Bad to the Bone

by Roxanne St Claire

  “C’mere, Tashie.” Trace curled his fingers under her tiny puppy snout and watched her eyes shutter with pleasure, then she looked up at him, still and patient. Ready for anything. Alert, loving, and crazy smart.

  On the other hand, Boris, or Bo, as Trace dubbed the boy, might never rise to that level. He’d be a helluva therapy dog, born to bring comfort to the masses. But Natasha? She was a one-man dog, and that made her ripe for service training.

  “You want to bring them outside for a while?” Shane Kilcannon approached the kennel where Trace had been with the puppies for almost an hour on a warm Friday afternoon.

  “I think they’re bone-tired,” he said, pushing up to a stand, aware that Tashie watched his every move. “But if I told that one she had to climb a mountain, I’m pretty sure she would.”

  Shane grinned. “She’s definitely a special dog. Think she’s our first official Waterford Farm service dog?”

  “I do,” Trace said, rubbing his jawline and remembering he hadn’t even thought about shaving that morning because he’d been so anxious to see Meatball. And Molly.

  “I need to find the perfect trainer,” Shane said as they walked outside together.

  Not for the first time, Trace’s gut tightened at the thought of handing Tashie and Bo over to another trainer. But surely the Kilcannons would want someone with a record. A training record, not a prison record.

  “You ready for distraction training?” Shane asked as they stepped into the sunshine to see the seven trainees and dogs already at work in the pen.

  “Always ready.” It wasn’t a lie. Every time he stepped out to this grassy pen, drank in the gorgeous farmhouse and vista of North Carolina hills, Trace wanted to be right where he was. He could feel himself falling in love with this business, these dogs, this life.

  The whole place charmed him…as well as some of the people in it. Every once in a while, he could forget who he was and what kind of life he’d lived. Every once in a while, he could pretend that this was where he belonged. During those scant moments, he felt the closest thing to heaven he’d ever known.

  Then he’d see Molly and get even closer.

  He shouldn’t be falling for Molly or Waterford. He knew that. But he couldn’t stop himself.

  For the next few hours, Trace worked with Shane and the student trainers on doggie distraction training, which was as entertaining as it was exhausting. Some of the animals were far more distracted than others. A few never missed a beat, ignoring treats and toys as they went about their work. Some couldn’t stay focused for more than a minute, and those trainers were the most frustrated. It reminded Trace of the guys in prison who desperately wanted to get in the Puppies Behind Bars program but didn’t have the touch with the dogs.

  Trace had it, in spades. And every time Shane noted that, Trace felt that intense shot of pride that was so unfamiliar, he wasn’t even sure what to make of it. He’d spent his life being told he was a carbon copy of his loser father, then made that prediction come true. Then he’d spent fourteen years on the inside, being reminded that he was no better than an animal. Way worse, actually.

  Then life had thrust him here, where he felt worth and purpose and contentment. It was going to hurt like a mother to leave this place. To leave Molly…and Pru.

  He tried not to think about it, focusing on Shane’s teaching, admiring the man’s concentration and patience. But in the middle of a sentence, Shane suddenly seemed as distracted as some of the dogs, looking to the driveway, his words fading to nothing.

  Everyone, including Trace, followed his gaze to a brunette woman dressed in jeans and a stylish jacket walking toward the training pen, a stocky brown Staffordshire terrier on a leash next to her. Trace immediately recognized the woman as Chloe Somerset, Shane’s fiancée.

  “’Scuze me,” Shane murmured as a smile pulled at his strong features. “Take five, team.”

  The trainers seemed relieved for the break, and so did the dogs, who sensed they could romp, sniff, and pee with abandon. Shane walked toward the five-foot chain fence that surrounded the pen, leaning over to get a kiss from the woman.

  Trace held back, of course, splitting his attention between the dogs in the pen and the new arrival. After they’d talked for a few minutes, Shane turned and gestured to Trace.

  “Can you c’mere for a sec?” he called.

  Trace went immediately, saying hello to Chloe, whom he’d met once in the past week, bending down to greet the dog through the fence.

