Cupid to the Rescue: A Tail-Wagging Valentine's Day Anthology

by Lisa Mondello

  “No worries. I’m not here to socialize.”

  She planned to do yoga, meditate, formulate a plan for her future, and get in touch with nature. But nobody said anything about taking care of livestock.

  She quickly counted the hoofed beasts she could see.

  Four sheep…or are they goats? A pony…? No, too big. And shaggy. ”Is that a llama?”

  “Yep. Jesus” Betty used the Spanish pronunciation— “is our guard llama. Better than a dog for protecting the sheep from predators.”

  “A ‘guard llama’? Really?” Paige cleared her throat. “I’ve never actually seen one up close. Is it safe to assume you have a ‘livestock sitter’ to look after the ruminants?”

  Betty let out a laugh that set off a cacophony of dog barking from inside the house. Sharp, high-pitched yips and a scratching sound coming from behind the painted metal security door of the home punctuated loud, deep barks that rattled the windows. Is that to keep the dogs in or people out?

  “Titus. Rocky. Shut up already,” Betty hollered over her shoulder. “Your new sister is coming. You’ll meet her in a minute.”

  Sister?

  Oddly, the word calmed the nervous prickle of moisture under her arms. I’ve never been a sister.

  Shoving her clutch under one arm, she tightened the raincoat’s cloth belt and marched up the three, wide, but slightly saggy, wood steps. On the middle step, her boot heel slid over a slick spot on the wood.

  Do I even want to know what that might be?

  No. Definitely not.

  Luckily, the sturdy metal handrail beneath her calfskin driving gloves—worthless against the cold but stylish as hell—provided the anchor she needed to reach the porch in one piece.

  Peripherally, she took in as much of her surroundings as possible while advancing toward her hostess.

  “Don’t look like much, but”—Betty made a sweeping motion with her free hand—“it’s been home to a boatload of kids and critters, and now, it’s paid off.” She grasped Paige’s hand firmly. “Thanks for coming. You’re a true lifesaver.”

  Paige blushed. She hadn’t felt valued in longer than she could remember. “Why does everybody call you Aunt Betty?”

  The woman’s wide, thick shoulders shrugged. “I guess cause I raised a passel of kids that weren’t mine. Most of ’em already had moms. Worthless mostly, but blood, all the same. So, I decided I’d be their auntie. Every kid knows his or her aunt is a thousand times cooler than their dickwad parents.”

  Betty’s hooting snort ended in a phlegmy cough. She walked to the railing and spit into a thicket of spiny rose bushes that looked like they were last trimmed when Clinton was in office. “Your mother is the exception, of course. Karen was always cool. Before that was even a word. I see her in you. The hair, for starters. Yours is longer and darker, but God, she had nice hair. Has it turned gray yet? Tell me it’s gray.”

  Paige smiled. Her mother loved her hair, which had changed color with a slight addition of gray. “Some. Not a lot. And it blends nicely with her shade of blond.”

  Betty groaned and ran her fingers through a thick mop of salt-and-pepper locks—heavy on the salt. The short cut looked practical rather than fashionable. Paige understood why when Betty said, “My barber thinks I’ll be white by the time Social Security kicks in.”

  Barber?

  “Come in. Come in. Let me introduce you to the gang.”

  With the giant cat still tucked under one arm, she tossed her empty beer can into a white, five-gallon plastic paint bucket then opened the door. “I should warn you,” she said, her voice dropping, “the dogs are gonna be of a handful for a day or two until they get it through their thick heads that you’re here to stay and I’m not coming back right away.”

  “What kind of handful?”

  Paige’s question got lost in the scuffle when a giant black nose found purchase on the slightly open inner door. The door crashed inward with a loud bang, and the waist-high beast—all velvety gray except for a single white circle around one eye—charged forward. Paige grabbed her purse with both hands and held it out at nose level—a shield or a snack?

  Betty grabbed the dog’s studded red leather collar—the sort Paige once spotted in the window of a sex shop off of Mulholland—just as the beast thrust its giant nose between Paige’s legs. “Ooh. Stop. Help.”

