For the first time in her life, Catriona stood up to her mother. She’d threatened to pitch a very embarrassing fit in the lobby full of people who would undoubtedly gossip. She would make sure everyone knew her mom, Vivian Whittier, was a puppy killer.
Her mom had ground her teeth but relented. Vivian had valued nothing more than her reputation as a philanthropist. So Vivian—Vivie—had changed tactics quickly, set up treatment for the puppies with instructions to arrange for them to go to a rescue, for a hefty donation. Her mom promised to go shopping for a pedigreed pooch that afternoon.
But Catriona wasn’t budging.
The thought of giving up the two pups snapped a switch inside her she’d never expected. She was willing to bargain with the devil for those babies.
Worse. She was willing to bargain with Vivian.
Catriona had promised to attend the blasted cotillion classes. She would even try to fit in there and date boys her mom picked out.
If she could just keep the puppies.
Frisbee, the fighter, the spunky little protector, didn’t make it. Parvovirus had sapped the life from her already parasite-riddled body. But the little guy, Freckles, the shy pup that peed when you looked at him?
He made it.
And with him, Catriona had found her mission.
Her fingers worked automatically over Tabitha’s head, soothing, until her heart rate slowed and her mind cleared enough to tune in again to Brandon’s voice.
“Hey, Rachel, when you get this message, give me a call or Catriona, either of us. We just need to know you’re okay.” He disconnected.
“Still no answer?”
He shook his head. “Afraid not.”
A vein throbbed in his temple. Faster and faster still. The strain on his face, in his eyes, was worse than anything requiring an inhaler.
“She’s okay.” She touched his arm again. Thick corded muscles twitched and bunched under her fingertips, but she didn’t pull away. “I’m sure of it.”
“You can relax.” He half smiled. “I’m not going to fall apart in the middle of your yard. I’m just honest to God concerned.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. How should she answer a person who joked about… what? PTSD, maybe? That would be the main reason a military guy would seek out a therapy dog, if they didn’t have a visible physical injury. But Brandon didn’t look how she would have expected a person suffering from combat stress to appear.
He was buff and tan. He cracked jokes. She would have expected him to be antisocial. Gruff.
But not open this way. Vulnerable, even. There were most definitely shadows in his expression and dark smudges under his eyes that made her want to pull his head to rest in her lap and stroke his thick, dark hair.
“I know, but still, you’re worried and so am I. I know I said it before, but I keep reminding myself, paid for a week in advance.”
He hitched his hands on his narrow hips. “Chances are slim she’s hanging out at her place, knitting dog booties. And she does deserve to get away after the hours she’s put in lately. Maybe she’s tucked away with some guy having the time of her life.”
God, he was hot. “But you’re still worried.” Which made him ever hotter. But was he worried about Rachel being on a date? “Uh, why are you looking for her?”
“Why do you ask?”
Because… she was jealous? And how pathetic was that? Still she pushed, “From where I’m standing, you’re more than concerned. You look really worried. Not that I’m diminishing how upset she’ll be over losing her stuff, but her dogs are safe here, and thank God she decided to step away for the day. Right? So all’s chill in the big scheme of things, as long as no one got hurt.”
He seemed to weigh his words carefully. “There’s a little more going on here than that. Rachel thought she had some kind of stalker. She reported it to the cops, but there wasn’t anything they could do.”
Catriona gasped. “You think someone actually set that fire on purpose?”
“It’s a distinct possibility.”
“Then we should call the police. Now.” She lifted her cell phone, ready to report… what? She wasn’t sure exactly, but someone should at least tip them off.
“I’ll handle it.” He gripped her hand.