Man's Best Friend (The Dogmothers Book 6)

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Declan.” He saw his uncle take a deep, steadying breath, his broad shoulders squaring as if he were about to go into battle. Or deliver some kind of bad news. “I need to talk to you, son.”

  Declan stopped mid-step, staring at the man coming toward him, trying to read his expression, which looked…ravaged.

  “Is everyone okay? Mom? Ella? The boys?” But even as he went through his family, he knew. Deep in his gut, he knew. He knew.

  Where the hell is Dad?

  His aunt hung back a few steps, her permanent smile gone, her face swollen from crying.

  Uncle Daniel reached him, holding out both arms. Declan didn’t move as he could almost feel parts of his brain start to shut down.

  His uncle put his big doctor’s hands on Declan’s shoulders, squeezing lightly as he closed his red-rimmed eyes. “There was a call last night. A house fire.”

  Declan stared at him, the thrumming of blood in his head so loud it sounded like the words were spoken underwater.

  “And something…went wrong.”

  Oh God.

  Declan had never seen Daniel Kilcannon cry. That was the only thought that could register as his uncle’s entire face seemed to fold as he started to weep. “We lost him, son. We lost your father.”

  What? He mouthed the word, but nothing came out. No sound. No breath.

  “I’m so sorry.” Uncle Daniel folded strong, sizable arms around him, but Declan couldn’t hug back. He stood stiff and immobilized as more parts of him shut down. His thoughts. His heart. His feelings. One by one, everything froze. It was the only way to keep from throwing his head back and howling in agony.

  “Dec, I’m so sorry.”

  “Dad.” He managed to croak the word, pulling back. “What happened?”

  His uncle didn’t answer right away, glancing instead to Evie. God, Declan had forgotten she was there. Suddenly, Aunt Annie came to Evie’s other side, sliding an arm around her waist.

  “Gloriana House,” Uncle Daniel whispered.

  Evie gasped, but Aunt Annie squeezed her. “Your family is fine,” she said. “Your parents and grandparents got out safely.”

  “And Taddy?”

  “Yes, they got the dog,” Aunt Annie assured her. “The house is only partially damaged.”

  Gloriana House? Dad died saving Evie’s family home? Declan felt himself taking steps backward, dropping his pack and the sleeping bag, trying—and failing—to process the world coming down around his shoulders.

  “Why…why didn’t you come and…” His voice trailed off. He knew why. Because he’d picked the most secluded, secret spot on the mountain where no one could find them.

  “Liam and Shane drove all over the campground, son, as soon as we heard around four in the morning. But they couldn’t find you.”

  He closed his eyes, imagining his cousins looking for him last night. Then, he shook off the thought and forced his brain to work like a firefighter’s. “Are they still at the site, doing S&O?” No way that salvage and overhaul would be done by eight on a fire that started in the middle of the night. “I need to—”

  “You’re not going there,” Daniel said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

  “How did it start?”

  “No idea yet. It was contained quickly, though.”

  Not quickly enough. “But what happened?” How could his father, a skilled and vigilant firefighter, not walk out the way he’d walked in?

  “All we know is a second-floor overhang collapsed on him, and he…” Daniel swallowed. “They haven’t even started the investigation, son.”

  “Anyone else?” Declan asked, his voice tight.

  “George Rainey, his partner, managed to…” He heaved a sigh. “He got out in time.”

  But Dad didn’t?

  How was this possible? Declan closed his eyes, seeing flashes of white behind his lids as he bent over and let out a silent scream.

  No. Not possible. Not Dad. Not Joe Mahoney. Not his hero, his mentor, his whole world. His father.

  “Oh, Dec. I’m so sorry.” Evie draped over him, but her body felt heavy and hot, and he couldn’t bear the weight of her grief on top of his.

  He eased her off, standing straight, digging deep for reason and sense and the ingrained responsibility that his father had carved into his heart. If he was broken, what about the rest of his family?

  “Where’s Mom?” he asked on a ragged whisper, looking at the porch where Gramma Finnie stood arm in arm with his cousin Molly.

