by Nancy Warren
He settled back. “Evan Alexander Chance. Evan for my grandmother on my mother’s side, Alexander for my grandfather on my mother’s side, Chance because my hippy, dippy parents didn’t believe in the patriarchal naming system and so chose a last name that they liked. Which they forced on all of us kids. My birth date is September 12, 1978. The president is Barack Hussein Obama. I don’t have a concussion. I simply stopped paying attention to what day it is, because I don’t care. And the watch tells terrible time. It’s sentimental, not practical.” He held out his wrist so the watch face was toward her and she saw that he was right. The watch was running half an hour fast.
“Okay,” she said, fascinated by his brief history. “You don’t have a concussion. You hurt anywhere?”
“No.”
“Then I’d say you’re good to go. You and your friend.” And she could get back to the evening she’d planned, which was catching up on her book club reading and indulging in a long, hot, bubble bath with a glass of wine. It was a Friday night luxury she looked forward to all week.
“He’s not my friend. He’s a crazy-assed mutt who ran right into my bike like he had a death wish.”
“He doesn’t look suicidal.”
They both regarded the creature whose paws were jerking as he slept. “I should try to get him home, but he’s not wearing a collar.”
“I noticed.”
“You think he’s a stray?”
“I think he’s probably a farm dog that ran off. Got spooked by something maybe. He’s too…” Her words petered out. She felt bad talking unkindly about a fellow living creature that was already hurting.
Evan finished the sentence for her, “Too ugly to be a pet. I wondered about that.”
She nodded. “I would guess he’s some kind of a herder. It’s like a blue heeler crossed with a –”
“Kitchen mop,” he finished. He turned a very attractive smile on her. “You know, I couldn’t help notice that it’s lonely out here. I didn’t notice a four-legged creature coming to the door with you. There’s a reason they’re called man’s best friend and all.” He looked at her hopefully. God he was cute. She bet he cleaned up real nice, too.
“Nice try,” she said, “but I have a cat. And my cat enforces a strict No Dogs policy.”
“Well,” he sent her that practiced but still-charming lady-killer grin again. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
In sleep the World’s Homeliest Dog made little woofs and then suddenly whined and went into a low growl. Somewhere in doggie dreamland things were getting interesting.
“I guess I’ll put him back where I found him.”
He glanced at her from under ridiculously thick lashes and she felt her instinct to save start to rise up, then realized she was being played. This wasn’t her dog, her guy, or her problem. If the dog became a problem, she’d make sure to let Chief Barker know about it. He could take the mutt to a shelter.
She kept a pleasant expression pinned to her face but didn’t answer. He took the hint and stood up which put him close to her. “I do need to pay you for treating me,” he said, once more reaching for his wallet.
Once more she stopped him. “It took me five minutes to check you out. Consider it your welcome-to-Miller’s-Pond gift.”
“I appreciate that. Increase your kindness and tell me where I can stay tonight? I was about ready to call it a night when I had the collision. Is there a hotel? Motel? Campground? Someplace nearby?”
“We only have one motel but the old couple who own it never take anyone past six o’clock.” She tried to think of a place. “There’s a KOA about five miles down the road.”
“That’ll do,” he said. “Thank you again for looking after two sorry strangers.”
“It was no trouble at all.”
“Come on, Homely,” he said to the dog, who shook his head when he woke as though shaking off water. When he looked at the two of them his ratty tail thumped. “Time to hit the road.” He scooped the dog off her table and Caitlyn hastily replaced the paper sheeting, knowing she’d hear no end of it come Monday if her nurse found out she’d treated anybody after hours. A canine? Caitlyn couldn’t imagine.
The dog exhibited a slight limp, but otherwise seemed okay. Without the burden of carrying the animal, Evan walked with a long, easy gait, as though he were in a hurry to get somewhere. He’d already told her he didn’t even know what day of the week it was so she wondered what his hurry could be.
When they got to the door, she opened it for them and he turned. He held out his hand. “Thank you again.”
