The Dog Town Collection

by Sandy Rideout

  “Point taken. I promise I won’t play tag with him anymore. Once bitten, twice shy.”

  They laughed together this time, and Fritz pawed at Sullivan’s leg, asking to be picked up. The ploy worked, and he curled into a ball in Sullivan’s lap.

  Bridget looked at them sideways. Was it possible she’d been wrong about Sullivan? And that Beau had been wrong about him, too? She had been quite certain Sullivan wasn’t a dog person and that wasn’t alterable, in her view. Yet here he was, stroking a naughty dog looking very contented indeed. It felt as if the porch stair under her shifted a little. If she’d been wrong about that, what else might she have been wrong about?

  “You’re shivering,” Sullivan said.

  “Am I?” She crossed her arms. “It’s starting to feel like winter.”

  “Let me build you a fire,” he said. “I noticed the Olsons left a nice woodpile. You know you have to maintain it, right? Rotate the wood so it can breathe and dry evenly.”

  “I’ll add woodpile maintenance to the list.”

  Sullivan set Fritz on the ground and headed around the house before she could decline his offer. She got up and headed inside, with Beau leading the way. The dog’s posture oozed disapproval. Fritz’s undignified ways irked Beau.

  Bridget curled up with Beau on her old, battered couch and wrapped herself in a blanket. She should have said no to Sullivan, but she was grateful for company tonight. It kept her from thinking about her billeted dogs, or the person who’d vandalized her barn.

  Coming in with Fritz and a box full of logs and kindling, Sullivan crouched by the fireplace. He delivered a play by play as he set things up. “Are you listening? You need to know this, Bridget. It’s not like living downtown. The power was out for three days last winter.”

  “I’m listening.” She was trying to focus on his words but kept getting distracted by his movements as he deftly placed the logs and sticks. His hands were large, but they moved with precision. His back was broad and muscular under his fleece jacket.

  As if picking up on her thoughts, he turned and smiled. “Come here and listen closer.”

  Sighing, she surrendered her blanket and knelt beside him. “What is it with men and their fires?”

  “Primal, I guess. A roaring fire keeps predators away, and our loved ones safe.”

  Bridget listened to his guidelines on placement of kindling to allow enough air circulation. Then she sat on the floor and crossed her legs as he worked his magic with sheets of newspaper. When he was satisfied, he handed her a lighter. She reached toward a ball of crumpled newspaper and he guided her hand here and there. The flames were warm, but not warm enough to account for the heat travelling up her arm from where Sullivan’s hand touched hers. Passing him the lighter, she said, “This is a bad idea.”

  “What is?” He turned and little flames danced in his pupils. Devil eyes, she thought. Tempting her.

  “Leaving Fritz with you. As you saw, if you give him an inch, he takes a yard.” She slid away from Sullivan across the hardwood. “And speaking of yards… yours isn’t fenced so please don’t let him off leash for even a second. You know he’s inclined to bolt.”

  “I’ve owned a dog or two in my time and none perished before old age, Bridget. Anyway, he won’t bolt from my place.”

  She smirked. “You think your man cave is enough to hold this dog?”

  “Wait till he sees the dog-food commercials on my big-screen TV.”

  “He’s going to come back stinking of beer and stogies, isn’t he?”

  “We’re more about whiskey than beer, Fritz and I.” Sullivan slid towards her. “You going to offer me a drink?”

  “No whiskey,” she said, sliding away.

  “I’ll take beer, then.” He slid towards her again. “Or wine. Or cooking sherry, if that’s all you’ve got.”

  “Like I cook.”

  Again she slid away; again he slid closer.

  “You’ll get splinters if you keep that up,” he said.

  “Wine it is,” she said, getting to her feet.

  He got up too, and followed her to the kitchen. “You should let me sponsor the pageant.”

  She looked up to find the doorway blocked by two dogs and one man. “No. That’s not a good idea either. We’re neighbors.”

  “So you’d turn down the Fergusons’ money?”

  “I would, actually.” She twisted the cap off a red wine and poured a couple of inches into two juice glasses. “It would feel like a conflict of interest.”

  Walking over to him, she offered a glass. He took it, but he didn’t move out of the doorway.