  “This is Ruby,” Chloe said, giving her pupper a rub on the head. But Ruby was on her haunches, paws on the fence, barking noisily at Shane. “Who is dying to slobber on her daddy right now.”

  Shane reached his fingers through and tickled Ruby’s fur. “So, Trace, Chloe has a favor to ask you.”

  “A favor?”

  She gave him a smile he imagined most people—especially Shane—would be incapable of saying no to. “The Puppy Parade needs a representative from Waterford, and Shane told me that little dachshund we were counting on has been adopted.”

  Trace nodded, remembering the fanfare he’d been told was tradition when a dog was adopted. The whole staff had gathered to say goodbye, Garrett Kilcannon wearing some beat-up old cowboy hat he called his “doggone hat” while he and his wife, Jessie, drove off to deliver the dog to a new home.

  “And Shane tells me there are two more, but they’re young.”

  “Boris and Natasha? You want to take them to a parade?”

  “I want you to take them,” she said, biting her lip as if she was a little embarrassed to ask. “I need you to walk them down the street in the Better Bark Puppy Parade.”

  Frowning, Trace took a step closer. “Excuse me?”

  At his look of abject confusion, Chloe laughed. “You’re not from around Better Bark?”

  “Used to be,” he said. “Back when we called it Bitter Bark, but I heard you changed that.”

  “Only for this calendar year,” she said. “Part of my campaign is to have at least one major dog-oriented event a month. Tomorrow night is the Puppy Parade, and I’ve already been told every hotel and bed-and-breakfast within ten miles is sold out. At least, the ones that accept pets. If not, bet they’re sorry now.”

  Shane grinned, pride in his eyes. “My fiancée, the tourism genius.”

  She waved off the compliment, her attention on Trace now. “It’s really not a big deal for the dogs if they’re people-friendly. They’re leashed, with owners, and they walk through town with the Bitter Bark, er, Better Bark High School band, cheerleaders, and some dancers. Trust me, it’s not going to be the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but I have fifty puppies signed up. Companies and businesses get promotional benefits, and I think it’s important for Waterford to be represented.”

  “There is no shortage of dogs here,” Trace said as a low-grade sense of dread bubbled in his gut. A parade in town? No, people hadn’t recognized him so far, or had any idea where he’d been for fourteen years, but still. With Trace’s shitty luck? Anything was possible.

  “But it’s a Puppy Parade,” Chloe said. “The cute factor is off the charts. They have to be under one to qualify. The younger the better.”

  “That’s your Natasha and Boris,” Shane said. “And it would be a great test of their skills, if they’re ready.”

  His Boris and Natasha. In his dreams. “I think they’re ready.” But was he?

  “I’d take them, but I’m leading the parade with Ruby,” Shane said, giving a little eye roll. “I made that promise in a moment of weakness.”

  Chloe tapped the chain link playfully. “You said you wanted to lead the parade.”

  “Honey, no man wants to be in a parade, trust me.” He grinned at Trace. “Which is why I’m asking, not telling, you, Trace. It’s your call.”

  Well, he sure as hell didn’t want to seem like he wouldn’t do anything for the dogs, and he honestly didn’t want anyone else taking them. “Sure. I’ll do it.”

  Chloe beamed
a thousand-watt smile at him. “Awesome! Now if I can get Molly and Pru to work the Waterford table, I’ll be all set.” She gave a tug on Ruby’s leash and backed away. “Is she in her office?”

  “Yeah,” Shane said. “Molly’s working here today. And we’re going to be done in ten minutes, so don’t go far.” He threw her a kiss, getting rewarded with a wink and a sweet smile as she and the dog took off toward the vet office. Shane never took his eyes off of Chloe until she walked into the building.

  Shane put his hand on Trace’s shoulder. “I owe you one, dude. Let me know if you ever need a favor.”

  “I might need someone to help me navigate the white water of a puppy parade,” he said on a dry laugh.

  “Get Molly,” he said. “She’d rather do that than run the table.”

  “You think?”

