Love at First Bark (Free Short Story)

by Dana Mentink

  Her mouth watering, Marcy hefted the casserole dish filled with sliced French bread soaked in the egg and cinnamon-spiced syrup she’d concocted. This was the third time she’d made it, and she knew she’d nailed the flavors, so like her mother’s recipes but with a lighter, fresher twist. Closing the oven door and giving it a pat, she turned to make a note of the chopped pecans she’d decided to add.

  “Hey,” she yelped. Sitting at her feet was the black wiry-haired dog, coat clean and free of straw, beard shining. “What are you doing here, and how did you get in?” The front door was open a good five inches. She must not have latched it properly, and Mr. Nosy Parker Dog had pushed his way in.

  The dog stared at her from beneath his feathery eyebrows.

  “You can’t stay here. I’m a very busy woman. While this is baking, I’m going to write.”

  The dog cocked his head, one flopped ear quivering, looking for all the world as if he were listening to her every word. When she ran out of syllables, he eased to his belly in a hairy puddle and laid his wedge of a head on delicate paws. Adorable, she had to admit.

  “I’m not giving you the rest of the anchovies, if that’s why you came.” Those she had stowed in the fridge. “You’re going to have to leave. Nothing personal, but I’ve got to dream up a hero today… right now as a matter of fact. It’s my calling, I’m ninety percent sure.”

  The dog sneezed.

  “Well, maybe eighty.”

  A twitch of the whiskers.

  “Okay, sixty at the lowest. That’s right, so you’re going out.” She reached down to snag him. He scooted away, bottom up and tail wagging. It reminded her of her young niece and nephew’s dog, aptly named Barnstormer. “No, no. It’s not playtime. Come here.”

  The dog scooted forward until her fingers grazed his ribs before he jetted away. Shoving her bangs back, she got on hands and knees to corner him under the sofa just as her cell phone buzzed. With dread she noted her agent’s phone number and clicked it on speaker. The dog perked an ear to listen.

  “Hello, Rhonda.”

  “Status report?”

  “Doing fine, thank you, and you?”

  “I don’t have time for small talk. I’m on my way to a meeting.”

  “Okey dokey.”

  “Stopping in for some hot yoga on the way.”

  She’d be better off stopping for a hot pastrami on rye. The woman was skinny as a slice of cheese. “That sounds… refreshing.”

  “It’s torture. What have you got for the next series?”

  “Me?”

  “No, your identical twin.” Rhonda snorted. “Of course you. I’m meeting with your publisher after the yoga, and I want to tell them you’ll have a proposal soon.”

  “When is ‘soon,’ exactly?”

  “How about today?”

  Marcy considered. Unless her hero was going to be called Anchovy Paste or Bad Dog, she had nothing. “Uh, I need more time.”

  There was an ominous silence. “I will stall them and call you back tomorrow. Have something ready.”

  “But… I don’t have it actually to the finished stage yet.” Or really even started.

  “Look, Marcy.” Rhonda’s tone gentled. “You’ve got an opportunity to take a series and turn it into a career. There are zillions of writers who would die to be in your position. Do you understand, honey?”

  “Yes,” she said, stomach churning.

  “Good. Then don’t blow it,” she snapped and ended the call. So much for sensitive. Marcy eyed the dog under the sofa.

  “You see what kind of pressure I’m under? So I don’t have time for this nonsense. You’ve gotta go back to Jackson right now.”

  The dog cocked his head, as if considering her plight, before he eased out from under the sofa and trotted along, nails clicking on the wood floor. On the way he gave her a sly look, leaped for the belt tie on her pink fuzzy robe, and dashed out the front door.

  Her tie slithered from around her waist as she stumbled after him into the cool morning, trying to grab it. “Knock it off, dog,” she yelled before she remembered the right training command she’d practiced on Barnstormer. “Drop it,” she cried.

  To her astonishment, the dog froze, let go of the pink tie, and streaked away, tail zigging.