His grip was warm and firm. “You’re welcome,” she said.
He let her go but didn’t leave right away. He said, “I don’t even know your first name.”
“Caitlyn. Caitlyn Sorenson.”
“If the MD thing doesn’t pan out, Caitlyn, I think you could have a fine future as a veterinarian.”
She laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
She thought he’d leave and then he hesitated. “Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Sure.”
“What is a gorgeous woman like you doing home on a Friday night?”
Oh, there were so many answers to that. Everything from actually liking her alone time to there not being a whole lot of action in Miller’s Pond. Sometimes she missed the big city for the sheer range of restaurants and entertainment options though the truth was she’d usually been too exhausted after her ten-hour shifts as a trauma surgeon to take advantage of everything New York had to offer. She was as likely then, as now, to choose a hot bath and a good book. What she said was, “Catching up on a few things. Good night, Evan Alexander Chance.”
“Good night, Doctor Caitlyn Sorenson.”
At last she closed the door on her two unusual patients and, shaking her head, she locked up and returned to her living quarters.
The old house had belonged to her grandparents. Her granddad was ‘Doc Sorenson’ long before she was, and he’d started her on the path of medicine as a career.
This had been the first place she’d thought to come when her big city life imploded and, somehow, she’d never left.
It was funny, there was something about the sexy drifter that had reminded her of those days, the hectic pace, the relentless adrenalin rush of life and death, the lack of sleep, constant fog of tiredness. Once in a while she missed the crazy life she’d once lived. The adrenalin rush of pulling the broken and torn back together, celebrating every triumph over death and trying not to obsess over the ones who didn’t make it: the young accident victims, assault victims, victims of natural disaster and their own stupidity. The hospital where she worked was the destination where the most damaged were air-lifted.
During her blessed days off there’d been all of New York to sample from the galleries to the restaurants to the theaters. She’d dated men who were in the fast lane of their own professions, because they were the ones who understood that her job --saving lives-- always came first.
She had no idea why, but something about Evan Chance made her wonder. Maybe it was the gold watch and the obviously expensive T-shirt. She had an inkling he might be an escapee from the rat race too.
She supposed she’d never know.
She got out a bottle of her favorite bubble bath, some combination of lavender and chamomile that foamed under the running faucet, filling her bathroom with deliciously scented steam.
Cleopatra stalked in, demanding to be petted, so she knelt and stroked the tortoiseshell. “Yes, I know I smell like dog. He wanted to come and live here. Can you imagine?”
Still, she hoped the ugly dog would find its way home. And that the drifter would find whatever it was he was looking for.
Chapter Five
“Aw shit,” Evan muttered aloud when he reached his bike, already dreaming of driving to the campground Doc Sorenson had told him about. He’d found his bike fine. It was exactly where he’d left it, helmet sitting beside i
t on the ground where he’d hastily parked it after he hit the dog.
Now that he had time, he inspected the bike with the aid of the small flashlight he kept in his pack. He could feel scratches, discovered the mirror was bent; he bent it back into place. As he scanned the rest of the bike, his optimism that he’d be settled into a camp ground within half an hour vanished.
A small metal stub stuck out like a hitch-hiker’s thumb where the shift lever should be. It had snapped clean off. He’d be able to start the bike, but without the ability to change gears it would stall right away. He glanced up and down the deserted road and quickly realized he wasn’t going anywhere until morning.
As he cursed, the dog nosed him, tail wagging, as though they were somehow connected now because they’d collided on a dark road and Evan had taken him to a vet who wasn’t a vet.
“Shifter’s snapped off,” he told his hairy shadow. “You know what that means? I’m screwed. That’s what it means.”
The dog tipped its homely head to the side so a hank of mop curls shifted around.
“List of things to be pissed about,” he said, searching for some place flat and grassy. “One: I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere. Two: You are not only ugly, you are a road hazard. And three: I was looking forward to a long, hot shower.”
