One Perfect Year

by Melinda Curtis

  Instead of Ryan, a fur-matted Saint Bernard skidded to a halt at the end of a row of grapevines twenty feet away from them. He chuffed, as if he’d been running a long time. His tongue hung out the side of his mouth. And he was thin. So thin.

  Without thinking, Shelby walked toward him. “Come here, fella. Come on, boy. We won’t hurt you.”

  “Are you nuts?” Christine whispered. “That dog is huge.”

  “It’s also hungry and—” She gasped. “There’s blood on his back hip.” Shelby tugged her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed Gage.

  The Saint Bernard perked his ears, taking a few steps closer, limping.

  “Shel, I’m with your grandfather.” Gage sounded distracted. “I’ll text you when I leave town.”

  Shelby kept her voice calm and stayed on task, when she’d have preferred to give him a dig about the first time he’d answered her call in more than two years. “We’ve got a stray over at the winery. St. Bernard. Blood on his haunches.”

  “Is he erratic?” Gage’s voice sharpened. “Drooling? Crazy eyes?”

  “No, his eyes have more of a lost, sorrowful look to them.”

  “Are you somewhere safe?”

  “We’re standing in the winery doorway. Ryan’s out in the vineyard somewhere.”

  “Call Ryan and tell him to stay away until I get there. Better to be cautious.”

  “But—” She stared at her phone. “He hung up on me.”

  “Hopefully that means he’s driving to our rescue. That dog weighs more than either one of us.”

  “He doesn’t look rabid.” Shelby didn’t know how she knew, but she did. “He looks afraid. And hungry.”

  Shelby called Ryan on his cell and relayed Gage’s message. Then she whistled and snapped her fingers, but the dog stayed put, shying deeper into the row when Gage drove up in his white truck.

  When he and her grandfather got out, Shelby directed them to the row where she’d last seen the dog. “Grandpa, come over here with us.”

  That ruffled the old dear, stiffening his already erratic gait. “I’m a vet. I’m not going to hide with the women-folk.”

  “You should get over with Shelby, Doc.” Gage projected authority with every syllable and every step, at odds with the tuft of black hair out of place above his forehead.

  Unused to him in the lead, Shelby was briefly taken aback. Nick had always directed. She and Gage had always followed. Watching Gage stride forward, she was struck with the beauty of him, the power, the rightness.

  For so long, she’d thought of him as a sweet boy. She knew she’d never think of him like that again.

  “You’re not as nimble on your feet as you once were, Doc,” Gage said. “Best stay back.”

  Being dismissed poked at her grandfather’s pride. “Have I lost all usefulness? Why don’t you just put me out to pasture and shoot me?”

  “Grandpa—”

  Gage held up a hand for quiet as he neared the row where the dog had last been seen. He produced a piece of beef jerky from his pocket and whistled.

  Her grandfather stood in the drive and bent his knobby knees to see beneath the bushy tops of the grapevines.

  The chuffing noise of the dog became louder, as did the uneven padding of big paws on dirt. There was no hesitation this time. The huge dog ran right up to Gage and inhaled the piece of beef jerky.

  Gage slid his fingers under the dog’s collar. With his free hand, he scratched behind the dog’s ears. “I need a rope,” he said softly, so softly Shelby didn’t realize at first that he was talking to them and not the dog.

  She and Christine rushed to find some. When they came back, Gage was feeding the dog more beef jerky and Shelby’s grandfather was looking at the dog’s bloody hip from a few feet away with a critical eye.

  “It’s either a puncture wound or he’s been shot,” Grandpa surmised. “Any tags on the collar?”

  “No.” Gage fed the dog the last piece of jerky. “Dogs without tags usually mean dogs without inoculations. Ladies, please stay back. This big guy could have rabies.”

  “He doesn’t have rabies,” Shelby scoffed, handing Gage the coil of rope. “He was probably more afraid of us than we were of him. Weren’t you, big guy?”