  “I guess it would be a conflict of interest for me, too.” He stared at her for so long that she had to look up. “Because I’m interested.”

  “Don’t say that.” Bridget’s voice was sharp and she gestured for him to back up.

  He didn’t back up. “Why not?”

  “Do I really need to point out that you have a girlfriend?”

  Now he leaned on the doorframe, getting comfortable. “Is that so? Have I met this lucky lady?

  “Grace seems very nice, and she’s one of my best tippers.”

  “Ah.” Sullivan grinned. “So it’s losing tips that worries you. Money must be pretty tight.”

  “It is, actually. Let’s go sit down and I’ll tell you about my cash-flow issues.”

  He shook his head, continuing to block the door. His grin was dazzling.

  She tried to push past and he let his free arm drop around her shoulders and pulled her towards him. She took a deep breath and regretted it. He smelled like soap and smoke, with the barest hint of damp dog—a known intoxicant for Bridget.

  “Sullivan,” she mumbled into his fleece jacket. “Move of your own volition, or I’ll ask Beau to move you.”

  He practically shot out of the doorway. “That’s not fair.”

  Beau was waiting behind him. Tail down. Staring. Sullivan’s scent had the opposite effect on him.

  “Let’s talk about what’s fair to Grace.” Bridget walked to the couch and patted the space beside her to invite Beau up.

  “Grace and I are just friends.” He tried to sit down beside Bridget, but Beau squirmed onto the couch, curled up, and laid his muzzle on her leg. “Really, Beau?”

  She stroked Beau’s head. “I don’t think Grace knows that. She lit up like City Hall at Christmas when you walked into the bistro the other day.”

  He sat down hard on the other end of the couch. “Grace and I talked about this when we met. I told her right away I wasn’t interested in a relationship.”

  “Something must have been lost in translation. Although I hear you loud and clear.”

  He groaned. “Must you twist everything? I told you the exact opposite.”

  Staring at him, she said, “It sounds like a conflict of interest, all right.”

  Getting up, he jabbed the fire fiercely with an iron poker. Then he threw another log on. Once the flames were leaping merrily, he was ready for another round.

  “Hold Beau’s collar,” he said, crossing back to the couch.

  “Why?”

  “Because first I’m going to lean over you, and then I’m going to kiss you. If the dog takes objection to that, he’s positioned to do some serious and highly personal damage.”

  “I think he might,” Bridget said.

  “I think he won’t.” Sullivan’s voice was a low growl. “He knows I mean business.”

  Bridget’s heart was in her throat, wondering how exactly this would play out. She expected Beau to sit up, perhaps even snap. But as Sullivan put one hand on her shoulder and lifted her chin with the other, Beau didn’t move. In fact, Bridget could swear the dog gave a resigned sigh. One of them certainly sighed but it may have been her, just as Sullivan’s lips closed over hers.

  After that, things got a bit muddled, but as far as she could tell, somewhere between the third and fourth kiss, Beau slithered off the couch and lay down at her feet. Sullivan moved into the spot Bea
u vacated, and for the first time in years, perhaps, Bridget stopped thinking about dogs at all.

  Chapter 19

  “You slept with Sullivan Shaw and I’m only hearing about it now?” Duff demanded.

  Bridget had just come home after closing the bistro. She’d waited to tell Duff so that she could milk the moment for all it was worth. “Yep, I slept with Sullivan Shaw.”

  There was a pause as Duff assimilated this information. “Okay. And how was it?”

  “Nice. Very nice. Toasty and warm.”

  “Toasty and warm? That’s a mediocre rating for a night of passion, Bee.”

  She didn’t have the heart to drag out the ruse. “Well, I’m overstating the case a little. I did sleep with Sullivan, but it was on the couch, fully clothed. In front of a roaring fire.”

  Duff laughed. “Well, that’s progress. You actually fell asleep?”

  “Snoring and drooling, I think. Hopefully, Sullivan didn’t know that. I was facing the fire, and he was snoring, too.”

  Kissing Sullivan Shaw had actually been wonderful, amazing, and every other superlative she could summon. But she had been so exhausted that she literally fell asleep sitting up, with her cheek against his chest. He’d eased her down, and pulled her in close, and they’d drifted off together, spooning.

