by Donna Ball
Miles’s phone chimed with a text message. He grinned as he read it, then held it out to me. Melanie texted: Is Cisco okay?
Spoken like a true dog person. I was the one crumpled on the ground in the video, but she was worried about my dog. I couldn’t fault her for that. I finished brushing down Cisco, straightened my Air Bud cap, and picked up the blue ribbon. “Okay, send her this.” He snapped the photo of me kneeling with my arm around Cisco, holding the blue ribbon in front of his chest and grinning around my puffy nose and purple eye like I’d just won Olympic gold, and sent it off to Washington. I said, “Send it to my phone, too. I want to put it on Facebook.”
“Done. Both videos too.”
“Thanks.” I got up and leaned outside the half door of the stall to hang the ribbon from one of the overhead nails that were provided for that purpose. I saw that some of the other competitors had already accumulated four or five ribbons, and some of them had even brought banners with their dog’s name or their kennel name emblazoned on them to hang over the stall entrance. Really, the lengths to which some people will go in this game… I wondered where I could get a banner with Cisco’s name on it before tomorrow.
From where I stood I could see the parking area with its line of minivans and SUVS with the back hatches open, part of the dog walk area and play field, and the corner of the jumpers-with-weaves ring, which was empty now. In less than an hour, Cisco and I would be making our second and last run of the day in that very ring. I saw Brinkley and his handler, heading toward the field with a Frisbee, and waved. She waved back and called, “Congratulations!” and I returned, “Thanks!” I wasn’t sure whether I should ask her to make sure to keep Brinkley out of sight during our next run or offer to pay her to stand with him at the finish line.
That was a joke, of course. I would never cheat in agility.
But the thought, along with a glimpse of Neil Kellog’s girlfriend, Marcie, taking one of her border collies out of a crate in the back of a minivan, reminded me of something that had been nagging at me all afternoon. I turned back. “Say, Miles…”
But his phone buzzed just then and he held up a finger as he glanced at the screen. “Need to get this one, babe.”
I rolled my eyes—he knows I hate it when he calls me “babe”—and he answered, “Miles Young.” He edged past me through the gate, brushing a kiss across my eyebrow as he did so, and took the call outside.
I made sure the gate was closed firmly behind him, settled Cisco down with a chew bone, and dug into my bag for my own phone. I sank back into my chair and enjoyed the video of our win one more time, then pulled up the other video Miles had sent. I watched Flame zip around the course as though she’d memorized it herself. I watched her stutter at the finish line and turn back, clearly frustrated, to return to her handler. I watched it again. I slowed it down. I zoomed in. I froze the action. By this time Miles had returned and I called him over.
“Look at this,” I said.
“Honey, no offense, but I’ve seen it.”
“No, seriously, look.” He bent to look over my shoulder, and I made him watch the last few frames of the video in slow motion and then froze it at the point at which Flame was almost to the finish line and Neil, half turned from the camera, extended two fingers down toward the ground. “I saw him make that same hand signal this afternoon, and Flame came right to heel. Ginny said all his dogs are trained to hand signals, that’s how he can send them around the course without saying a word—as long as they can see him, of course. So when he fell, he started calling the commands—but he never told her to take the last two jumps. She was trying to do that on her own, until she made the turn at the last jump and he was suddenly in her line of sight again. Then, here…” I pointed. “He called her back with a hand signal no one could hear.” I frowned. “That must be what Marcie meant when she said, ‘I saw what you did.’ And why she was so mad—apparently they have some kind of contract about the dogs, and she was claiming he was in violation. But why in the world would he do that? Flame is partly his dog, too.”
“Easy,” Miles said, straightening. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“Didn’t you just say he co-owns that dog? That means he has to split any winnings on it fifty-fifty.”
I scowled, not because his theory didn’t make sense, but because it did.
“Their contract probably calls for due diligence,” Miles added, “so he couldn’t refuse to handle the dog and do his best to win—or at least make it look that way.”