  The dog was huge. He panted through a friendly, toothy smile. He was mostly white with a blanket of mahogany across his back, black freckles on his nose and beautiful brown eyes that spoke of disappointment.

  Gage led him to his truck and opened the door.

  Shelby and her grandfather followed.

  “Come on, boy.” Gage patted the truck seat and whistled. “Inside.” Pat-pat-pat.

  The dog cringed and backed away, lowering his body until he was almost lying down.

  Gage pulled on the rope, but the Saint Bernard was having none of it.

  “Hey, boy.” Shelby pitched her voice sweet as sugar as she came at the dog from behind. “Be a lamb and get in the truck for Gage.”

  “Don’t come any closer, Shel. I mean it.” Gage so seldom gave her a command that Shelby froze. “Since he won’t get in the truck, I’m going to have to walk him to the clinic. We can put him in a kennel. I’ll see what kind of treatment he needs and run into Cloverdale for meds.”

  “I found him. I’ll go with you to the clinic,” Shelby said stubbornly.

  “Shelby, I told you it’s dangerous.” Again with the commanding tone.

  “And I told you I don’t care.” Something about the dog called to her. That sad, hopeless look. It told her he was no threat. She’d seen that expression staring back at her from the mirror for months after Nick died. She’d seen it the other night in Gage’s eyes.

  “Barnacles,” Gage muttered.

  Suppressing a smile, Shelby spoke to Christine. “I’ll be back later.”

  “Call it a day. We all deserve a break,” Christine said. “Let’s meet tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. to establish our priorities for the week. I’ll phone Ryan and give him the all clear.”

  Shelby faced Gage and his cowlick bristle of hair. She reached up to smooth it, her fingers combing through his thick, ebony locks. The contradictions faded away—Dead Gage, Leader Gage, Lost Gage. Her friend. Her lab partner. Her safety net. He was all those things and none of those things. He was just Gage.

  Gage held himself so still, she thought he’d forgotten how to breathe. And then that smile of his—the one he used to bamboozle people—slid into place. That smile said more than Gage ever could. It said distance. It said detach. It said deny.

  Her hand drifted to her side. She stepped back, facing Dead Gage once more.

  CHAPTER SIX

  GAGE WAS MAD. At Shelby. It was a first for him.

  She questioned his decisions. She touched his hair. She wreaked havoc with his control. And it hadn’t stopped. Not at the winery and not on the walk to the clinic.

  “Don’t walk so close to us.” Gage crooned, the same as he would to a mare in the throes of labor. Tone was everything with animals. He’d never tried it on a woman before. “I don’t know this dog and even underweight, he’s one hundred pounds of unpredictability.”

  “If he was going to hurt me, he would have done it by now.” Shelby walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Gage through town. She was focused on the asphalt ahead of her. Each footfall landed with crisp precision. Each word uttered with a chill to match the brisk fall air.

  The Saint Bernard ambled along a few feet ahead, limping on his injured leg, his large ears perking up to hear what was being said.

  “At least walk behind me, so I can protect you.” Gage took Shelby’s hand and pulled her back. The bruised muscles at the base of his spine shuddered in protest.

  “Gage.” Shelby’s gaze landed on him reproachfully as she stumbled to return to his side. Her unzipped army-green jacket fl
apped open, revealing a black sweater that hid her curves. “He won’t hurt me. He needs someone to love him.”

  Gage hesitated at the emotion in Shelby’s voice, her words echoed in his head: he needs someone to love him.

  Dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine sped through his veins. He glanced away from the spark of stubborness in her eyes, pretending to focus on the dog, all the while aware of every nuanced move Shelby made.

  “It’s okay, big guy.” Gage caught up to the animal, patting him on his massive head. He spoke softly to Shelby. “Please work with me.” He noted her tightly sealed lips. Graceful brows a severe slash over intent blue eyes. She wielded that barnacle expression like other women wielded a pout. How he’d missed it. “Please, Shel.”

  A speculative look. A brief nod. “When did you become so bossy?”

  “Shelby,” he said warningly. “Don’t mistake my decisiveness for browbeating.”

