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

by Dixie Cash

  “I’m glad he’s gone. I wouldn’t like Waffle living next door to someone like that. He might decide to shoot him.”

  Nick chuckled. “If that happened, he’d have to shoot me, too. His place is for sale. I’m trying to put together the financing to buy it. Look, I’m gonna feed the horses real quick, then I’ll feed the llamas. Want to go with me?”

  “Can I pet Harry and Albert? I’ve never been close to a llama.”

  “Sure. They’re gentle-natured. That’s Harry by the fence.”

  Chapter 20

  Nick disappeared into the barn, leaving Sandi to her own thoughts. He hadn’t copped to sleeping with Sylvia, but he hadn’t denied it.

  ...I meant it when I said I haven’t seen her in a long time....

  In his world, how long was a long time?

  Mental sigh. What more could she expect from him? He was, after all, just a man with feet of clay like all the others. Well...not quite like all the others.

  This visit wasn’t going well and it was her own fault. Why hadn’t she left her attitude back in her store? Waffle was no longer hers to be bitter over and she had no right to feel jealousy over Sylvia.

  Harry stood watching her and blinking at her. She walked closer to the fence. “Hi, Harry. Are you friendly?”

  The llama didn’t move, only continued to blink at her and chew on something with his weird protruding lower teeth. He had one hellacious underbite.

  “Love your color,” she said to him. “And those eyelashes.” Sandi carefully put out a hand, intending to pet his head. All at once, a shower of something stinking and repulsive hit her face and front. “Aieee!”

  Harry startled and trotted to the other side of his pen.

  Paralyzed in place by a god-awful smell that filled the air around her, she raised her hand and wiped away oozy green liquid. “Oh, my God! What is this...this crap?” She broke into a wail.

  Nick rushed over, a bucket of something in each hand. “What happened?”

  She blurted out a sob. “He’s—he’s sick or something. He threw—threw up on me.” She flung her hand, trying to rid it of the mess on it.

  “It’s spit. They spit when they’re annoyed or hungry.” He set his buckets on the ground, yanked his handkerchief out of his back pocket. “What did you do to him?” He clasped her chin and began wiping her face. “Close your eyes.”

  “I didn’t do anything to him,” she sobbed, her eyes squeezed shut. “You said he was friendly.”

  “He is...usually.” He stepped back. “You can open your eyes. I think I got it all.”

  “It still stinks,” she whimpered. “It’s worse than a skunk.”

  “They’ve got three stomachs. That stuff was green, so it must come from his third stomach.”

  “Oh, my God. I think I’m going to throw up myself.”

  “Swallow. Take some deep breaths.” He made a few swipes at the jacket she wore. “If they spit from their first or second stomach, it’s mostly just spit and it’s not too bad. But what comes out of their third stomach is gross.” He looked over his shoulder at the llama. “You pissed off about something, Harry?”

  Harry stood calmly watching them from the other side of his pen.

  Nick moved on down with his handkerchief, still wiping the front of the jacket. “Good thing you’ve got this jacket on. He might’ve ruined your sweater.”

  Sniffling, Sandi snatched the handkerchief away from Nick and continued to wipe at the foul-smelling spittle. “Animals love me. I—I don’t know why he would be mad at me.”

  “I’m later than usual feeding them and Harry might think he’s got competition. I’ll put out some hay for them. Go on inside. Soon as I finish, I’ll be in. Feel free to use the shower if you want to. It’s off my bedroom. Just go up the hall leading out of the living room and you’ll see it.”

  She wasn’t eager to go into a strange house alone, but she couldn’t wait to get to some soap and water.

  She entered through a back door into a utility room and walked on into a kitchen. The house might be old, but the kitchen had obviously been remodeled. Beneath its high ceilings was a hardwood floor, modern cabinetry, a cooking island and tan granite countertops. The whole area was large and open into a dining-living area.

  An open wine bottle sat on the cooking island. Curious.