  Marcy snatched up the belt and fastened it around her middle, grumbling about dogs and agents under her breath. No more distractions. It was nine thirty, and the day stretched ahead of her in sunny splendor. A worn chair perched on the porch might be a great writing spot when she tired of the kitchen. Writers loved to do that “writing while enjoying nature” thing, didn’t they?

  “All right,” she said, padding up the steps with her bare feet. “Time to kick-start your career again.”

  She pushed a palm against the wood door. It did not move. Wriggling the handle did no good either. Now she hauled on the knob so hard her teeth rattled. It would not budge. She was locked out.

  “That dog,” she snarled as she edged around to the back door, which was also locked—as was the only bedroom window she could reach. Now what? Locked out of her cabin, with purse, phone, shoes, and everything else inaccessible… what exactly was she supposed to do? She needed a hero, all right, posthaste. At least someone who could call a locksmith for her.

  The faint sound of laughter echoed from across the glade, where Jackson must be busy doing his cowboy things with camper-type people. Could she ask him for help? Might he have a spare key or a lock pick in his office? But she’d already kind of insulted him by being surprised that he was an avid reader. And then there was the embarrassment of her pretentious writer talk in the face of her cooking notes. But what was her alternative? Glancing down at her ratty pink bathrobe, she sighed. Time to humiliate herself in front of a gorgeous cowboy. Trying to smooth her hair into some sort of tidy do, she hoisted up the hem of her bathrobe and headed for the path.

  Four

  Walking away from her cabin and through the glade with her head down, Marcy passed a dozen or so tents, flaps open to catch the morning breeze. The scent of bacon frying on campsite grills made her mouth water.

  “You’re just a camper, out for a stroll,” she told herself, hoping no one would notice the fact that she was in pajamas and a bathrobe, mincing gingerly along the dirt path to avoid the rocks and pinecones that threatened her bare feet. A young buck-toothed boy rode his bike up next to her.

  “Can you tell me where to find the stables?” she said.

  He jabbed a finger in a vague, northward direction before he pedaled away. Feeling more embarrassed with every passing moment, she hauled along over the small swell in the path and found the Quarter Moon Stables. A horse, the one she’d seen Jackson riding earlier, munched hay in a tidy fenced area, tail swishing away the flies. The air was pungent with horsey smells.

  A small wood-sided office sported a sign that read, “Guided trail rides, riding lessons, campfire Family Fun Nights.” Her courage failed as she neared. Surely there would be someone else who could pick a lock rather than the way-too-handsome Jackson? If worse came to worst, she could find a chunk of granite and bash in the window. It wouldn’t cost that much to replace. A small price to pay to avoid complete humiliation. She’d had enough of that.

  The guilt twisted around her insides as she thought about her “perfect match” Phillip, the man who was her real-life hero, her everything—until she’d finally wised up. She wondered if the mortification of finding out she’d been played like a fiddle would ever lessen. The worst thing was, she’d loved him, honestly adored him, and though her life was infinitely better and safer without him, she still felt empty inside.

  What a dope. She’d never mix up her fiction-hero ideals with real life ever again. You can rely on yourself, for crying out loud.

  With the familiar shame building in her stomach, she decided on a silent retreat to employ the “break a window” fix.

  Easing away to avoid drawing any attention from the office, Marcy again passed the horse and stealthily
made her way back to the trail. She was congratulating herself on her sneaking skills when the black dog materialized like a recurring nightmare, barking as he sproinged into the air, attempting to lay claim to her coveted bathrobe belt tie.

  “Shh,” she hissed, but the dog barked in a high-pitched terrier yodel.

  The office door opened.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be Jackson, she hoped frantically, but another helpful cowperson, a nice older lady with a plate of cookies and a skeleton key that would work on her cabin’s front door.

  “Charlie, sit,” Jackson said as he stepped out and joined her.

  The dog sat. Jackson wore a soft T-shirt that molded to his muscled torso and a pair of faded jeans cinched around his waist by a leather belt with an honest-to-goodness belt buckle.

  She shoved her hands in her robe pockets and went for casual nonchalance. “Is that the dog’s name?”