  “Gage,” she said with equal boundary-laying tension as they crossed Main Street. “Don’t mistake my acquiescence for capitulation.” She blew out a breath. “Is this your bedside manner? If so, it needs work.”

  What needed work was his reaction to her. “Maybe you’re right about the dog being tame and disease free. But look what happened when I tried to get him in my truck. He’s unpredictable and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you because I wasn’t being careful.”

  “Oh.” Her voice. So small. “Thank you.”

  They continued in silence through the quiet streets of Harmony Valley, reaching the vet office without incident.

  Doc had driven Gage’s truck and arrived ahead of them. He waited, a slip of an old man, holding the main kennel door open. He should be permanently retired, ensconced in a recliner with his remote, great-grandchildren playing at his feet.

  Eyeing the fresh bowl of water, the stray ambled in, easy as you please, and started drinking. Gage untied him and backed out. Doc latched the door.

  The dog lifted his head. Water dribbled from both sides of his mouth. His gaze questioning. He made a small noise like a child just realizing he may have lost his mother and was unsure if he should panic or not.

  “It’s okay, boy,” Shelby said, waggling her fingers through the cage.

  Mollified, the dog settled himself on the concrete with a heavy sigh, as if he knew all his problems would soon be taken care of.

  “Granted, he seems to like you, but I’ve seen ponies smaller than that dog.” Gage carefully guided Shelby away from the kennel. “And I’ve seen ponies bite.”

  “He’s not a pony. He’s harmless.”

  He and Doc conferred on which supplies they’d need to treat the animal. Gage recorded the list on his phone.

  “Wouldn’t it be quicker and easier to take him to a clinic in Cloverdale?” Shelby asked.

  Gage clasped a hand dramatically over his chest. “You might just as well question my manhood.”

  “Ditto,” her grandfather growled.

  Shelby gestured in the general direction of the highway. “Then shouldn’t you manly men be racing down the hill for supplies? The dog is clearly—”

  “Uncomfortable,” Gage interrupted. “He’s uncomfortable, not in agony.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, much as he’d done in the bridal shop apartment. And as had happened there, he had trouble releasing her, even as he turned her toward the exit. “I’m going to make the supply run. Your grandfather is going to stay here. And you? You’re going home to get some rest.” She looked spent.

  “I can stay with him.” Shelby edged toward the kennel.

  “No.” His hand shot out to stop her. Gage had visions of Shelby sneaking into the kennel to cradle the big dog’s head in her lap. All kinds of bad images ensued.

  “But—”

  “No,” he repeated. “It’s my practice. My rules.”

  Dr. Wentworth’s grin spread across his narrow face. “Well done.”

  Gage’s announcement sidetracked Shelby. “You’re staying? Here?”

  “Until my job in Kentucky starts, I’m staying.” Secretariat, help him.

  “You’ll stay with us,” Doc said. “Your family’s house isn’t fit for sleeping. I thought I saw a possum coming out of the kitchen window the other day.”

  Shelby frowned. “He can’t stay with us for two months.” She didn’t say why. Was it because their friendship had run its course as she’d claimed? Or...

  Gage couldn’t come up with an alternative hypothesis, which bothered him. It bothered him far too much.

  “You’ll be expecting me to cook, I suppose.” Shelby blew her bangs from her forehead.

  “You’re a horrible cook,” the old vet said.

  The two began bickering about privacy and responsibilities, what Grandma Ruby would have wanted and what skills Shelby did or didn’t have in the kitchen. Gage could listen to them forever.

  Every day could be like this, his traitorous heart whispered. If you stayed. Permanently.

  He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t live near Shelby and be her invisible man.

  “You’re upsetting the dog.” Gage pointed to the Saint Bernard, who’d moved to the far corner of the kennel and turned his back on them.

  The Wentworth family suitably chastised, Gage left the pair and drove to Cloverdale.

  He was staying? At least, for now.

  Bad idea. This could only end with a long drive to Kentucky and plenty of time to think about what should have been.