  “She’s inside,” Uncle Daniel said. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  Waiting for him to come back from the mountains, where he’d been having sex with Evie while his father had been…covering his shift. And dying for him. And saving her family.

  On their birthday.

  No. This didn’t happen. It didn’t. How? Why?

  He turned to Evie, but her face was soaked with tears and red from the same agony whipping through him.

  “Dec.” She pressed her hands to her mouth, tears flowing.

  “Your family is staying with the Langleys, dear,” Aunt Annie said gently, still holding Evie like she could crumble any second. “Your father’s on his way now to bring you there.”

  “Dec,” she whispered again.

  He tried to answer, but stared at her, his head buzzing, sobs ready to strangle him.

  He dropped his head back and endured the next wave of pain, then turned away, the emptiness that engulfed him so indescribable that he just wanted it to stop. He wanted everything to stop. He wanted to run and be alone in the depths of darkness that he knew would never, ever lift. Away from them. Away from her. Away from everyone.

  But he couldn’t run. He had three younger siblings who’d depended on Dad and a mother who’d lived and breathed for her husband.

  “Dec, I’m so sorry.” Evie managed to get hold of him and wrap her arms around him, her whole body quaking as she wept. “I’m sorry,” she murmured into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

  But he stood stone-still. He knew what he should do. Hold her. Hug her. They should cry on each other’s shoulders.

  Didn’t he just promise her all that?

  But nothing in him worked. Everything had shut down, like a plug had been pulled and the power had gone out for good.

  She gazed up at him, looking desperate for something he couldn’t give her. Not now. Maybe…not ever.

  “I’ll wait for my dad,” she said. “You go. Take care of your mom. Your brothers. Ella.” She broke again when she said his little sister’s name.

  All of them…fatherless. They were his job now. His responsibility. Not Evie. His family was all that mattered.

  “I’m going into the house,” he said, his voice thick. He didn’t wait for her response, mostly because he knew he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t help her when she still had both parents and grandparents, and so many others would be depending on him.

  Without another word, he turned and walked inside. With each step, he wondered if he’d ever feel anything except pain for the rest of his life.

  Chapter Three

  Twenty Years Later

  While her grandfather slept in the four-poster behind her, Evie stared out of one of the arched windows of Gloriana House as an early October afternoon painted the hills around Bitter Bark in the golds and russets of autumn. Her gaze took its usual path, drifting down the hill, over the upscale homes of Ambrose Acres, and then toward the brick buildings and the clock tower over town hall.

  Even from here, she could spot the bronze statue of Bitter Bark’s founder, Evie’s great-great-great-grandfather, Thaddeus Ambrose Bushrod, standing sentry in the middle of it all.

  The view had thrilled her as a child when she’d slip up here to her grandparents’ bedroom and look out over the town. In her mind, she was a princess surveying the kingdom, part of a venerable bloodline, the sixth generation of Bitter Bark’s first family. The Bushrods, then the Hewitts, were as much a part of the town’s fabric as the en
ormous hickory tree that “Big Bad Thad” had erroneously called a bitter bark and then named the town after it.

  The view had broken her heart when she was living in Raleigh, as she had for the past twenty-some years with only occasional visits to see Granddaddy Max and Grandmama Penelope. From up here, she could see the fire station, and she used to imagine Declan Mahoney hard at work, saving lives and protecting the people of this town. But never, ever picking up the phone to call his onetime best friend.

  Because after the fire, there’d come the ice. She and Declan had entered into what Evie thought of as “the frozen years,” where they remained to this day. The burned wing of the glorious Victorian mansion that Thaddeus Bushrod Jr. had built at the turn of the century had been repaired after the blaze that had started when rags soaked in chemicals combusted in the heat.

  But no team of architects, historians, and contractors had come to fix the damage done to a friendship that was supposed to have lasted a lifetime.

  Declan had changed the morning his father died, withdrawing from everyone but his family. Evie had tried to break through the walls grief had built around him. At the funeral, before she left for school, and many times that first year, she’d reached out to him, but all she’d gotten was…distance. Excuses. And silence. He’d never been mean or mad or even shed a tear, but he could no longer connect with her.