  “Then what happened?” Duff pressed.

  Bridget walked into the kitchen and pulled a frozen dinner out of the freezer. “I got a few hours sleep. Watched the fire burn down. Had a beautiful dream about this place overrun with dogs.”

  “Heavenly,” Duff said.

  “It was, actually.” She slashed the film on the frozen dinner and slid it into the microwave. “I didn’t worry about break-ins or arson or sabotage.”

  “You felt safe with him. I love that.”

  “Yes. Until…”

  “Until what?”

  Watching the frozen dinner spin around, Bridget let the suspense build. “Until… I fell off the couch.”

  Duff gasped. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. And Sullivan didn’t even notice.”

  “Oh, Bridget.” There was clicking on the other end, as Duff paced over her hardwood floors. “Only you, my friend.”

  “Right? Since it was nearly time to get up anyway, I left for work early.”

  The clicking stopped. “Are you telling me you skulked out of your own house without waking Sullivan?”

  “I had to open Boners this morning. And close tonight. Split shift.”

  Duff was filling in the blanks on her own. “You didn’t shower or change, did you? You did a dose and dash.”

  The microwave beeped, and Bridget peeled back the film on the little dish. “I was being a good host letting him sleep.”

  “Meaning Sullivan woke up alone with the embers of the fire he made for you.”

  “Not alone. Fritz was curled up in my spot before Beau and I left.”

  The clicking had started again, furiously. Bridget was in for it now.

  “What were you thinking?” Duff said.

  “I wasn’t, really. I just wanted to—”

  “Run. I get that. But why? Don’t you like him?”

  Stirring the food around with a fork, Bridget looked at the empty box to remind herself what it was. It wasn’t very appetizing. “I like him well enough. But this business about Grace…”

  “Oh, there’s nothing going on with Grace, and I’m sure he told you that.”

  “He did. But—”

  “You’re just scared because it’s been so long.”

  Bridget sniffed at the frozen dinner dubiously. “I don’t fully trust the guy, Duff. You saw what he was like when I bought the house. There’s another side to him.”

  “Then keep your eyes open. Observe. The truth always comes out.” Duff’s clicking slowed. “It doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, Bee. You deserve it.”

  “Maybe I do, but Beau doesn’t like him.”

  There was a sound between a sigh and a chuckle at the other end of the phone. “I regard Beau’s opinion highly, but is it possible he’s biased in this instance?”

  Opening the trash can, Bridget dumped the frozen dinner, uneaten. “Beau’s never wrong about people. I trust him implicitly.”

  “So, he attacked Sullivan for spooning you all night?”

  “Well, not exactly. But he kept watch by the fire.”

  “Ah. So, Beau is observing. He’s giving Sullivan a chance. If something untoward happens, then you and the dog can snap your hearts shut again. Will it kill you?”

  “It might.”

  “It won’t. Do we need to talk about all my letdowns? Yet here I am, fully expecting a happily-ever-after moment.”

  Taking a bag of Golden Oreos from the cupboard, Bridget pulled out a cookie. She twisted the layers apart and popped the good side into her mouth. Beau was sitting at her feet, and since there were no other dogs around, she tossed the other half of the cookie to him. “Okay, Duff. You win. I’ll observe.”

  “Text Sullivan when we’re done here. Easy breezy. Just ask about Fritz.”

  Taking the cookies, Bridget went over to the couch. Sullivan had straightened it up and cleared the ashes out of the fireplace before he left. “Yes, boss.”

  They spent the next few minutes catching up on business. The Dog House had come through with sponsorship, and two other local shops had agreed as well. “I think we’re in good shape now, Bee. You can sleep well tonight. You locked the doors, right?”

  “Yep. I’ve got my fire extinguisher and a baseball bat. Beau and I will be fine. I worry about the other dogs, though.”

  “They’re all in good hands. And I assume whoever doesn’t want you starting a kennel will be satisfied they’ve scared the daylights out of you. Get your beauty sleep, okay? You’re going to need it.”

  When the call ended, Bridget got up and checked the doors again. Her hand was still on the knob when the noise started. The sound was chilling—something between a howl and yodel. Beau stood perfectly still for a moment. Then he sat down, threw back his head and howled back.