  “Dunno. I asked around the camp, and no one claimed him. I had a black stallion with a real personality named Charlie, so I just went with that.”

  “Hurricane Charlie might be more like it.”

  He chuckled, impossibly blue eyes twinkling. “Good word choice.”

  Mockery? She wasn’t sure. Jackson seemed too nice for that. Then again, Phillip had seemed pretty darn nice too. “Anyway, good to see you, lots to do, gotta go,” she mumbled.

  “Out for a walk?”

  “Yes, walking to get the creative juices flowing.”

  “Does it, er, help to walk in your PJs?”

  Marcy sighed, cheeks burning. Even for a fiction writer, this was going to be hard to explain away. The truth was the only avenue. “Actually, Charlie here suckered me out the door of my cabin, and now I’m locked out. It was going to be a great day. I mean, I had breakfast in the…” She froze. “Uh-oh.”

  Jackson frowned. “ ‘Uh-oh’ is the universal expression meaning bad stuff is about to hit the fan.”

  Marcy did the mental math. The French toast had been in the oven for a good ten minutes before she got locked out, plus another twenty while she was walking to the campground. “I thought maybe, um, you might have an extra cabin key.”

  “Sorry. Those cabins aren’t part of Quarter Moon.”

  She groaned. “I’ve got to get back. I have something in the oven. I’ll just have to break a window or something.” She hoisted the hem of her robe to prepare for a fast jog back to her cabin.

  “How about I give you a ride?” He gestured to the tail-swishing horse.

  “On that?”

  “It’s faster than waiting for a taxi in these parts. Star’s a gentle ride, very calm.”

  She eyed him, trying to figure a way out, but Jackson was already leading the big beast out of the paddock. Charlie pranced right beside as if he were expecting to be saddled.

  Jackson swung easily atop the horse and offered her a hand up.

  To ride on a horse? With a cowboy? One with eyes like sapphires and a self-deprecating smile that got right inside her? It was all wrong, yet she could not have written a more perfect scene, except for the bathrobe, of course. Part of her wanted to hop right up behind him, but the remaining portions were rooted to the ground by some heavy emotion—a combination of guilt, shame, fear, and who knew what else. This wasn’t a novel, and Jackson wasn’t a hero. He was just a man she did not want to get close to. A man like Phillip.

  “I promise I won’t let you fall,” he said. The blue eyes shimmered, more vivid than the California sky.

  Promises meant nothing, not when they seemed too good to be true. The hand remained outstretched, calloused and strong. Still she hesitated. But what was the risk, really? One quick ride and the chance to save her French toast… what could it hurt?

  Extending her fingers, she allowed herself to be pulled aboard, and the horse set off along the trail. They didn’t attempt anything tricky. Jackson kept the horse to a moderate pace, and Charlie trotted beside them as though he were an equine brother.

  Marcy tried not to hold onto Jackson too tightly. There would be no more physical contact than absolutely necessary. Still, when Star eased over a dip in the dirt road, Marcy clutched Jackson’s waist. The guy had muscles everywhere. And here she was with her mismatched polka-dot pajamas and frayed pink robe. If she hadn’t been trying to avoid touching him, she’d have buried her face between his shoulder blades out of sheer mortification when several campers with fishing poles passed by, waving and calling out to Jackson.

  “Don’t forget Family Fun Night at seven,” he replied, as if it was the most normal thing in the world for him to be hauling a pajama-clad lady on horseback.

  “We’ll be there,” they chorused.

  “You’ve got a lot of fans,” Marcy said.

  He shrugged. “We have a good time at Family Fun Night, and I get to know a lot of folks that way. They’re good people.” He paused. “You should come over… I mean, if you need a break from your writing.”

  The offer sounded sincere, but what did she know about sincerity? “Oh, I’ll probably be deep in my word count by then.”

  “What’s your hero like?”

  “Um, loyal, strong, kind.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She had a flash of inspiration. “I was leaning toward rodeo star. What do you think of that?”

