You Can Have My Heart, but Don't Touch My Dog

by Dixie Cash

  YOU CAN HAVE MY HEART, BUT DON’T TOUCH MY DOG

  By

  DIXIE CASH

  Copyright © Jeffery McClanahan, 2016.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover design by: THE KILLION GROUP

  www.thekilliongroupinc.com

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  You Can Have My Heart, but Don't Touch My Dog (Domestic Equalizers, #8)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to animal rescuers everywhere who work and sacrifice to make a place for abused and unwanted creatures of all kinds. They have a special place in heaven.

  It’s also dedicated to Sandi Walker, especially, founder and owner of SECOND CHANCE FARM in Granbury, Texas. Sandi is one of those people.

  Prologue

  He didn’t know how long he had been lost, but judging from the hollow feeling in his stomach and the thin shadows cast by his body, he had been homeless a while.

  His best friend had told him a hundred times not to wander off. When he had heard those words in the past, he hadn’t been sure what “wander off” meant, but he had a good idea now. Wandering off was what he had done. Wandering off had made him homeless, lost and hungry.

  He had found others like himself on the streets, some friendly, some not, all with a hint of fear in their eyes, all prowling for food. He gave a wide berth to the territorial ones. His intent wasn’t to challenge or take away another’s place. He wanted only to find his way home to his comfortable spot at the foot of the big bed, to where his friend would scratch his head or belly and give him treats at the end of a day’s work.

  Oh, what he would give for one of those treats right now. He would even welcome a bath. Given the chance, he would dance and prance around and wag his tail. After he had made his friend laugh, he would flash what humans called a “grin,” behavior that never failed to garner affection and sometimes an extra treat.

  Nighttime. The air had cooled and the number of cars that had zoomed past him all day had dwindled. This was when he missed his friend the most.

  Suddenly, an enticing scent diverted him from his thoughts of home. He raised his nose for a better sniff. Food. His keen sense of smell detected the aroma coming from somewhere across the street. Maybe his friend was waiting over there with a delicious treat. His mouth watered at the idea of a bowl of Kibbles ‘n Bits and fresh water.

  He stepped off the curb and stopped short, allowing a big car filled with young humans to pass. They were laughing and yelling. One tossed a can from the window and hit his hind leg. The blow hurt a little, but he didn’t let that stop him. He trotted on across the street, toward the smell.

  Chapter 1

  Debbie Sue Overstreet—former PRCA barrel racing champion, co-owner of one of only two beauty salons in Salt Lick, Texas, and founder of a private investigation service—swept the last of yesterday’s sand into a neat pile at the Styling Station’s back door. Her business partner and best friend, Edwina Perkins-Martin, sprawled in the styling chair at her station reading the Odessa American newspaper.

  Debbie Sue opened the heavy door and swooshed the sand outside into the already-hot sunlit morning. She slammed the door and returned to the salon. “Damned sand. How can so much of it come in overnight?”

  “The wind,” Edwina answered without looking away from her reading. “It’s in the wind.”

  And God knew there was wind in West Texas. It blew from the northwest, it blew from the southeast and sometimes it blew two hundred miles an hour in a circle and caused all kinds of grief.

  Debbie Sue walked over to the payout desk and perused her schedule for the day. Her first appointment—a perm for Mary Sue Mason—would show up in fifteen minutes. “Hmm. I’ve got a trim at two o’clock and after that, nothing. It’s so hot. I might get out of here early and go home and lay down naked in front of the air conditioner. Or I might fill the bathtub with ice water for a good soak. Or I might do something really crazy and cook something fantastic for Buddy’s supper.”

  “Like what?” Edwina asked absently, still absorbed by the newspaper.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I might barbecue a Gila monster. Or cut a hunk of meat off one of Rocket Man’s hindquarters.”

  “Sounds good,” Edwina said.

  Just as Debbie Sue thought. Edwina was paying no attention to her. “What are you reading, Ed?”

  “This article on the front page. Remember that story about some brave asshole beating an elderly woman to death in Midland?”

  “The home invasion and robbery? Yeah. What a despicable crime.”

  “The meanest thing I’ve ever heard. It says here they’ve arrested somebody named John Wilson. Says he had an alibi. Three of them at last count. None of which panned out.”

  “I saw the report on TV news this morning. They said the evidence against him is strong. They found a lot of the poor woman’s belongings in his car and a witness even saw him leave her house the evening of the murder.”

  “Did Buddy see that report? Is he going to get involved?”

  Debbie Sue’s husband, James Russell Overstreet, Jr., had once been the sheriff in Salt Lick. Now, he was a Texas Ranger captain revered in the whole of West Texas. Even the governor held him in high esteem. Buddy had once acted as his personal bodyguard when the governor had come to Midland, which, as far as Debbie Sue was concerned, just went to prove that all someone had to do to adore Buddy as much as she did was get acquainted with him.

  With the Texas Rangers being state cops, Buddy and his colleagues typically took on major crime solving only in rural counties that had limited or inexperienced law enforcement.

