by Mara Wells
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by Marjetta Geerling
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Stephanie Gafron/Sourcebooks
Cover images © Mangostar/Shutterstock, Chelle129/Shutterstock, cynoclub/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
With love to my husband, Michael Crumpton, for understanding that sometimes cleaning out the garage is important to the artistic process. Trust. Patience. Love. Twenty-one years later, we’re still lucky in love.
Chapter 1
“Oh, Dad, it’s so much worse than the trainer led us to believe.” Danielle Morrow swept her chin-length bangs behind her ear and placed her hand on the heaving side of her newest foster dog—a retired racing greyhound with a broken leg the unethical trainer had claimed was from an accident while racing. Spiral fractures in various stages of healing, like the ones in the X-ray hung on the light box on the wall, showed the trainer had lied. Fractures like these only came from one thing—abuse.
“Good thing the whole nasty sport has finally been outlawed in Florida.” Danielle’s dad adjusted the reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and stared intently at the X-ray. After thirty years running his own veterinary clinic, Dr. Morrow was no stranger to the cruelty inflicted on animals, but he treated each case as a fresh outrage. His jaw clenched, and he ran a palm over his completely bald scalp. “Hopefully, these types of injuries will soon be a thing of the past.”
“Hopefully.” Danielle didn’t share her father’s unrelenting belief in a brighter future, not for animals and not for herself. But she was happy to be where she was at this moment—by her father’s side helping a four-legged friend in need. When she’d seen this six-year-old on the Miami shelter’s website and read the comments left by his supposedly heartbroken trainer, she knew he was perfect for their father-daughter approach to fostering. Her dad got the dogs healthy, and she trained them for life in a home.
If she’d once imagined working side by side with her father with her own veterinary medicine degree, well, that time was long past. Her own job, heading up Homestretch, a greyhound rescue group, kept her busy, too busy to worry about what might have been. All her worrying centered around finding these forty-mile-per-hour couch potatoes their perfect forever homes.
No doubt about it. The poor dog on the table, currently sedated, was going to be a challenge. Medical conditions and age posed obstacles to easy adoption, and this poor guy had both working against him. But he was gorgeous, long and lean like all racers, dark-gray brindle with a white chest and socks that made him look a little bit goofy.
“Might as well do his teeth while he’s under.” Danielle’s dad broke out the necessary equipment and got to work irrigating. Care had not been the top priority wherever this dog had been held since Florida shut down the racetracks. Plaque-encrusted teeth, underfed, and the fractured leg—clearly not the dog’s first—that had gotten infected, swollen, and painful to the touch.
Poor guy. Danielle’s brown eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t help it. No matter how many dogs she saved, it was never enough. There were always more, and if she thought too much about how many greyhounds had been put down after dog racing was banned and how many more were put down in shelters every day, she’d be unable to function. So she did what she did, one dog at a time.
She assisted her dad with the cleaning, like she’d been doing since she was shorter than the examining table, handing him tools as he asked for them, keeping her hand on the dog’s side to comfort him. And herself. There was nothing more reassuring than the steady rise and fall of a dog’s breath. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered to the dog.
“What’re you going to name this one?” Her dad removed the brace that kept the dog’s mouth open in a ferocious grin that exposed every tooth.
Danielle stroked the greyhound’s warm side. “I don’t know. It’ll come to me, though, once we get to know each other better.”
Her dad busied himself cleaning up from the procedure, wiping down tools and placing them in their portable containers. “He’s lucky to have you, pumpkin.”
Danielle winced at her childhood nickname, which always reminded her that at a mere two inches over five feet, she’d never grown out of her baby fat. A little rounder than she’d like to be, in spite of her daily long walks with her two failed fosters, Danielle had long resigned herself to the curvy category of online shopping.
And boy was she happy that the fosters failed, because Luna and Flurry were the best roommates—cheerful, encouraging frequent exercise, and an excellent home security system. They might not love adding a third to their tight partnership, but Danielle knew they’d adjust quickly. They really were the sweetest girls, and this tough guy on the table could use a little of that sweetness.
“I’m sorry, honey.” Her dad reacted to her wince with an apologetic grimace of his own. “I forget how much you hate that nickname. It’s just when you were a baby, you were such a cute little butterball.”
; “Could be worse.” Danielle smiled at her dad. She could forgive him anything after all the unconditional support he’d given her, especially during the rough years right after high school. “You could be calling me butterball.”
Her dad ran a hand over the dog’s protruding ribs. “Maybe we should call this one Butterball.”