  She felt his shoulders slump. “It’s all right, I guess.”

  “Why ‘I guess’?”

  “Oh, I don’t know… I did the circuit for a few years.”

  “Really? You were a rodeo star?”

  “No, just a regular guy who did okay and won a few times. But it wasn’t a great place for finding authentic relationships.”

  She felt the droop of his shoulders. “No?”

  “I was looking for someone who wanted to talk about other things besides rodeo and trophies and belt buckles. I met some nice girls, but none of them really wanted to know me.” He let out a breath. “Guess they were looking for that hero you’re going to write about.”

  “Ladies are smart, Jackson. They know that real-life men aren’t the same as romance novel heroes.” As soon as she said it, she wondered about her own smarts. Hadn’t she had her head turned by a man in a uniform who’d said all the clichéd things to her? Made all the right romantic gestures? Her head began to spin. “I’m not sure what a real hero is anymore.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She noted he smelled nice—not the least bit horsey, more like the subtle fragrance of soap—and her cheek rested on his broad back for several moments before she jerked away and mentally smacked herself.

  Just a ride, nothing more.

  The cabin did not have smoke pouring out any of the windows when they arrived, which she took to be a positive sign. Marcy hopped off the horse with a pretty decent dismount before Jackson could offer his assistance. Charlie scuttled over to the doormat and sat, waiting to be let in, tail snaking back and forth.

  “You’re the reason we’re on the wrong side of the door, you crazy mutt,” she scolded him. He slurped out a pink tongue and wriggled his hind end while Jackson secured the horse to a low branch.

  She searched for a rock to break the window.

  “Hang on a second.” Jackson went to a saddlebag and removed a screwdriver. “This will be faster, and you won’t have to clean up the glass or pay for damages.” She watched as he slid the screwdriver between the latch and the jam and wriggled it back and forth. To her amazement, the door popped open.

  “Incredible,” she said. “You’d be a great burglar.”

  “Old locks,” he returned. “These cabins were built forty years ago, and they haven’t had much upgrading.”

  Flinging the door open, she beelined to the oven and removed the bubbling dish. The top was golden brown, the kitchen redolent with the smell of cinnamon and the tiniest pinch of cloves she’d added.

  Jackson inhaled deeply. “That smells good.”

  She pinked with pleasure for some reason she could not explain. An idea came into her head that she didn
’t want there. But the man had lugged her back to the cabin and jimmied the door, so…

  “Would you like to stay for breakfast?” she blurted out. “I mean, as a thanks for your help?”

  “It won’t be infringing on your work time?”

  “Well, a novelist has got to eat, right? Cowboys too?”

  “I think I could be persuaded, if you’re sure.”

  Five

  Jackson sat down at the table, and Charlie launched into his lap, sitting upright on his back legs like a little black penguin. Stroking the dog’s chest, he chuckled. “I figured he was going to be hanging out with me, but maybe he likes you better.”

  “Must be the anchovies, because I’ve not exactly rolled out the welcome mat.”

  “Don’t like dogs?”

  “Oh, I do. My niece and nephew have a dog named Barnstormer, and we have a great time playing with him, but he gets a little overexcited during the hoedowns.”

  He grinned. “You have hoedowns?”

  “The twins are four years old, and their favorite CD is Hoedown with Cowboy Cliff. They’ve got all his CDs memorized, but the dog gets so excited when we’re do-si-do-ing that we have to put him in the yard.”

  Jackson stared at her.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Oh, well, I guess I just can’t picture someone like you… I mean, a bestselling novelist and all that… listening to a kid’s CD.”

  She folded her arms. “I am a fantastic auntie, for your information, and I love playing with my niece and nephew. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  He looked at his hands, folded on the table. “No. Nothing at all.”

  “Cowboy Cliff happens to be Tina and Ben’s hero. He’s sort of like Santa Claus and Burl Ives rolled into one. In real life, he probably lives in Manhattan and owns a BMW.”

  Jackson took a gulp of the instant coffee she’d plunked down in front of him and coughed.

  “You okay?”