  “Cool it, Titus,” Betty barked, hauling the animal backward with more strength than Paige would have expected from a woman her mother’s age. “Mind your manners.”

  The firm command made Paige picture Betty talking to a young boy, not a dog. For some reason, her tone—and the look of love and kindness in Betty’s still vibrant blue eyes—instantly endeared the woman to her.

  Before she could thank Betty for the rescue, the other dog—a brown-and-white mix with a Jack Russell head, a chubby beagle body, and the bark of a Chihuahua—tried to launch himself into Paige’s arm…or snatch her purse from her hands. She wasn’t certain which.

  She held her purse above her head for safety. The damn thing was her only tangible link to the life she’d never know again.

  Using her drill sergeant voice again, Betty managed to get everyone inside. She locked the door after pausing to set down the mini-mountain lion.

  “Rex is supposed to be an outdoor cat, but he’ll yowl for hours if you don’t let him in.”

  As if irked by Betty revealing his super power, the giant cat stalked away, disappearing down the hall.

  “Okay. So, let’s make this quick. I called TJ to let him know you were on your way. Hopefully, he’ll make it before I hit the road.”

  Paige slipped out of her coat, laid it over the back of a comfy-looking leather sofa that looked practically new and set her clutch on top. She hung on to her phone in case she needed to take any photos as per her duties.

  The open floor plan of the living room and kitchen needed no explanation, although Betty pointed to the large, freestanding wood stove with a pretty red glow visible in the door’s glass window and said, “Firewood on the back porch. I wrote out instructions on how to clean it. Just remember: Never—and I mean never—assume the coals are cold. Use the tin coal bucket and don’t set it on the deck. I saw one too many fires start that way when I was part of the volunteer fire department.”

  Paige gulped. “No coals on the deck. Got it.”

  Betty started down the hallway, opening doors as they went.

  “I call this room the Cat House. It used to be my office back when I had to file paperwork for CPS and the state.”

  Paige popped her head into the room, bracing for the smell of cat. Deodorizing cleaner was all she could smell. Plastic cages of varying sizes. A couple of litter boxes with no litter. A variety of food bowls.

  “Rex is too proud to use a litter box. Normally, I might keep four or five rescues in here, but I found homes for the last two a few days ago, and put the word out that I was gonna be gone, so you shouldn’t have to worry about somebody dropping off a feral mama cat and her babies.”

  Thank you, God.

  “Is…um…Rex your personal cat, then?”

  Betty laughed. “Honey, they’re all personal to me. Some that show up are past saving. The vet does what needs to be done to put them out of their misery. Some I find homes for, which is the only good thing about social media in my opinion. But, to answer your question, Rex decided I was his person. I tried rehoming him twice, until I finally got the message. He’s my personal cat.”

  “Will he be upset about you leaving?”

  “Not if you remember to put out his food.” She pointed toward the back of the house. “He’s got a special ledge that Rocky, a.k.a. The Pig, can’t reach.” The beagle mix at her feet dropped his head in shame. Betty touched Paige’s arm lightly. “Seriously, he’s nearly fourteen and Doc says he can’t afford to gain a pound. Feed Rocky outside and don’t let him in until Titus is done grazing. It’ll take a while. Rocky will pout and bark at birds, but just ignore any histrionics.”

>   Paige typed a couple of notes into a page on her phone.

  “The most important thing to remember if someone forgets and you wind up with some drop-offs, is to isolate the new ones to keep these guys safe, then call Doc Brandt. Number’s on the board. He’ll check them for chips, give shots and worming pills, as needed, and then you can put their pictures out on the World Wide Web…from your phone. You have service, right?”

  Paige checked. “Three bars.”

  “You can get four late at night in the bedroom or by leaning over the far end of the porch.”

  Paige added the two points to her notes, but inside a niggling sense of doubt began to create a humming sensation in her chest. I can do this. No big deal. Two dogs and a cat. It’s all cool.

  But her self-confidence flinched when Betty opened two more doors directly across from each other. “The guest bath serves as a temporary quarantine for new arrivals. The tile is easier to clean and sanitize if they’re sick.”

  Good to know.