  She walked into the living room that had also been remodeled. It was spotlessly clean—much cleaner than her own house and decorated in typical Western style with leather furniture, more hardwood floors and cowhide rugs. The smell of leather permeated the air and she didn’t find it unpleasant. If she had to think of a single word that described Nick’s home, that word would be “welcoming.”

  She spotted the hallway he had mentioned and passed three empty rooms before she reached a bedroom that was fully furnished and glaringly masculine. Bunkhouse décor—tan walls, rustic Western-style furniture. No trace of a feminine touch. “Cowboy country,” she mumbled, moving on into a bathroom. There, she found a large walk-in shower made of tan tile.

  After showering and shampooing her hair, she felt better. Unlike the skunk odor, no smell of Harry’s stomach contents remained. She found a hairbrush and a hair dryer in one of the vanity drawers and used them. Afterward, she hung Nick’s soiled jacket on the back of a wooden rocking chair in the bedroom and followed noises back into the kitchen.

  He was busy at the cooking island, seasoning two thick steaks and he was wearing a bright red bib apron. He looked cute. He looked up, wiping his hands on the front of the apron. “Hey, there you are. Better now?”

  She was nervous. Using a guy’s shower and his personal items like shampoo and a hair dryer implied an intimacy. “That’s my third shower today.” She drew a deep breath, trying to settle her nerves. “I used your shower gel and your shampoo and your brush and dryer. I had to get that...stuff off of me. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He smiled. “Not a bit. The shower’s new. No one but me has ever used it.”

  A female had never been in his bathroom? She tilted her head and frowned. “Never?”

  “Well, not since I moved back here and started remodeling this place. I live here alone. Why would anyone else use it?”

  Sandi felt guilty for her thoughts. “What I meant is, no one has ever...I mean you haven’t had—”

  “What are you trying to ask me? If any women have spent the night here?”

  “No! I mean, why would I care? I was making conversation.”

  He smiled. “You’re right. Why would you care? But I don’t mind telling you, I don’t bring women here. This is my private place and I don’t want to mess that up. That’s why I don’t have a phone here. If I need to have a phone conversation, I use my cell phone.”

  Should I get a ribbon for being invited? she wondered. “Wow. Maybe you’re a recluse after all. I, uh, left your jacket on the rocking chair. You probably want to have it cleaned or something.”

  “Thanks.”

  She made a turn, gesturing around the comfortable room. “This place is really neat and clean. You’re a good housekeeper.”

  “Not really. I hire somebody to come in and swamp it out every couple of weeks or so. I’m not here that much, but I like things to be in order.”

  “Everything looks to be remodeled. Did you do it yourself?”

  “Some of it. I’m still working on it.”

  “So you’re a carpenter as well as a cowboy.”

  “Cowboy, yes. Carpenter, no. But I know how to hammer a nail.”

  He picked up the two potatoes that were lying on the island counter and slid them into the oven. He returned to the island, leaned on his hand and jammed the other hand against his hip. “You still don’t think much of cowboys, do you? I hear the same derision in your voice I heard that day in Hogg’s down in Salt Lick.”

  She winced inside, not liking that she appeared rude. “I don’t think anything at all of cowboys. I’m not criticizing. I’ve just never been around any. I was a town kid growing up, so
...” She shrugged, seeing no point in discussing the issue.

  “You couldn’t live in West Texas and not be around cowboys. You must not’ve grown up around here.”

  “I certainly did. I grew up in Big Spring.”

  “Big Spring’s got cowboys, too.”

  “I still was never around cowboys.”

  “You did business with ranchers in the bank. Unless you run into some of those investor types from back East, most ranchers are cowboys.”

  She huffed, closed her eyes and lifted her palms in a peacemaking gesture. “All right already. I’ve run into a few cowboys.”

  He grinned. “Point for me.”

  “Are we having a contest?”

  Grinning, he shrugged. “Arguing with you is fun.”

  “For you maybe. You seem to enjoy picking on me.”

  “You’re so sure you’re right.”

  If you only knew. I’m not sure of anything I do nowadays.