Danielle shook her head. She’d know the dog’s name when she heard it, and Butterball was definitely not it.
Just then, the dog raised its narrow muzzle, forcing open eyelids that wanted to stay closed. He struggled to roll to his feet. The task was compounded by both the sedative that wasn’t fully worn off and the pain from his injured leg.
“Relax, big guy. You’ll feel like yourself again soon.” Danielle tried to soothe him, but he shook off her touch, determined to stand on his own.
“We better help him.” Danielle’s dad motioned for her to assist him in lifting the dog off the table. “He’s going to be surprised by the cast. It’ll take a minute for him to get his bearings.”
Toes scrabbling on the epoxy floor, the greyhound watched them warily, hackles raised. He backed up, then whipped his head around to look at the hind leg, set in a bandage cast. He growled low in his throat, putting more weight on it. When his legs went out, Danielle was there to catch him.
“You’re okay now. I promise, life is about to get a whole lot better.”
He snarled at her, curling one lip to show a freshly cleaned tooth. Careful to avoid his mouth, Danielle eased him to the floor. Lying on his side, he growled one last time before giving in to the sedative and closing his eyes.
“He’s a fighter that one, a real soldier.” Danielle’s dad sprayed disinfectant on the table and rubbed it down with a paper towel.
Danielle smiled, hand trapped between the dog’s side and the floor. She shifted until she was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out the length of the greyhound. “You’re right, Dad. Let’s call him Sarge. What do you think, Sarge? Is that what we should call you?”
Sarge’s ears twitched at the sound of the name.
Danielle laughed. “I think he approves.”
“It’s a good pick for this one. He’s a trouper.” Danielle’s dad squatted to give the dog a pat. “Want some help crating him?”
“I’ll wait until he wakes up.” Danielle stroked a hand down Sarge’s back, counting the bumps on his spine and planning what dietary supplements would help speed his healing and fatten him up a bit. Not that greyhounds ever got fat, but he shouldn’t have more than three spinal bumps visible, not the eight currently protruding from his back.
Danielle’s dad patted her head. “He’s lucky to have you.”
“We’re lucky to have each other.”
* * *
Best man? Ridiculous. Knox Donovan suppressed a groan and rubbed the area above his leg brace, encouraging the tight muscle to calm the hell down already. Per usual, it did not listen to him, damn insubordinate thing. If only his own body listened to him the way Marines under his command had, his life would be a lot easier. But no one was under his command, not anymore.
Instead, he was stuck in an upscale bridal store getting fitted for a light-gray tuxedo. Until a year ago, he’d barely known his youngest brother, Caleb, and now he was the best man at his wedding? Unbelievable. Of course, he was sharing the so-called honor with his other brother, Lance, also standing on a raised platform in gray, stoic as the tailor got up in his business.
“You should just go to the courthouse like Carrie and I did.” Lance winced when a pin got a little too close to his junk. Knox had thought Lance remarrying his ex was a big mistake, but so far, they seemed happy. Deliriously, sickeningly so.
“No way.” Caleb grinned at his brother. “Riley’s been working on this wedding forever. Forget disappointing Riley, her Grams would kill us if we backed out of this extravaganza. Sorry, brothers. This is how it is.”
Caleb, of course, looked comfortable in his lightweight suit in a slightly darker gray than the groomsmen’s outfits. Knox plucked at the too-tight seam holding his tuxedo’s sleeve to the shoulder and sighed. Maybe he’d get to use this suit twice. After all, his grandfather was engaged to his ex-first-wife, a wedding in the works that would be twice as elaborate and twice as expensive as Caleb’s.
All this focus on exes and weddings made Knox itchy in a way that couldn’t be scratched. He’d been back in Miami Beach for over a year and still hadn’t seen Danielle, his high-school sweetheart. The girl he’d left for the Marines, the girl he’d never quite gotten out of his mind, the girl he deliberately refused to look up. The past should stay in the past. But he’d really thought with all the people they had in common—his grandfather who’d adopted one of her foster dogs, for one—that they’d have crossed paths by now.
Perhaps it was because he still felt as much a stranger as when he’d arrived. His real home was the Marines, but they didn’t want him anymore. Medically separated. The words choked him. The memories haunted him in his sleep. His unit was still deployed, and it killed him not to be out there with them.
