babies belonged with Constance.

  * * *

  By the time Constance pulled into her garage, the dogs were silent, like they’d fallen asleep. She used the opportunity to dash inside and get the whelping box ready. Pete had made it years ago, and Constance had used it plenty while helping Sunny. Made of corrugated plastic, the box was over a foot high, had guardrails and a low entry for the mom. It collapsed to fit under the couch when not in use. Constance pulled it out and got it ready next to the gas fireplace. In went the heated whelping pad, with the liner over top. The last thing she needed to do was get Fezziwig situated before she brought in the newcomers. He wouldn’t be any trouble, but Constance had a good idea how a protective mom would react to a strange, male pit bull.

  “Fezzi.” Constance led him into the kitchen and pointed to his dog bed, by the window. “Place.”

  Fezzi climbed on and waited.

  “Stay.”

  He settled down on the bed, as used to the commands Pete had taught him years ago as he was to his feeding and walking routine. Constance collected a leash and went back outside for the mama and her pups. Mama blinked her eyes open when Constance slid open the rear door of the van. Constance let her sniff the leash and feel it against her fur, then slipped it over her head. She lifted the orange crate in one arm, took the leash in the other hand and led them inside.

  Constance transferred the pups to the whelping box first, which prompted the mom to climb right in after. Once they were settled, Constance left to collect food, water and a wet, warm cloth. Fezzi snorted at her as she went by, but Constance only held up a finger. “Stay.”

  As always, Fezzi obeyed.

  While the mom ate from the bowl of food, Constance used the wet towel to wash away what she could of the grime. “Life has not been kind to you,” she murmured as she toweled off the pittie. There were several old scars that ran over the dog’s face, including a chunk missing from her ear. Most likely, this had been a bait dog for one of the Matteri thugs, years ago, back when they ran a dogfighting ring. Over time, all of those Matteris had ended up in jail, with the exception of Janice, who’d turned instead to running a puppy mill.

  Who knew how many fights this mama had been used for or how often she’d been bred. Whatever damage was left, Constance would have to leave for Dr. Winters, the mobile vet who worked on Sunny’s dogs.

  Other than massage, of course.

  That was Constance’s milieu.

  The pittie’s energy was low, which was no surprise. But as Constance ran her hands gently over the dog’s shoulders and back—white with brindle patches, like puddles and pebbles—she could feel the life inside, the ember that remained, even after all she’d been through. Despite probably being used as a bait dog, this girl was a fighter. Constance maintained light pressure and rhythmic breathing to loosen the mom’s muscles and get her deeply relaxed. Her abdomen was smooth and cool, indicating clear milk ducts. Soon, her eyes fluttered closed.

  “That’s it.”

  The pittie’s eyes opened again, drooped, opened and drooped, like the dog was used to having to fight sleep to stay alive. Constance raked her fingertips down the dog’s sides and over her rib cage, loosening her tight intercostal muscles. Her ribs expanded more fully, and her next exhale came in a great sigh. Finally, the dog’s eyes closed for good, the orangey light of the fireplace washing over her and the puppies like a blanket.

  Constance left her hand at rest on the mama for a few more minutes. Everyone was asleep and seemed stable. The small, weak pup who’d shook so hard beneath Constance’s touch didn’t look as good as the others, though. His fur was duller and his breathing more shallow. Constance said a little prayer, knowing the vet would check them all tomorrow.

  She quietly rose and went to take a shower, washing away the fur and dirt and smell, then settled on the couch for the night, to stay close to the brood. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice. Even after six months, Constance didn’t like sleeping alone in her bedroom. Josh’s side of the bed remained cold and untouched, even though Constance could’ve sprawled out and taken up the entire mattress.

  She snapped her fingers, and a few seconds later Fezziwig came padding into the room. He leaped on the couch, curled up behind her knees, settled his chin on her legs and puffed out a great sigh. He knew the mom and puppies were there, but he wouldn’t go near them until Constance allowed it.

  “That’s my boy.” Constance rubbed his head. Five years old, he was Sunny’s first rescue. She’d found him in the street, lying in a pool of his own blood, his foot so mangled it looked like hamburger. He’d been thrown there, not far from the same house where Constance had just found Mama and her pups. He’d been left to bleed out, since he couldn’t be fought anymore. Sunny took him home and Dr. Winters had him on IVs for days. When she finally gave him back she’d said, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Fezzi had lost his leg, but not his life. And despite the odds, Pete had turned Fezzi into his first Canine Warrior.

  As Constance’s eyes closed and her mind drifted into dreams, she felt the tiniest bit guilty at how much comfort she got from the warmth and glow of the fire, and the presence of so many heartbeats to match her own.

  two

  The scarecrow’s grin hadn’t changed in decades. Sunny’s first memory was from age four, tripping on her witch costume and falling headfirst into the dummy’s knees. Back then, it was the jack-o’-lantern smile that made her freeze. Was he happy? Angry? Sad? She couldn’t look away, trapped by what she kind of liked and kind of hated, until a sneeze broke the spell, the hay in her nose saving her from drowning in the thing’s eyes.

  Back then, Sunny wondered how Daddy managed to carve the same grin, Halloween after Hallowe
en, into that stupid scarecrow’s pumpkin head. The jack-o’-lantern’s eyes changed, sometimes round, sometimes triangular, the whole bit. Noses were worse, sometimes didn’t even exist. But not that grin. He always had that same secret, spooky smile. Every. Single. Year.

  Sunny pulled her jacket tighter around her, suppressing the fickle Virginia November air, which was warm yesterday and had gone frigid today. She made her way toward the front porch, where fake spiderwebs covered the meticulously clipped hedges. The house, a forty-year-old colonial, sat as a well-cared-for backdrop to the old-fashioned decorations. In addition to the scarecrow, Constance had put out hay bales, pumpkins, a tractor with a flat tire, the trailer filled with ghosts that popped against the sky and some coffins containing skeletons and undead creatures. Sunny had never understood the quiet diligence with which her father had reserved for Halloween, when every other holiday mostly passed unnoticed. She understood less her big sister’s insistence on carrying on his ghoulish traditions since he’d passed and she’d inherited the house.

  Halloween had come and gone, but Constance had left the decorations up, claiming they were just as good for Thanksgiving.

  Sunny let herself in, like she always did. “Cici!” She hung her coat in the foyer and peeked into the kitchen. It was warm and smelled like sweet bread. Constance had set the table with coffee and muffins. She sat near the window, wearing baggy sweatpants and a sweatshirt, leafing through the Washington Post. Sunny sighed. She couldn’t quite get used to the sight of her big sister in those old, oversize clothes. Cici had never been fashionable, but up until last year, she’d worn cute running shorts or leggings and colorful tech tees. Ever since she’d completely given up running her attire had consisted of cheap fare from the men’s department. Her strawberry blond hair, once full of feminine waves, was several different lengths of bad hack job. She’d chopped it off after Josh left, kept chopping it, and ever since then it’d grown out like an awkward teenager, gangly and all different lengths.