  Did he blame her? Did he believe that if they hadn’t gone to the mountains, the outcome might have been different? Did he resent her mother, whose painting rags had started the fire that collapsed the second-floor veranda and trapped Captain Joe Mahoney? Did he hate Gloriana House, or her family, or just life in general?

  She didn’t know, because the boy who told her everything wouldn’t share anything, so after a while, it became easier for Evie to try to forget how much she missed Declan. With the exception of the occasional unexpected and awkward encounter, neither of them had the courage or strength to break the ice that had formed around their friendship. After a decade or two, the very idea of some sort of reconciliation or revival seemed hopeless.

  So now, this view made Evie feel bittersweet. At forty years old, an only child with no children of her own, Evangeline Hewitt was the last in a long line of Bushrod descendants who’d called Gloriana House home. When Granddaddy passed away, the great Victorian manor would enter a new phase, whatever that would be, with no family to live in it.

  Not long after the fire, which her Bohemian mother had called a sign from the universe that they should “follow their dreams” and live on a sailboat in the Caribbean, her parents had moved. Dad didn’t follow dreams, he followed Mom like a loyal lapdog, so off they’d gone. Those two had zero desire to live in a rambling, three-story, one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old mansion that still had the original oil lamps and woodwork in some of the rooms.

  And Evie had made her life more than three hours away, becoming one of the top specialists in her field, now the head of the Neurology Department at the NC State College of Veterinary Medicine. So, eventually, the house would have to change hands, but no one really wanted to face that yet.

  “I know what I want.”

  Evie turned at Granddaddy’s gruff voice, surprised he was awake. “You’ll take that tea now?”

  “A celebration of life.”

  “Excuse me?” She came closer to the bed, perching on the edge to take his withered old hand in hers.

  “I saw it on TV,” he said. “Some old guy. Older than me, and that’s old.” He gave her a smile that showed he hadn’t had the energy to put his dentures in today. “No funeral. I hate that Mitch Eastercrook.”

  She laughed softly at the reference to the town’s unpopular undertaker. “I told you to quit with this dying nonsense.”

  “Evangeline, dear, don’t humor me. I’m ninety-two, and I can’t remember the names of my body parts, let alone what they were supposed to do when they worked.”

  She smiled. “Your sense of humor is working just fine.” She got up to adjust the Navy baseball cap that he liked to hang on the post of the bed, a reminder of his World War II service.

  “I want you to be in charge of my celebration-of-life party,” he continued. “I want it to be crowded and happy and right in the middle of Bushrod Square. And I want a big band to play Glenn Miller’s ‘Moonlight Serenade.’” He looked at her with sad gray eyes, dimmed by time, giving her an inkling of how her own pale blue gaze might look in fifty years. “Then Penny and I will be dancing together in heaven. And then you can do whatever you want with this old house. I don’t care.”

  “Oh, Granddaddy.” She sat back down next to him, knowing he did care, very much. “You know you’re going to live to be a hundred. And one.”

  He sighed. “I promised Penny I’d hold on until…well, never mind. You’ll plan that party for me, won’t you?”

  She knew what he was holding on for—the next generation in a long line of generations. “I’ll give you a Glenn Miller party.” She patted his hand and got back up to look out the window when she heard a car door. “But don’t rush it, okay? I like having you around.”

  A boat of a Buick had pulled into the driveway, which wasn’t that unusual since Granddaddy frequently had visitors. But most of them called first, and no one had contacted her about coming by today. She hoped it wasn’t some pushy tourist who wanted to see the inside of the house. It was enough that they stood on Ambrose Court and took pictures.

  “Looks like you’ve got company. You up for a visitor?”

  “Maybe. Who is it?”

  She peered at a woman. “I don’t know this lady. Wait, she’s waiting for someone on the passenger side.”

  “A lady, huh?” He pushed himself up, a smile pulling. “I could use a little company. You bring her up, and I’ll put my dentures in and show her my biting humor. Get it? Biting.”