“But if he doesn’t go to the Standard Cup, he doesn’t get the money, either,” I pointed out.
“You’d be surprised what a man will do to screw his ex out of alimony,” replied the man who’d been divorced three times.
Apparently I couldn’t keep the suspicion out of my eyes because he held up a quick hand in self-defense. “Present company excepted, of course.”
Then he said, “Listen, hon, as much as I’m enjoying it, I’m going to have to cut out on this shindig a little early. I’m meeting one of my architects back on Edisto at four and it’s an hour drive. Do you need any help packing up this stuff before I go?”
I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “I have another run today!”
“I know, and I can’t wait to hear about it. I know you’ll kick butt.”
I stood and watched him fold up his camp chair and gather his cap and sunglasses. Cisco, sensing something interesting was about to happen, lifted his head from his bone alertly. “So is that why you came here?” I accused skeptically. “To meet with your architect?”
“Of course not. I came to be with you. And,” he confessed because he was, for the most part, an exasperatingly honest man, “to meet with my architect.”
Miles and I have a fairly casual relationship. Monogamous, but casual in the sense that I don’t keep tabs on him and he doesn’t keep tabs on me. His home base is Atlanta; mine is North Carolina. He flies to Dubai for the weekend and I pack up the SUV for a three-day dog show and neither of us feels the need to inform the other of our plans unless it comes up in conversation. I like it that way. I certainly didn’t expect him to check with me before he went on a business trip. Still…
“What’s in Edisto anyway?”
“A beachfront condo project.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Miles! When are you ever going to stop pillaging the environment and improving on nature with a bulldozer?” And even though I wasn’t really surprised, I was a little disappointed to learn he hadn’t made the trip just to support me at the agility trial. That probably made my tone grumpier than it should have been.
“I’m not pillaging,” he replied mildly, glancing one last time at the screen of his phone. “In fact, this is an award-winning eco-friendly design.”
“Oh, I’m sure the sea turtles appreciate that. Not to mention all the residents who can’t wait to see their beach turned into a tourist trap.”
“Hate to tell you, hon, but it already is. There are more condos on that beach than seashells, and mine is the only one that’s moving toward a negative environmental impact.”
I really didn’t enjoy being outmaneuvered in my own area of expertise. I glared at him. “There is such a thing as ‘greenwashing,’ you know.”
“I sure do. There’s a ton of federal money available for it. ”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miles.” Exasperation was exactly what I felt for him at that moment. “Is work the only thing you know how to do? Don’t you ever play?”
“Absolutely.” He took out his keys and snagged a mini bag of cheese puffs from my snack collection, presumably for the drive. “Eighteen holes every Tuesday and Thursday, weather permitting.”
“Will you be back tonight?”
“Probably not,” he admitted. “It depends on how long the meeting runs. Enjoy dinner with your friends. It’s on me.”
“You’d better believe it,” I muttered, hiding my disappointment with a scowl. Now I knew why
he’d been so quick to suggest I have dinner with Aggie. But if I’d known he wasn’t going to be there, I really would have preferred room service.
He came forward and kissed me, gently but thoroughly, then tilted my chin with his index finger and smiled into my eyes. “See you tomorrow, okay?”
By now you’re probably wondering just what I see in Miles, anyway. Perhaps I’ve failed to mention his eyes. And his smile. And there’s that whole kissing thing.
I was just about to forgive him and send him on his way when there was a commotion outside. Cisco stood up, ears forward, and barked. I glanced toward the door just as a black-and-white blur streaked by, and I heard the most dreaded words of any dog show: “Loose dog!”
The echo hadn’t even faded before my own dog scrambled past me, barking gleefully, and sailed over the gate.
~*~
SIX
Twenty-one hours, thirty-two minutes before the shooting
The only thing faster than a border collie at an agility trial is a runaway border collie at an agility trial. Cisco on a mission might run a close second. That being said, the entire thing was over in a matter of seconds.