  “I should tell you, Harry spitting nasty stuff on me at this particular point in time is really weird. It’s like the gods of smells have a vendetta against me. I haven’t told you about the skunk. Waffle and I and my two big dogs got sprayed by a skunk the night before we went to court. That’s why we smelled so funny that day.”

  “I wondered what the odd smells on him were. They didn’t last long.”

  “My neighbor and I washed him and me both with everything—tomato juice, cucumber-melon shower gel, dog shampoo. And Prissy bathed him in her special formula. It’s a wonder he had any skin left. Then at the last minute before court, I sprayed him with perfume.”

  “All’s well that ends well, right?”

  She angled a serious look up at him. “Depends on how you look at it. It didn’t end that well for me. I lost my dog.”

  “You haven’t lost him. He’s ours together. The judge said so.”

  “And you don’t mind that?”

  “It’s not a perfect arrangement, but do I mind it? Now that I’ve had time to consider it, I don’t think so. But I can see that you do.”

  Her mouth slid into an involuntary smirk. “I’ll survive. Look, I’m trying here. I don’t mean to be a bitch. I hope you believe me.”

  Nodding, he smiled. “I do.”

  Then, as if he wanted to end the talk about Waffle, he said, “I don’t know what came over Harry. I’ve never seen him spit at anything other than his partner, Albert. Sometimes they get into a contest over hay and spit at each other. You don’t want to get caught in that crossfire.” He smiled again. “Maybe a glass of wine will make you feel better.”

  “Oh, wine. I brought a bottle. Let me get it.” She quickstepped out the front door and returned in minutes with the two small bags of Barkies she had brought for the dogs and a plastic grocery sack holding the wine. “I brought some cookies for Waffle and Randy.” She set the two bags of Barkies on the counter.

  She cleared the bottle of wine of its sack and stood it on the counter beside the bottle that was already opened.

  He looked at the two bottles, then looked at her. She couldn’t read his expression, but gleeful wasn’t a word she would use to describe it. “Lemme see if I’ve got this right. You didn’t believe me when I said I had the wine, or you didn’t think I had enough sense to make a good choice or one bottle isn’t enough. Which is it?”

  Wadding the plastic sack into a ball, she frowned and gave a little grunt. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He picked up the open bottle and proceeded to pour. “A college buddy’s dad is a winemaker at Llano Estacado. He keeps me supplied with the good stuff.”

  If he had said that to impress her, he had succeeded. “Oh. That’s the winery in Lubbock, isn’t it? I’ve always wanted to go on one of their tours.”

  He handed her a glass half filled with red wine. “Try it. You don’t have to worry. It won’t kill you.”

  “I’m not worried.” She accepted the wine and sipped. “It’s good. I haven’t had it before.”

  “My friend and his dad have tried to educate my palate. He says that with red wine, you should open the bottle and let it breathe a while before you drink it. I figure he oughtta know, so I opened it before you got here.”

  A cowboy as macho as Nick hardly seemed like a wine drinker who used phrases like “educate my palate,” but she bit her tongue and didn’t say so. He walked over to what looked to be a new stainless steel refrigerator and opened the door. Out came a large bowl of salad.

  “You made salad?”

  “Who can’t make salad? I buy a bag of lettuce and dump it into a bowl. Then I add stuff to make it a more interesting.”

  She stared down at the salad any cook would be proud to claim. Something red and crinkled showed. Dried cranberries? “And what did you add to this one?”

  “Some tomatoes and a cucumber. When I told C.J.—that’s Harley’s wife—I was cooking supper for somebody special, she told me to put some dried cranberries in it, so I went to the store and got some. She also gave me a jar of her homemade salad dressing.”

  Somebody special? What the hell did that mean? He kept saying these puzzling things. Sandi ducked her chin, shaking her head. “Somebody special? You are such a BSer.”

  He walked over, bent his head and kissed her. On the lips. It wasn’t one of those hot, tongue-tangling joinings. Just a nice, sweet kiss. And she didn’t stop him, mostly because they seemed to have been headed in this direction ever since her arrival.

  “I meant that,” he said softly. “To me, you’re somebody special.”