The dog made a noise, which sounded like he was arguing. As a lawyer, Evan was trained to consider all sides of an argument.
“Okay. On the plus side, the sexy doc. For which I should thank you, Buddy. Hottest woman I’ve seen in weeks.” The dog wagged his sorry excuse for a tail and cocked his head.
“Thing is, this is where our paths diverge. You need to go home.” He pointed down the dark road. The dog didn’t move.
“Go on. Go home!” He said it as sternly as he knew how.
The dog barked, once, like some game was about to start and he was ready to play.
“Thanks to you I have to camp rough for the night.” Wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind, but the whole point of this trip was to embrace the adventure. Seemed tonight adventure wasn’t embracing him back. It was kicking him in the ass.
Well, one thing for sure, he traveled alone.
He picked up the dog once more. Jogged with it as far as he could, from the direction it had come at him. His home must be around here somewhere. When his lungs were burning, he slowed to a fast walk. He put the dog down. “Go home!”
Maybe he felt a tiny bit cruel, running away from that dog as fast as his long legs would carry him, while the dog was limping and couldn’t run at all. But the best thing for it was to find its way home.
It wasn’t long before he had the road to himself again.
He returned to his bike, pulled it even farther onto the shoulder of the road. Aided by his flashlight, he found a flat patch of ground, pulled a few rocks out of the way and pitched his tent. It wasn’t too bad, he supposed. Stars were out, crickets chirping. He pulled out the efficient camp stove he’d bought for the trip and boiled up some of the bottled water he carried. His larder wasn’t much, but he was tired and wanted something fast. He boiled up some instant noodles and sat on the patchy grass under the stars eating his sad excuse for dinner. He was nearly finished when he stopped, mouth still half open.
“I don’t believe it,” he said aloud.
The dog-shaped shadow was limping worse now. But that foolish dog hadn’t gone home. It had followed him. He wondered if that ugly, limping dog was a metaphor for his life. You could try to outrun the past, your problems, your family, but they kept following.
“Hey, Homely,” he called to the dog. It woofed once, then trotted, mostly on three legs, up to where he sat.
He rubbed its head and the dog licked his hand. “You may be the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen, but damn you’ve got persistence. I admire that.”
Ugly acted as pleased to see him as though he hadn’t tried to get rid of it. He set about pouring bottled water into one of his two bowls. The dog lapped eagerly. “I bet you’re hungry too, huh?” He bowed to the inevitable. “One more Ramen noodles coming up.”
Once the dog had polished off the noodles, he pulled the last of Iris’s muffins out of the crumpled paper bag. He shared a taste of home with the dog, amused to find that the gifts he’d accepted out of obligation rather than gratitude had been truly useful. His packed lunch, the muffins, the atlas.
After they’d both gone into the bushes to pee, he got into his tent with his ereader. “You sleep out here,” he said to the dog, pointing to the area outside his tent’s only door. Then he zipped it shut and crawled inside to where his sleeping bag was already laid out.
After ten minutes of trying to ignore the scratching of a dog paw on his tent flap, and the pathetic whines that accompanied the pawing, he gave up and let the dog in. He was firm, however, that it had to sleep in the corner, not on his sleeping bag.
Clearly feeling that having won the war, he wasn’t going to fight an insignificant battle, the dog wagged its wire brush of a tail and curled up in the corner, head on his paws, those dark eyes watching him read.
“I’m telling you right now,” he said, “If you have a home, we’re finding it. Tomorrow.”
A low whine was his answer. He remembered the antibiotic cream that was obviously made for humans. He squeezed some onto his finger and rubbed it carefully on the scabbed spot.
“And I’ve got to get a new shifter for the bike thanks to you.”
The tail bumped the ground.
Evan settled into his bag and read for a while. The small battery operated lantern gave enough light for him to see his screen. The blue tent walls shuddered when the breeze shifted, and outside he could hear the rustlings of who knew what? He was aware that the dog snoozed in the tent, it’s sides rising and falling as it slumbered. He remembered all the times when he was a kid falling asleep with one animal or another in his room.