  Fritz. She was sure of it.

  Grabbing her phone, she started to text Sullivan. But then the yodelling howl turned into savage barking and finally a terrible screech. Beau jumped at the door, whining and desperate to get out. “It’s okay, boy, it’s okay.”

  Bridget covered the short drive to Sullivan’s in about three minutes. He was standing on the porch when she jumped out. Fritz was under Sullivan’s right arm, squirming hard. Bridget gasped when she saw blood dripping from the dog and landing in a small puddle on the porch.

  “Oh my god, what happened?”

  “Fritz pulled the leash out of my hand and ran into the back. I guess he cornered something.”

  Bridget examined Fritz quickly and found the gash in his side. “It’s going to need vet care, but it’s not life threatening.” She put him in a dog crate in the back of the van, away from Beau.

  Worry and shame mingled on Sullivan’s face. “I’m sorry, Bridget.”

  “It’s okay. He’ll be okay.”

  “I’m guessing it was a racoon. There was this horrible screeching.”

  “I know, I heard it. Not all of that noise was Fritz.” She grabbed a flashlight. “Let’s go look.”

  He took the light and led the way around the back of the house. There, lying on the lawn, was a large opossum. Its light fur was marked by blood.

  “Oh no, how awful. Poor thing. Get a cardboard box, Sullivan.”

  “A box?”

  “Well, you don’t want to just carry him, do you?”

  The concern on his face changed to confusion. “Carry him where?”

  “To the wildlife center. He’s injured.”

  Sullivan leaned over the stiff little body. “Bridget, this possum has already met its maker.”

  “That wound isn’t bad enough and the possum is too big for Fritz to have shaken. I think it’s just paralyzed with fear. That’s what they do.”

  Sulliv
an shook his head uneasily, but then he went around the house and into the garage. Bridget followed and waited by the van. When he emerged, she laughed out loud. He was wearing a welding mask, and hockey gloves. Flipping up the mask, he said, “I can grab it by the tail, right? It won’t break off or anything?”

  “Just grab it with both hands and shove it in the box, Sullivan. Those gloves don’t look dextrous.

  He walked ahead of her muttering, “Just grab the possum and shove it in the box, Sullivan…”

  But he did just that, and Bridget quickly closed the flaps. Then she used her car key to punch a couple of holes in the side.

  Sullivan made a retching sound as he carried the box to the porch. “What is that stink?”

  “They eject from their anal glands when attacked,” she said. “Or so I read.”

  “Lovely. Now what?”

  “You drive it to the wildlife center.”

  He stared at her. “That thing is not riding in my car.”

  “Well, I can’t take it in the van with the dogs. And I’ve got to run Fritz to the all-night vet to get that wound cleaned and dressed. I don’t imagine you want to deal with that.”

  “Better than chauffeuring that stinking possum around.”

  Bridget leaned on her van. “Sullivan, I warned you about Fritz. Stuff happens with dogs. But I don’t want a dead possum on my conscience, and neither do you.”

  “You don’t know my conscience,” he said, popping the trunk of his car.

  “That box isn’t going to fit. Either you put it in a smaller box or keep it on the passenger seat.”

  There was a string of expletives as he tried to fit the large box in the car’s tiny trunk. Bridget couldn’t help grinning, so she covered her mouth. Sullivan raised his hand. “Not another word, Bridget.”

  She held back the laughter as Sullivan placed the box on the leather passenger seat of his car and closed the door. He got into the driver’s seat without looking at her and started the car. The interior light was on as he drove off. It made his face look ghostly pale.

  Getting into her van, she continued to grin. “Never a dull moment, is there Beau?”

  It was closing in on two a.m. when Bridget turned into her driveway. The queue at the veterinary office had been unusually long, and Fritz’s wound wasn’t considered serious or urgent. In fact, the vet had said it would heal up nicely as long as she kept him in a cone for a couple of days. This wasn’t ideal for the pageant. In fact, Fritz was quickly becoming the ugly stepsister she felt sheepish “awarding” to any of the participants. She’d have to offer a lot of disclaimers with this rogue terrier.