  “Can’t hurt to ask,” he said. “Come on, let’s get these dogs in shape. That golden doodle is a lunatic.”

  Trace laughed, walking back to the dogs and trainers, but the idea of a Puppy Parade just took on a whole new level of possibilities. It wouldn’t be a burden with Molly. It would be…fun.

  * * *

  At the tap on her office door, Molly looked up from the patient notes she was typing into her laptop and silently cursed the deep, feminine reaction she had to the sight of Trace Bancroft standing in her door. Messed hair, dark whiskers, well-decorated muscles on display in a clean Waterford Farm T-shirt all managed to tilt her a little bit off-balance.

  When was she going to get used to that?

  “Am I interrupting?” he asked.

  Yes. All her concentration was shot to hell at the sight, sound, and smell of the man. “Oh, no. I’m finishing for the day. And week. You came to see Meatball?”

  “I actually came to see you.”

  “Me?” And that tilted her world some more. But of course he wanted to see her. She was Meatball’s vet. To get a report. “I can tell you he’s a little antsy today.” Like the rest of us.

  “Is that bad?”

  “Actually, it’s good. He’s ready for a proper walk, I think, which might be why he’s whining and crying at a whole different level now.”

  He laughed, shaking his head with a little embarrassment. “I’ve been able to train him to do just about anything except man up.”

  “Most of them are babies when they get cooped up for so long.”

  “You make a lot of excuses for him, have you noticed?”

  She shrugged. “He’s won me over.”

  “Oh, I’ll have to get him to tell me the secret.”

  As if you don’t already know. “Would you like to take him for a walk?”

  “If you’ll come with us.”

  She couldn’t help laughing at the flirt as she pushed up from her seat, aware of his gaze dropping over her and how that millisecond of a glance made her feel so…attractive. How did he do that? He’d always done it.

  “Come on,” she said, ushering him down the hall, insanely aware of how close they were, how strong he felt when their bodies accidentally brushed when she showed him into the recovery room.

  Meatball was pacing the confines of his crate, but barked and raised up on his front paws at the sight of Molly, as he always did.

  “Someone is feeling good today,” she said, going straight to open his latch. “Hey, Meatball. Want to take a walk?”

  He barked several times at the word walk, padding his paws as if he couldn’t wait to get out.

  Trace lifted the dog out of the crate, and quite easily, considering he weighed in at just under sixty pounds since surgery. As he lowered Meatball to the ground, Trace turned his face to offer a cheek, but Meatball went straight to Molly and nuzzled her leg.

  “Whoa.” Trace, still crouched on the ground, turned to watch the exchange. “Color me forgotten.”

  Meatball looked up at her and panted with a look of adoration it didn’t take a trained professional to recognize.

  “He’s in love with you.” Trace sounded more than a little bewildered. And maybe jealous.

  “He’s spent a lot of time with me.” Laughing, Molly snagged a leash and collar from a hook. “Take him on a walk, and he’ll forget I exist.”

  He gave a little scoffing choke, pushing up slowly. “Molly, he doesn’t need a leash. Have you ever seen him try to run off?”

  “This is the best he’s felt in a week. It’s exactly when he’ll run.” She held the leash out to him.

  Looking up at her, he closed his fingers over her hand and gave the slightest squeeze, which she, of course, felt right down to her toes. “You never said if you’d come with us or not.”

  She should say no. She should not encourage evening strolls and casual contact and long conversations with him. She should realize that he caused a string of electrical sparks that made her remember things like how he—

  “Don’t think too hard, Irish. Life’s more fun when you’re spontaneous.”

  “Fun? Maybe you forgot what happened the last time we were spontaneous.”

  A slow smile pulled at his lips. “That was fun.”

  She bit back a laugh. “There’s no winning with you.”

  “There’s no losing, either. Just take a walk, okay? I want to ask you a favor.”

  “All right.” It wasn’t like she seriously considered not going with him.

  He didn’t say what his favor was, but a few minutes later, they both retrieved jackets from a coatrack in the lobby, stepping outside. There, Molly inhaled deeply and lifted her face to the sky, willing herself to calm down around him.