  And his heart. Broken, as always.

  * * *

  SHELBY ENJOYED FOOD, as long as someone else cooked it.

  She’d had a great college roommate who loved to cook. She’d married Nick and he’d been the king of the grill. As a widow, she had no reason to do more than heat something in the microwave.

  And so, when dinner was lobbed in her court, she went with an old standby—spaghetti. Add a bag of salad and a loaf of garlic bread already slathered with butter from the grocery store, and viola! Dinner was served.

  Gage would know she was shortcutting it. In the old days he would have called her on it, claiming she only knew how to make three things in the kitchen. She didn’t think he’d say anything today. There was too much tension between them as they danced around each other trying to figure out how to interact. It wouldn’t be like this for the full two months, would it?

  “How’s your patient?” Shelby asked when Gage came in through the kitchen door, followed by her grandfather, who looked worn out by the day’s excitement.

  The men shed their coats, hanging them on chair backs.

  “The dog didn’t get shot. It was a puncture wound.” Grandpa sank into his chair at the head of the kitchen table and rubbed his shoulder. He needed to slow down. “He probably fell along an embankment and landed on a Manzanita bush.” Manzanita shrubs had dense branches that didn’t bend.

  “That dog’s a trooper.” Gage washed his hands in the sink. He glanced at the stove, at her, then away, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I should have known we’d either be having spaghetti, pancakes or chocolate chip cookies.” The three things he claimed she excelled at making.

  Busted.

  “Don’t push it or I’ll serve you frozen pizza.” Who was she kidding? She’d do that anyway, sometime soon. Shelby dished up the spaghetti and passed them each a full plate. “I looked online to see if anyone posted anything about a lost dog. Nothing.”

  “I asked at the clinic in Cloverdale and called animal control. Nobody reported a missing Saint Bernard there either.” Gage dug in.

  “It’s likely someone couldn’t afford to keep him. He’s a very big dog.” Grandpa accepted a glass of water from Shelby and drank deeply. “He probably eats his weight in kibble every month. A lot of people used to drive out to the country and dump animals, back befo
re gas prices were so high.”

  Shelby’s heart panged at the idea of anyone dumping the dog and leaving him behind. The look on his face—so lost and alone—returned to her. “I’m going to keep him.”

  Gage put down his fork, despite it being wrapped with spaghetti. “Don’t rush into anything. You don’t know this dog. When he feels better, he’ll show you his true colors.”

  Shelby drew a breath, preparing to argue, but Gage beat her to it.

  “Don’t barnacle me, Shel. I’m serious. Normally, I’d jump for joy at someone adopting a stray. But when this dog is healthy, he’s going to put on another thirty to fifty pounds.” Gage shifted in his chair to face her. “Flynn Harris’s nephew, Truman, is only eight. He stopped by the clinic after you left. He has a little dog. Maybe you’ve seen Abby around.”

  Shelby nodded.

  “What if this Saint Bernard doesn’t like kids or other animals, Shel?”

  “He will. I have a good feeling about him.” He’d been lost. She’d been lost. They had a connection.“You’ll make him better and you’ll see. He’s going to be perfect for me.”

  Gage shook his head. “Dogs are like kids. They need your time. You have a demanding job.”

  “Friendships take time, too, in case you’d forgotten,” Shelby countered. “I’d rather have a dog.”

  “You’ve given up on relationships? That explains a lot.” Looking grim, Gage finally took a bite of spaghetti.

  “I don’t... I haven’t... You know nothing.” Shelby tore off a piece of garlic bread and popped it into her mouth, muttering darkly, “Dead Gage.”

  “What did you call me?” Gage’s volume nearly reached Grandpa’s decibel level.

  Shelby felt a twinge of remorse. But it was just a twinge.

  “Dogs, all mighty.” Grandpa leaped into the fray, louder than Gage. “You two used to be as inseparable as peanut butter and jelly. I haven’t heard one nice word exchanged between the two of you since Gage came back. Friends know when to give a person space and when to mend fences.”