  “This used to be my guest room. When I had foster kids, it was the girl’s dorm because it’s bigger than the office.”

  “Where did the boys sleep?”

  “The master. For some reason, I had more boys than girls. It’s a biggest room. Had three sets of bunk beds at one time. And it’s got its own bath.”

  “Where’d you sleep?”

  “On the couch in winter. In a hammock on the deck in the summer. Still do.”

  Paige, who hadn’t camped since childhood, couldn’t help but be impressed.

  The door at the end of the hall was open. This room was, by far, the most lived in and displayed the most personality. “The skylights are nice.” Paige walked to the center of the room and looked up.

  “There’s also one over my bed and the desk. Saves money ’cause you don’t need to turn on lights unless it’s a cloudy day.”

  The spare, nearly Spartan, decorating theme made Paige want to clap with glee, but she didn’t want Betty to take her response the wrong way. “It’s a great room, Betty. After dealing with all the crap I collected during my marriage, I’m very happy with the less-is-more concept.”

  “Well, that’s good. ’Cause I got plenty of less.”

  Paige liked the woman’s low-key attitude and quick wit.

  She peeked into the large bathroom. Double sinks. Walk-in shower and a free-standing tub. “Very nice.”

  “And the plumbing almost always works.”

  Returning to the large master, she walked to the queen bed where Rex the mountain lion/cat lay, watching her every move. Her hand itched to pet him, but she held back. “He looks like he owns the place.”

  Betty swooped in without a thought and picked up the animal, cradling it in her arms like a baby. “He’s a good boy. I’m going to miss him the most.”

  She held out her arms to Paige. “Do you want to hold him?”

  Yes. Very much.

  “Um…maybe later? I’ve actually never owned a pet.”

  “Never?”

  The word made her blush, even though Betty’s tone was more shocked than judgmental.

  “I take that back. We had a dog, a cat, and a lizard when I was little, but after my dad died, Mom didn’t want to try to move them from Salt Lake. My stepdad’s allergic to everything. And my husband—ex-husband—and I were workaholics. With a crazy social life. It wouldn’t have been fair to have a pet we couldn’t care for.”

  Betty nodded. “Good choice. I’ve fostered some real wrecks whose owners meant well, but should have stuck with Sudoku as a pastime.”

  Paige pointed to the two dog beds on either side of her bed. “Titus and Rocky sleep in here?”

  Betty’s gaze slid sideways as if trying to think of a plausible lie. “These are their beds, but…I broke the rules and let them sleep with me.” She held up one hand as if to stop the inevitable question. “I hauled their day beds in here and told them that’s where they have to sleep at night. Just push them off if they try to get in bed with you. They’ll learn.”

  Both dogs eyed Paige as if they knew she was to blame for this edict. Before Paige could apologize, Betty pivoted on the heel of her worn cowboy boots. “Time to take this show on the road.”

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  TJ crawled backward out of the tunnel, grateful for the heavy-duty molded plastic kneepads he’d found to protect from the shards on the tunnel floor. In the dim light, with the granite walls just inches from his head, time seemed to stop. He had a bad habit of forgetting to eat, let alone remember to drink water.

  Parched, his nostrils clogged with dust despite his mask, the first thing he did when he reached the tunnel opening was flop sideways to a sitting position, his back resting against the eight-by-eight timber post, to crack open a plastic water bottle and pour the contents over his head.

  He shook his head like a wet dog, then grabbed a paper towel to wipe the dirt from his skin and blow his nose. He grabbed a second bottle that he’d refilled that morning and drank until he had to breathe.

  Finally, he leaned his head back and took a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity. The scent of the nearby buckbrush blooms made his nose twitch, but he stifled his cough by working up enough wet to spit.

  Dirt. The bane of his existence. But the price of admittance to the business of gold mining.

  Betty wasn’t convinced, but TJ was positive that somewhere in this pile of rock was gold. He had the geologist’s report and three little glass vials he’d filled with enough color to keep him going until he hit a vein—or his savings ran out. Whichever came first.

  A chirping sound from the pocket of the Carhartt jacket he’d removed before entering the mine made him rip off his heavy, sweat-soaked leather gloves and grab his phone. Four text messages. All from Betty.