  “God, it’s beautiful here,” Trace said, buttoning his jacket and looking around.

  She took in the view with him, looking out to the horizon where the sun would soon disappear behind distant mountains. That left the foothills of Waterford bathed in the silver tones of a midwinter evening with a hushed quiet falling over the bare trees and patches of frozen grass.

  “This is one of my favorite times of day,” she said. “I love those few minutes of transition between day and night. It always feels peaceful and familiar, with the day ending and life beginning.”

  She turned to watch Trace adjust Meatball’s leash then stand tall, that fading sun sharpening the angles of his face and highlighting a five o’clock shadow that made him look dark, sexy, and strong.

  “Life?” He gave a soft snort. “I’d call it my least-favorite time of day, but maybe that will change.”

  “Why?”

  He studied her for a moment, his brows drawn as if he considered how to answer the question. “Because daytime in a prison, if you’re smart and play the system, can be endured. There’s work to do, purpose, and people. Nighttime means an eight-by-eight cell with snoring, swearing, fighting, farting, and the occasional wail of remorse.”

  She tried—and failed—to imagine the dark and desolate loneliness of that situation.

  He came down the step to join her. “When I’d catch a glimpse out a window, which was rare, this time of day meant that was what was ahead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You didn’t kill anyone.”

  The statement silenced her, compelling her to stick her hands deep into her pockets and make a fist of frustration. He didn’t actually kill anyone…but he did. What a miserable thing to have to live with.

  “So why do you like this time of day?” he asked, adjusting his pace so that he and the dog walked in time with her.

  “Well, I guess because the start of evening always signaled something good. When I was a kid, it meant the far-flung pack would be gathering soon, around a dinner table.” For her, that meant laughter and teasing and family and security. “When I became a mother, it meant school and work and all that distraction was over, and all that lay ahead were hours with Pru.”

  “What did you do during those hours with Pru?”

  So much, she couldn’t begin to list. “We played games and took baths in the early years, then homework and projects, like volunteering at she
lters or baking something fun.”

  Suddenly, it all sounded so light and bright and normal when viewed through the lens of a man who’d been in prison. And that made her heart ache for him and what he’d missed.

  “I know you were gone and I had no way of knowing where you were,” she said, “but honestly, I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job of trying to find you. Of telling you.”

  “No, don’t be. I’m glad I didn’t know.”

  “You’re glad?” She found that hard to believe. “Why?”

  “Because it would have made every one of those five thousand one hundred days even longer.”

  Ouch. “You counted days?”

  “Hours seemed like overkill.”

  Molly’s shoulders fell as she imagined the weight of all those days.

  “Bet you never realized you’d had five thousand-plus days with Pru.”

  “No,” she admitted. “And every one has been amazing.” Looking up, she held his gaze. “I’m really, really sorry, Trace.”

  “I mean it when I say don’t be sorry, Molly. I don’t want you delivering constant apologies. There will be five thousand more days, and five thousand days after that, and a lot more five thousands beyond. But right now? We have to get through the next five.”

  “We will,” she promised, though she wasn’t quite sure how. The impending revelation to Pru still hung out there like a dark cloud, threatening stormy weather they both didn’t want to face.

  He exhaled, burying whatever thought accompanied that sound, then nodded to Meatball, who was keeping pace but pulled his head to the left to let his displeasure with the leash be known loud and clear. “Not my fault, Meatman,” Trace said. “Doctor’s orders. Blame her. Oh, wait, I forgot. She’s your new best friend.”

  Molly laughed, but didn’t relent. She’d seen a few dogs, when unleashed for the first time during convalescence, take off and set themselves back days in recovery.

  “I know somewhere we can take him,” she said, suddenly wanting very much to bring Trace to a place that was so deeply special to her. “It’s a perfect walk for him, and by the time we get there, he’ll be tired enough that I’ll trust him off leash.” She paused for a moment. “It’s near where my mom is buried, and there’s a beautiful sunset over the mountains visible from there.”