  “Nah. Midland doesn’t need the Texas Rangers,” she told Edwina. “They’ve got their own cops. But it doesn’t matter anyway. The guy’s already arrested.”

  “But Buddy must know something about it. What did he say?”

  “He looked me in the eye and said, ‘Don’t even think about it.’”

  And that had been the extent of this morning’s conversation about John Wilson between Debbie Sue and one of the best cops in the great state of Texas. She loved Buddy from the depths of her soul, but she hated him trying to control her before she even needed controlling. And the question of if she ever truly did need controlling was still being debated between them. She sometimes wondered if the whole thing was a ruse on Buddy’s part because they seemed to settle every one of those arguments in bed.

  Edwin
a looked up from the paper and adjusted her new lime-green cat’s-eye glasses. For years, she had worn glasses with red frames covered in bling, but the glasses she wore today had a plain retro look. “Hmm. Imagine that. Was he reading your mind again?” She blew a gum bubble the size of a golf ball and popped it.

  “I wasn’t thinking about getting into it. But hell, Ed, how could we not be curious about it? We’re detectives.”

  “No, we’re not, Debbie Sue. We’re nosy women who follow cheating spouses and insignificant others and pry into who they’re cheating with.”

  “Ed! How can you say that about us? We’re licensed private investigators. We took the test and everything.”

  “I don’t care, girlfriend. We don’t chase down cold-blooded murderers.”

  Edwina had never had the enthusiasm for crime solving that Debbie Sue did. For Edwina, their investigative adventures had been mostly about having fun and being in the know of some of the locals’ best kept secrets. Thus, serious crime like murder turned her off.

  “If you aren’t interested in it, why did you bring it up?”

  “I’m interested as a concerned citizen, not as an insane woman who wants to chase after a killer.”

  In a way, Edwina was right, but Debbie Sue had a hard time admitting it. She released a great sigh. “I know, I know. Buddy’s still pissed off over what happened with Roxie Jo Denman’s murder. I’m afraid he’s going to divorce me for the second time any day now.”

  Edwina’s brow furrowed. “Well, I have to say Vic wasn’t crazy about that one, either.”

  Vic Martin, Edwina’s husband, had a more liberal attitude than Buddy about the cases the Domestic Equalizers had taken on. Like Edwina, he had been interested in the fun of it. A retired US Navy SEAL who stood six-foot-five, weighed two-fifty and knew three hundred ways to kill you quietly, he feared neither man nor beast. But even he had worried when the Domestic Equalizers ended up right in the middle of solving the murder of up-and-coming country music singer Roxie Jo Denman.

  Edwina wagged her crimson-tipped finger like a pendulum. “Like I told you, girlfriend. Cheating spouses and insignificant others.” She returned to her reading.

  But Debbie Sue wasn’t one to give up, especially when the Domestics Equalizers, which she regarded as “her baby,” was under discussion. “I remind you, Ed, since Roxie Jo’s murder, the Domestic Equalizers has been idle except for a few cheating husbands and that fiasco where LaDonna McKenzie suspected her silly husband was sneaking up to the top of the water tower with Marilyn Haygood.”

  Edwina looked up. “And I remind you, Dippity-Do, that it might not have been a fiasco if you hadn’t followed Earl up there, then been afraid to come back down. Calling our pitiful little fire department to climb up there and bring you down wasn’t your finest hour. You should’ve remembered you’re afraid of heights. Thank God you had your phone with you or you might still be up there.”

  Debbie Sue hated admitting it, but sometimes curiosity and hardheadedness got the best of her good sense. Half of Cabell County had been gathered around and staring up at the water tower, watching poor Johnny Bolling—who was an auto mechanic most of the time—coax her into letting him carry her down the water tower ladder long after she had failed to find Earl and LaDonna. Being reminded in such a public way that Debbie Sue Overstreet wasn’t Wonder Woman had tarnished the Domestic Equalizers’ reputation, for sure.

  Her mouth automatically twisted into a scowl. She summoned her indignation. “Well it didn’t look as scary climbing up as it did going down.”

  “Hmm. What was worse was finding out later that Earl and Marilyn had really been in a motel in Odessa all that time. They hadn’t ever been up there on that water tower. It was all an ugly rumor.”

  “Oh, hell, Ed. Now you’re starting to sound like Buddy.”

  “That’s because I agree with him. I repeat, we’re not supposed to investigate murders. My God, Debbie Sue. We could get ourselves killed. And I like my aging hide and body all in one piece.”

  “But can we get hurt just looking into it a little? What if we were able to discover something important to the investigation? Just think what that would do for the Domestic Equalizers’ reputation.”

  Edwina folded her paper, rose from her chair and began putting her station in order for the day. “Speaking of Midland, remember my niece Sandi? My middle sister’s youngest?”

  Debbie Sue knew Edwina as well as she knew herself. The hardheaded woman simply didn’t want to discuss the murder in Midland, so she changed the subject. Debbie Sue swung her attention to Edwina’s family even though keeping up with all of the nieces and nephews was next to impossible. “Let’s see. Would that be the one who’s a registered foster parent for the animal shelter?”