  “Got it, and sorry I didn’t say it first.” She helped him out of bed, got him in his robe and slippers, and led him to the bathroom before heading down to the entryway. The closer she got to the leaded-glass front door, the better she could see the shapes of two women. Then she heard a loud bark, followed by a low growl. Guests and dogs?

  She pulled the door open and did a double take at the sight of the Irish grandmother she’d known since childhood. She inched back as two dachshunds, one extremely stout and brown, the other tan and frisky, darted at the door.

  “Oh, I wasn’t expectin’ you, lass!” Finola Kilcannon adjusted her bifocals as if to get a better look at Evie, while the other woman tugged on leashes to hold the dogs back. “We assumed a nurse would answer the door.”

  “It’s me, and what a nice surprise.” Evie reached out to give the tiny woman a hug, adding a smile to her friend, another octogenarian, though one who’d obviously worked hard at looking younger.

  Evie let one wave of decades-old emotion wash over her as she pressed Gramma Finnie to her heart. But that was all. Just one crashing wave, then she composed herself.

  Over the past twenty years, Evie had trained herself not to react to any of the large Irish clan that Declan Mahoney called family. She’d long ago learned to hide her response whenever she’d see a Mahoney or Kilcannon and bury the need to ask about him. She was warm, but cloaked in the same steel armor she wore when she performed a life-or-death surgery on someone’s beloved pet. Not that she got to do many of those anymore.

  “You look fantastic, Gramma Finnie,” she said and meant it. The little old lady might be a few years younger than the man in the bed upstairs, but she looked as spry and alert as Evie remembered.

  “Oh, lass. I’m old, but the Jameson’s keeps my blood flowin’.” She patted her puff of white hair while her cornflower-blue gaze danced over Evie.

  Evie tamped down an ancient memory of stolen Jameson’s that tickled her brain.

  “And I don’t think we’ve met,” Evie said to the other woman, putting two and two together and coming up with…the Greek side of the Kilcannon family, added when Daniel Kilcannon remarried.
“But I talk to Molly once in a while, so I’m guessing you are the great and powerful Yiayia.”

  “I am Yiayia,” she said with unabashed pleasure and pride, shaking Evie’s hand. “And it is so nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You have?” Who’d be talking about her in that family? “And who are these darlings?”

  “Pyggie and Gala.” Yiayia relaxed the leashes. “We hope your home is dog-friendly.”

  “Anywhere I am is dog-friendly,” she said, bending over to greet the pups, getting a lick from the tan one and a look of pure skepticism from the darker one. He was certainly chunky enough to be called Piggy, although the name seemed a tad mean.

  “Please, come in.” She invited them all into the entryway, and immediately Yiayia gasped.

  “Holy cra…cow. It’s prettier on the inside, and that’s saying something.” Yiayia circled slowly, taking in the oversized two-story entry and wide red-carpeted staircase.

  “Don’t dig too deep, because you’ll find a lot of things falling apart.” Evie walked to the stair rail and rocked the round newel to prove her point.

  “A problem many of us grande dames deal with.” Yiayia let her head fall back to look up at the crystal chandelier. “My goodness. How do you clean that? Wait…no one does.”

  “Agnes!” Gramma Finnie put her hand on the other woman’s arm. “This is the most beautiful home in Bitter Bark.”

  “But not necessarily the cleanest,” Evie agreed, looking up at the hundreds of dangling pieces of crystal overhead. “There’s a way to lower that thing, but that’s above my pay grade.”

  “Are these real?” Yiayia pointed to one of the antique brass lanterns on either side of the dining room entry.

  “The oil lamps?” Evie nodded. “Obviously, we don’t use them for lighting anymore, but yes, they actually work. They’re all over the house.”

  “What brings you home, lass?” Gramma Finnie asked, then her eyes popped. “Is Max worse? Havin’ trouble?”

  “He has good days and bad, and yes, he’s part of the reason I’m here. I took a sabbatical this semester to keep him company and…” She lifted her hands in a way that gestured toward the house. “Help my parents figure out what needs to be done around here. Granddaddy’s having a difficult time maintaining everything.”