Sure, his brothers had welcomed him, given him meaningful work, made him partner in their crazy scheme to renovate a gone-to-hell, fifty-five-plus retirement building into a desirable property, and he supposed that when he was around them, things were better. But he still spent his nights alone in the studio apartment he’d rented just over the causeway in Little Haiti. He lived with the hope that all the physical therapy appointments at the VA would result in a miracle. No doctor agreed with him, but he wasn’t ready to admit his time in the Marines was over for good.
“Sir?” The tailor, an older man with a carefully groomed mustache straight out of a black-and-white movie, indicated that Knox should place his feet wider for easier access to the inseam.
Knox gritted his teeth and spread ’em. He’d lived through an exploding IED. He could handle a few hours getting suited up for his little brother. When this was over, though, Caleb owed him a beer. Or two. Knox pictured the bottle, frosted and cold, and waited for the sartorial torture to end.
Chapter 2
The grand opening of Fur Haven Dog Park would be an excellent opportunity to scout potential forever homes for the many dogs Homestretch volunteers fostered, including her beloved but still reluctant Sarge. Danielle had placed three dogs at the last Fur Haven event, but that was almost a year and a half ago. In that time, she’d seen Fur Haven transformed by the Donovan brothers, had even caught glimpses of both Caleb and Lance, but never Knox. Never the Donovan brother she was looking for, never the Donovan brother who’d broken her heart.
She hid the desire to see her high-school boyfriend deep down where she could pretend it didn’t exist. Instead, she kept her attention in the present, marveling at the changes wrought in such a short time. Fur Haven was no longer a dressed-up empty lot or the makeshift front lawn of the old Dorothy building. No, the Donovan brothers had built a two-story parking garage on the lot where the dog park used to exist, but that hadn’t been the end of the park. Instead, in some clever engineering, they’d moved the dog park to the top of the parking garage.
Like the whole neighborhood, Danielle was anxious to see the result. The Donovans had kept the parking garage roof closed until the grand opening, building up the suspense. Fur Haven had its own website where someone posted beautiful but cryptic photos of the new space to build hype. When Riley Carson contacted her about having a table at the grand opening, Danielle jumped at the chance. She didn’t like to leave dogs in foster homes for too long, worried about the separation anxiety that came when they settled in and then were asked to move again.
Now, Danielle straightened photos of the dogs available for adoption, beautiful greyhounds all of them. Retired racers and dogs used for breeding racers. So many still left to rehome. Danielle’d heard that some greyhound rescues rented vans and took groups of greyhounds out of state for adoption. Danielle was
n’t that desperate yet, but she could use the boost of placing a few dogs to brighten her week—and free up some fosters to take in new dogs.
Luna and Flurry lounged under the table, already at home in their new space. Danielle always brought them with her to events. They were excellent examples of what chill companions retired racers could be. They lumbered to their feet when visitors approached, eager for a scratch behind the ears and a leg to lean on. People were often surprised at how affectionate they were, and it warmed her heart to see Flurry and Luna take on the role of breed ambassadors.
Sarge’s hair bristled, but he didn’t growl.
“Easy, boy.” She praised him for his control with a scratch behind the ears. He’d come a long way from when she’d first brought him to her father’s veterinary clinic. It’d been about a month since her dad had operated on his leg, and although much of the damage was repaired, Sarge would always walk with a limp. The broken leg would remain weaker than the others. She could tell it bothered the dog. He licked the hair above the top of his cast a lot. When the leg would unexpectedly give out, he always turned his head and perked his ears at it, as if surprised.
Beside her now, his head reached nearly as high as her hip. She rested her hand on the dome of his crown, noting the anticipatory tremble in his muscles.
“Good, Sarge. Stand at attention but don’t engage. You’re always ready for action, aren’t you? But today you can relax and hang with me.” She’d brought him today for the crowd exposure, but she didn’t intend for him to leave her side. Luna and Flurry would handle charming people. Sarge’s job was to stay by her side and not show any signs of aggression. The martingale collar gave her control should he decide to lunge. Greyhounds were famous for slipping collars and leashes because of their long, thin heads, so the double loop was imperative to keeping the sight hounds close by.
Luna and Flurry knew who buttered their bread, or rather, baked the dog biscuits, so Danielle didn’t worry about them taking off. But she kept Sarge’s leash short, her leg always in contact with him. Danielle busied herself setting up the table. She reached into one of the many tote bags she’d brought with her and pulled out the individually wrapped dog treats she’d brought to entice people to her table. She placed them in a bone-shaped bowl and then laid out more swag—Frisbees and tennis balls with the rescue’s name.