She glanced over to Clarence, trying to steady herself.
“It’s okay,” she replied shakily.
The man’s sharp gaze ran over her briefly. He’s part of Latimer’s security staff, Harper immediately knew. Apparently, Clarence found nothing alarming about her appearance. He was likely used to seeing Latimer around the property in the presence of a female.
“Off to the doghouse, sir?” Clarence asked pleasantly.
“Yeah,” Latimer replied. Harper jumped slightly when his hand enclosed hers. She gave a disgusted, frustrated sigh at her show of nerves. “Night, Clarence.”
“Good night, sir. Miss.”
“Night,” Harper managed despite her breathlessness. Latimer tugged slightly on her hand and she moved up next to him. As they continued down the dimly lit path, now side by side, she saw that he peered over at her.
“Are you okay?”
She blinked. A feeling of uneasiness went through her that she couldn’t comprehend, a feeling like déjà vu . . . or dreaming of another person’s life.
“Believe it or not, most people aren’t used to having men hiding in the shadows next to where they’re walking,” she said, injecting some humor into her voice to minimize her sense of the surreal and her embarrassment.
“No. I suppose you’re right.”
A building was suddenly in front of them. Latimer released her hand and placed his forefinger on a lit keypad to the right of the door. It appeared to be a fingerprint scanner.
“Where are we?” she wondered when she heard the snick of a lock releasing.
“The doghouse.”
He took her hand again and drew her over the threshold. Harper was aware of a scurrying sound and some barks. Latimer flipped on a light.
“Oh, shit.”
A dozen or more canines were in various stages of racing to the door to greet them. Flopping ears, bounding paws, gleaming coats of various colors, and wagging tails abounded. She recognized Charger at the forefront of the onslaught, galloping toward them with a fury. Harper’s heart lunged in a prequel to panic. She was sure she was going to be knocked over by Charger’s weight, but Latimer put out his hand, palm down, and not only Charger, but the rest of the dogs, pulled up short, jumping and prancing around them, yelping and barking. Not one of them touched her or Latimer. Her heart still pounded in surprised alarm, but then she noticed something that distracted her.
“Oh no,” she said.
A black puppy had stumbled amidst the stampede and struggled to get up. She waded through the canine sea, forgetting her momentary fear. She knelt, righting the puppy on his feet. Not four feet.
Three.
“What happened to him?” Despite the lack of one paw, the puppy seemed healthy enough, turning his head to lick at her hand shyly. Reacting instinctively, she lifted the pup to her mouth and kissed his smooth head before setting him back on the floor again.
“His foot was amputated,” Latimer said from behind and above her.
“Was he sick, or injured?” Harper wondered, petting the wiggling puppy.
“No. He was tortured.”
Harper turned her head and gaped up at Latimer, horror slinking into her awareness. “You mean . . . someone cut off his foot just to . . . do it?”
“That’s right. He and his brothers and sisters were found locked in a stifling hot barn just south of Genoa. They’d all been tortured. Two of them were dead when they were found, and the other three—including Milo there—were brought in to the shelter. Two of the puppies died in the vet’s office from the effects of open wounds and extreme dehydration. Milo was the sole survivor of all his siblings.”
Sobered and chilled, Harper turned back to the puppy. She scooped him into her arms and stood, caressing Milo all the while. For the first time, she actually looked around the large, comfortable room. Several dogs hadn’t joined Charger’s rambunctious run to greet them at the door. They lay on cushy-looking dog beds and regarded them with sharp interest and perked-up ears. Given some of the white around their maws, Harper thought they were the older dogs.
“Oh. Not a doghouse. You meant a house for the dogs,” she said, comprehension dawning. Because that’s what this was. The building was a small home. Her gaze traveled over a pair of glass doors, one of which included an opening with a flap that presumably led outside. There was a well-appointed kitchen in the distance.
“I guess so,” Latimer said. “There’s a vet’s office down the hall for doctor’s visits, and they have a caretaker-trainer during the day. But they’re on their own most of the time. They have a nice patch of woods out back, where they can roam.”
She turned to him slowly, her fingers caressing the smooth head of the puppy.