He pulled out his atlas and the yellow highlighter and added today’s mileage. The US stretched vast across two pages of the atlas. He’d conquered less than a half an inch of that two page spread. He really needed to get moving he thought as he yawned. His own eyes grew heavy and he put out the lantern and slept.
When he woke the next morning, Evan pulled out his cell phone to find and call a bike repair shop. There was no cell service. Evan couldn’t believe it. He walked out to the road, nothing. Back and around behind where the tent was still pitched. Nothing. No way to call for help. After a surprisingly good sleep, he and his wounded shadow had woken with the sun. And he’d immediately worked out his agenda for the day. Get a new shifter, obviously. Find this dog’s home. Get back on the road. Seemed simple enough until he tried to use his phone to get hold of a garage or bike store and discovered there was no cell service on this God-forsaken stretch of nowhere.
He’d never believed he’d actually use the road atlas his father had insisted he take, but it was turning out to be one of his most frequently consulted possessions. Miller’s Pond was a small dot on a regional map, but it was the only dot for miles. The next sizeable town was at least fifty miles away.
He made coffee on his camp stove, shared a granola bar with the dog and then packed away his tent. In the hour or so that he’d been awake, not a single vehicle had passed in either direction on the road. Looked like he and his pal were in for another long walk. “Not that anyone would pick you up, even if we could hitch-hike.”
He left the bike on the side of the road and started walking, the dog at his heels. He’d put more ointment on the cut, which seemed to be healing fine, and he noted the dog wasn’t limping as much this morning.
They’d been walking a few minutes when a car drove by. Evan stuck out his thumb hopefully, but the Taurus roared by without slowing. A couple of kids in the back turned to stare at him.
He’d worried the maniac dog would run after the car, but he simply trotted along beside Evan.
Fifteen minutes later a truck passed going in the opposite direction. “Stay, Buddy.” Again, the dog
remained right by his side. So why the hell had he run right AT the motorcycle?
“Maybe you learned your lesson, huh?”
He glanced up toward Doc Sorensen’s house but didn’t take the path. Instead he stayed on the main road, fairly certain it would lead him to the town center. Sure enough, after another twenty minutes they reached the town of Miller’s Pond and walked into a diner that advertised an all day breakfast special. The dog walked right up to the door with him and when he told it to sit and stay, it complied with flattened ears and a drooping expression.
He ordered sausage and eggs from a waitress with Lucille Ball red hair and thick eyeliner. She was probably in her early thirties and heavily pregnant. Idly, he wondered if Caitlyn Sorenson would be delivering the baby, and suspected she would.
This wasn’t the first time he’d thought about the sexy MD. She seemed a bit of a mystery, living out here in the boonies, presumably alone. She wore no ring. Hadn’t seemed like there was anyone but her in that house. Curious.
When his breakfast came, gratifyingly fast, and Lucille topped up his coffee, he asked, “Is there a car garage around here?”
“Uh, huh. Merv’s Gas and Auto Repair.” And she gave him directions. His breakfast came with four sausages. He ate three and, feeling like a fool, wrapped the fourth in a paper napkin. When he’d paid his bill, and left a hefty tip seeing as how that waitress would soon have another mouth to feed, he headed out. He’d half hoped the dog would have found a new fool to latch onto, but no. He was in the exact spot where Evan had left him, and greeted him with so much joy you’d think they’d been parted for a year.
He cottoned on to the sausage right away, and if Evan hadn’t been quick, he’d have eaten the napkin right along with the meat.
Having satisfied their appetites, the two walked over to Merv’s.
Merv was a slow-moving, slow-talking man with mutton-chop sideburns, a bald head and a stomach that suggested he enjoyed more pizza and beer than was good for him. When he heard about Evan’s trouble, he said, “That’s not a part I keep in stock. I’m going to have to send away. That’ll take at least two business days.”