  Debbie Sue couldn’t keep up with all of Sandi’s animals either, but having three rescue dogs and an aged horse herself, she empathized with anyone who collected unwanted animals.

  “Right. Sandi Walker,” Edwina replied. “She’s got a parakeet that needs a permanent home.”

  “She rescued a parakeet? From where and what?”

  “I think somebody died and left it homeless. Sandi says it knows a bunch of words and talks like a person. I’m gonna adopt it and give it to Vic as a present. He’ll love it and they can keep each other company while I’m not home.”

  Vic Martin had never struck Debbie Sue as being a man who worried about being alone. Even if he did, he wasn’t home alone all that much. After retiring from a stellar Navy career, he had bought a big rig and was now a long-haul trucker. He traveled the highways of the whole USA, saying he wanted to see the country and meet the people he had risked his life protecting.

  Debbie Sue had to ask, “And who’s gonna keep it company while Vic’s on the road?”

  “Maybe I’ll bring it here to the shop. I could put a cute little cage right over there.” She pointed at the corner by the window. “I could paint it a pastel color to match the bird’s feathers and maybe put some flowers around it.

  “Cool idea, Ed. It could see the outside and plot its escape. Or if it talks so well, maybe it could look over our shoulders and kibitz when we’re doing manicures.”

  “I was thinking Vic might even take it in the truck with him. For company while he’s driving, you know?”

  Chapter 2

  Midland, Texas

  The last thing Sandi Walker wanted on a blistering July day was a trashy alley. As a specialty pet food merchant and the owner of LaBarkery, the only gourmet pet food bakery in Midland, she demanded that the area around her shop’s back door be neat and clean. LaBarkery did not need an open invitation to bugs and vermin. Sandi had been known to rent a high-pressure hose and blast the alley. Her neighbors called her the “alley policeman.”

  The other shop owners up and down the strip mall claimed to feel the same about the alley, including the owners of the mom-and-pop burger joint two doors away. The eatery was the largest contributor to the alley debris. So far, neither its owners nor their teenage employees had contributed much physical effort toward keeping the area clean.

  To make matters worse, a few weeks back, the City of Midland had placed a dumpster directly across the alley from LaBarkery’s back door.

  So after Sandi finished her lunch, she gathered her trash and stepped outside to face the alley.

  If a garbage bomb had exploded, the area around the dumpster couldn’t have looked worse. Plastic bags that had never made it into the dumpster lay torn open, the contents scattered everywhere. A cloud of flies swarmed it. The stench made her hold her breath.

  “Ooh noo,” she groaned.

  The temperature hovered around a hundred, but what choice did she have but to pick up all of it? She squared her shoulders and marched back inside. She donned a mask, goggles and her heavy-duty rubber gloves, then dragged her own garbage can from beside her back door and began to pick up waste. Most of it had come from the burger joint. No big surprise there.

  “I’m going to have anot
her talk with those people,” she grumbled as she plopped stinking, sloppy hamburger leavings into the garbage can.

  Just as she reached for a sack of discarded French fries, a large scruffy dog came from behind the dumpster and began to wolf down everything in sight. It was so thin its sides were sunken. It had been on the street a long time. She hadn’t seen an animal so starved since a weekend trip to Juarez with her friends. Down there, mongrels ran free, but they were timid and scared, slinking around with their tails tucked between their legs.

  Common sense told her to give a stray dog a wide berth, but her heart went out to it. She had never been able to ignore an animal in need. For proof, six rescue cats, two large mixed-breed dogs, a barky miniature Schnauzer and a shivery, grumpy Chihuahua lived with her at home. Also two squawking Leghorn hens she called Sophie and Snow White, a Rhode Island Red hen named Anastasia and a dominating one-eyed Rhode Island Red rooster she had named Christian Grey. Add to that group, a recently acquired black-and-white gerbil and an opinionated African Grey parrot the SPCA had rescued from a biker sports bar after its owner passed on.

  As she replaced the lid on the garbage can, she said to the stray, “Hey, sweetheart, are you friendly?”

  Tucking its tail, the dog looked up at her with soulful brown eyes, but kept its distance, as if it feared a blow or some other cruel treatment. She felt a stab in her heart. “Aww, don’t be afraid, baby. I won’t hurt you.”

  The dog inched toward her. It began to wag its tail and dance around. It was a male, she noticed. He wore a collar, but no tags. He belonged to someone. Had some jerk abandoned him? Left him to get by the best he could?

  Sandi related all too well. Been there, done that. Not that long ago, she, too, had belonged to someone then been abandoned. A heaviness filled her chest.

  The dog came to her carrying a burger patty in his mouth. He laid it at her feet and looked up, begging for her approval.

  Been there and done that, too, she thought with disgust. Or at least, something like it. As if approval from an ass like Kenneth Coffman, her second ex-husband, was important.