I bolted to the gate and stumbled through, shouting for Cisco, just in time to see my champion careening after the border collie, his ears slicked back and his golden tail whirling, a grin of pure delight on his face. They raced down the corridor that divided the livestock barn and out into the sunshine, a chorus of barking following them. A dozen curious heads appeared from within the stalls as the two burst from the barn and made a beeline toward the open field. Along the way, others took up the chorus, “Loose dog! Loose dog!”
As everyone knows, the worst thing you can do when your dog is running away is to chase him. A dog being chased only runs faster, delighted with the opportunity to prove once again to all concerned that nothing on two legs will ever match the speed of a canine on four. Nonetheless, when your dog is headed toward the horizon at the speed of light, it’s almost impossible not to run after him, so run is what I did.
I reached the outside of the barn just as Miles called, “Raine, catch!”
I spun around and snatched the bag of cheese puffs he tossed from the air. I called, “Cisco, here!” and snapped open the bag in the same moment.
Cisco had to be fifty yards away, but, like most dogs, he can hear the opening of a treat bag from the other side of the continent. He stopped, turned, pricked his ears, and raced back to me, the little border collie tearing along beside him. They were in full-out play mode now and were not about to break up the team.
From out of the corner of my eye I saw someone jogging in my direction and I heard her call out, but I was entirely too focused on my dog to pay much attention. Cisco galloped toward me, his eyes on the bag of cheese puffs and the border-collie zigzagging at his side, when I heard a woman call, “Bryte, come!” The border collie veered off and Cisco’s head turned in her direction. I called, “Cisco, no!” and he swung back. The two dogs collided, rolled in the dust, and bounced up again just as the woman plowed into the fray, moving too fast to stop. She went down in a tangle of arms and legs and paws and tails.
You might think the proper thing to do in a situation like that would be to rush to help the fallen, but if I had done that I would have lost both dogs again. So I mustered my most commanding voice, said again, “Cisco, here,” and plunged my hand into the bag of cheese puffs. Both dogs skidded to a stop in front of me.
“Hold on to her!” cried the woman, stumbling to her feet.
I slipped the leash that I keep perpetually draped around my shoulders over Cisco’s neck and plied both dogs with cheese treats and praise while the woman hurried toward us. I glanced at her long enough to inquire, “Are you okay?” and I saw it was Neil Kellog’s girlfriend, Marcie.
Her white shorts were covered in dust and dog slobber and her tee shirt was ripped from collar to hem, apparently the victim of a careless dog claw. She held the remnants closed with one hand, barely covering her satiny bra, as she grasped Bryte’s ruff with the other.
“Thank God you caught her,” she said, gasping. “This is Neil’s dog. I was putting her back in her crate when she took off. She never would listen to me. He’d kill me if anything happened to her.”
This was a far different woman than the one I’d seen arguing with Neil earlier, and the fact that she seemed inclined to overlook Cisco’s part in the fiasco—as well as her own bleeding knee—made me more disposed to like her than I had been earlier. I noticed Bryte wasn’t wearing a collar, and I said, “Hold on. I’ve got a spare leash.”
I took Cisco back to our stall and zipped him securely inside his crate. “This is starting to look more like the roller derby than a dog show,” observed Miles as I dug through my bag for a first aid kit and spare leash.
“I just hope she doesn’t realize it was Cisco who tripped her,” I muttered in reply. I grabbed my spare sweatshirt from the bag and ran back out to Marcie.
“Here,” I said, offering her the sweatshirt. “Yours is kind of…” I made a fluttering gesture across my chest to indicate the scraps of her tee shirt that remained.
She looked up from dropping the loop leash over Bryte’s neck and seemed surprised at the extent of the damage as she glanced down at her clothes. “Oh,” she said, once again pulling the pieces together with one hand. She accepted the sweatshirt and transferred Bryte’s leash to me. “That’s nice of you…”
“Raine,” I supplied. “Raine Stockton.”