  He looked at the time.

  “Oh, shit. The house sitter’s there. Betty will be hot to trot. I’ve got to go.”

  He got up, brushing the dirt from his clothes as he ran to the truck. “No time to shower and change, dammit. Some impression I’m going to make the pretty girl from the CV.”

  Pretty? A nice sunset was pretty. Maybe too pretty. “I’m guessing someone got to her with an airbrush,” he murmured as he climbed into his Dodge 350 and started the engine.

  For some reason, he could get texts but couldn’t send one until he reached the summit. “She’ll wait for me. I know she will.”

  He stepped on the gas—not even easing off when he hit the section of washboard that rattled his fillings. The truck fishtailed for a hundred yards but finally caught traction when the road started to climb.

  In his mind, he heard Betty making that tsking sound he knew all too well. He’d been on the receiving end of her admonishments for his three and a half years of high school. Betty McFee had given him more attention, more “mothering” than he’d ever gotten from his real parents, who gave up on him when they gave up on each other.

  For the first time in his life, he’d had structure, accountability, and consequences. Naturally, as a teen with no sense of trust, he pushed back every single time on every single rule Betty set up. But she let him screw up then gave him another chance. A third or fourth, if needed.

  The only rule he never broke was the one about telling her good-bye when either of them left. He’d learned over time the regret that came from not showing up for the people you care about.

  He glanced sideways, checking the number of bars on his phone. When he looked up, instinct reacted before his brain could make sense of the image: a donkey standing sideways in the middle of the dirt road. Big ears. Big eyes. Unmoving.

  “Oh, no, God, no, please, mooove,” he cried, fists clenched on the steering wheel, his butt off the seat as he stood on the brakes. The engine whined, the tires—the biggest, baddest snow and mudders he could find—dug deep as the truck bed slid sideways. A gust of wind blew the huge cloud of dust he’d created up and over the truck, obscuring his view.

  Did the donkey go right when he pulled left or
did it stand there, frozen? Now dead. He hadn’t felt an impact, but the donkey wasn’t much bigger than Titus, Betty’s Great Dane. Once the truck came to a stop—practically flush with the wall of mountain out his driver’s side window, he hopped over the middle console, opened the passenger door and jumped out, bracing for the worst. His knees wobbled as he spun about, looking for a body. He hurried to the front of his truck. Nothing plastered to the rigid tubing of his cowcatcher. “Thank you, God. But…”

  He turned around and trotted back to where his wide, shovel-looking tracks started. Out the corner of his eye, he spotted a small gray form caught in the wicked grasp of a buckbrush twice the size of his truck.

  He approached slowly, not wanting to spook the animal worse than it probably already was. “Hey, fella…” He cocked his head and checked. “Hey, girl, what brings you out to the middle of nowhere? I see part of a halter around your neck. Did you bust loose and get lost?”

  The donkey—either injured or suffering from shock—shivered fiercely. He inched closer.

  “I gotta tell you, that mighta been a mistake, girlfriend. I’ve seen coyotes bigger than you.” A slight exaggeration, but her heaving midsection showed a whole lot of ribs. She was skin and bone.

  His soft, reassuring tone seemed to calm her. She took a tentative step but stumbled, with a raw cry of pain. He sprang forward, ignoring the knife-like jab in his back that nearly took his breath away. Pain, his old amigo, didn’t meet the threshold of interfering with his objective. He grabbed the hunk of broken halter and eased her free from the brutal spikes of the silver gray limbs.

  “Shush, shush, I gotcha, little girl. It’s okay. You’re okay. I don’t know where you belong, but I’m gonna take you to a place that will keep you safe until we find your rightful owner.”

  She stood for him, shaking like the leaves of the nearby live-oak. Docile in a way that didn’t seem right, she didn’t object to him checking her legs and hooves. Her gray-brown coat— thickly matted with dirt, weeds, and stickers—showed skin-deep grooves. Some scabbed over. Others bleeding. Either she’d tumbled over sharp rocks or she’d been on the receiving end of a whip at some point in time.