  Before she could recover herself and say a word, he picked up the plate holding the steaks. “I’m gonna cook these outside. Go out with me?”

  Now she was more than nervous. She was downright rattled. “Sh—sure.”

  “Bring the wine.”

  She picked up their wine glasses and the bottle and followed him outside.

  Chapter 21

  Warm and cozy, Sandi came awake reluctantly. She stretched, the sheets soft and silky against her skin.

  What?

  She moved her hand down her body. She was wearing...panties. And nothing else! Oh, dear God!

  How had she gotten to this bed with no clothes on? Oh, dear God!

  The previous evening rushed at her in hazy vignettes. She had drunk sooo much wine. Even with Nick telling her not to, she had argued and drunk more.

  And what else had she done? Had she or hadn’t she?

  Shouldn’t she know, even if she had drunk way too much wine and only vaguely remembered the evening, shouldn’t she know?

  This was terrifying.

  At the very worst, she was a moderate drinker. Maybe half a dozen times in her entire life, she had been buzzed, tipsy, maybe even drunk, but never had she lost a night. She shifted in the bed checking for tender places where she normally didn’t feel them, but drew no conclusions.

  Her tongue felt like sandpaper. Crashing cymbals echoed through her brain in a rhythmic clangs. She dared to open her eyes, turn her head and glance at the opposite side of the king-size bed. A distinct impression showed on the pillow encased in pale blue on the other side of the bed. Oh, dear God! She had!

  She popped up to a sitting position, hiding her bare breasts with the puffy comforter that covered her. Her head spun and a wave of nausea passed through her. She sat for a minute, letting her stomach settle and seeking her bearings.

  He had kissed her. And she had kissed him. They had slow-danced to George Strait on the patio. She strained her brain trying to remember how she got into this bed.

  Slowly, she perused her surroundings. She recognized Nick’s bedroom. Her clothing was folded and neatly stacked on the seat of the wooden rocking chair across the room from the bed. Nick’s soiled jacket no longer hung there. Further evidence that he had been in this room while she was naked.

  A glass of milk, three chocolate chip cookies on a saucer and a bottle of Advil sat on the small bedside table, along with a note printed boldly in all caps: DON’T TAKE THESE
PILLS ON AN EMPTY STOMACH. EAT THE COOKIES FIRST.

  “He is sooo bossy,” she mumbled.

  She munched on the cookies and washed down two of the Advil tablets with half the glass of milk. How long had he been in this room while she was naked? How had he moved around the room without waking her? How had he undressed her without waking her?

  Hunkered behind the Advil bottle was a digital clock showing the time to be 8:30 a.m. and the day to be Sunday. Oh, hell. She had animals at home waiting to be fed. She had a store that needed to be opened. Unfortunately, she had declined Betty Ann’s offer to open it today.

  She eased out of bed and gathered her clothing. An odor of stale alcohol assaulted her nose.

  She fastened on her bra, stepped into her panties, then her jeans and fastened them, then picked up her sweater, the source of the sour alcohol smell. She spread it to look at it. A purple stain the size of a basketball showed on the front. She pressed it to her nose and sniffed. Her stomached lurched.

  Skunk spray, llama spit and now stale alcohol. She shuddered.

  Across the room was the door to the bathroom. She tiptoed toward it. Once inside, she vaguely remembered being in it last night and washing the front of her sweater with hand soap.

  Peeking into the shower, she saw that it was still humid from use and still felt warm. He had showered and she hadn’t even known it? She berated herself again.

  A nice steamy shower was sooo tempting, but she couldn’t take the time.

  Her hair looked as if she had been in a windstorm. She used Nick’s hairbrush, then opened drawers looking for toothpaste. She helped herself and rubbed her teeth and tongue with her finger.

  She crossed the room and eased the bedroom door open. The sound of a TV broadcasting led her to the kitchen where Nick sat at the table reading the newspaper. An ugly mix of embarrassment, confusion, anxiety and anger skirmished within her.

  He looked up and smiled his killer smile. “Heey,” he said softly. “How you feeling?” He put down the paper and got to his feet. “Come have some breakfast.”