“I’m Marcie Wilbanks. Thanks,” she added, “for catching Bryte. And for this.” She managed a quick, if weak, smile as she nodded toward the sweatshirt.
“I brought these too.” I held out a package of antiseptic wipes. “You should probably take care of that knee.”
She turned away to pull on the sweatshirt and clean her injured knee, and I took advantage of the moment to slip my phone out of my pocket and snap a photo of myself with Bryte. I tapped out the caption, “Here I am with National Champion Bryte!” and sent it on to Facebook. Melanie would get a kick out of that.
“What the hell are you doing with my dog?”
I barely had time to get to my feet and stuff my phone back into my pocket before Neil Kellog snatched Bryte’s leash from my hand with such abruptness that the dog’s two front feet left the ground as he jerked her to his side. “Hey!” I objected. “There’s no need for that!”
“Calm down, Neil.” Marcie came forward quickly. “She’s okay. She got out of her crate and went for a run, but this girl caught her. You should be thanking her—”
Neil turned on her. His face was red and his eyes were snapping furiously. “So this is your game now? Stealing my dog? Do you really want to play by those rules, Marcie? Do you?”
“Are you crazy? Nobody tried to steal your dog!”
“Yeah, I’m crazy all right! Crazy for thinking I could trust you with her. The minute my back was turned—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Neil, it was an accident! If you hadn’t trained her with that cockeyed method of yours, she would’ve come when I called her and—”
“I’ll show you accidents, Marcie.” He took a step toward her that couldn’t be construed as anything but threatening. I could see the veins on the side of his neck bulging. “If you ever touch my dog again, you can look forward to an accident that will take you weeks to get over.”
I said, trying to sound reasonable, “Listen, any dog can get loose. The important thing is—”
He turned on me. The color of his face and the fire in his eyes actually made me shrink back. “Who the hell are you?” He was in my face, practically roaring at me. I threw up an instinctive hand in self-defense. “You need to stay out of this if you know what’s good for you!”
“For the love of Pete, will you lower your voice?” Marcie caught his arm and he flung her away. She stumbled back.
“Everything okay here?” A hand fell lightly upon my shoulder, the touch casual, the gesture unmistakably protective
. And though Miles’s tone was mild, I didn’t have to turn to look at him to feel the steel in his eyes. I’d seen that look before, and I could see it now in the way that Neil, subduing the blaze of anger in his face, looked away and scowled. I could see it in the breath of relief that passed through Marcie’s parted lips. And I could hear it in Neil’s tightly muttered, “I’m taking Bryte home.” He turned on his heel and strode away with Bryte prancing to keep up.
Alarm flashed in Marcie’s face. “You can’t do that!” She ran after him. “Stop right there! That’s not our agreement!”
I blew out a long, slow breath and turned to look at Miles. I felt as though I should apologize on behalf of the AKC—he was, after all, a guest of the sport—but I honestly didn’t know what to say. He said it for me.
“Roller derby,” he repeated. He squeezed my shoulder and added, “Do me a favor and stay out of that guy’s way, okay? I don’t like the way his eyes were spinning around in his head.”
I shrugged uneasily. “Some people get a little carried away when it comes to their dogs.”
He pretended surprise. “You don’t say.” Then he winked and tugged my ponytail. “Okay, I’m outta here. Text me your score.”
“Time,” I corrected him. “In agility, it’s time.”
“Right.”
I couldn’t help smiling as I tiptoed to brush a kiss across his lips. “Thanks for coming, Miles,” I said, because, as my mother always said, you should never fail to reward the effort. “That was nice of you. It showed real character.”
“Hey, I’m all about character.” His eyes danced with amusement and he cupped my neck lightly as he turned to go. “Run fast.” His phone rang and he took it out, glancing at the screen. “Love you, babe,” he said, and blew me a kiss just before he punched a button and said into the phone, “Yeah, I’m on my way.”