It's Never too Late

Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Oliver promised himself he’d call Brent tomorrow. He surveyed the garden, looking for Strudel before he headed into the house. He frowned when he saw her doing the doggy meet-and-greet routine with the neighbor’s dachshund.

“How did you get over here?” He glanced at the fence that separated the two properties. It was silver with age, but it looked solid enough. Obviously there must be a hole somewhere.

“Strudel. Come here, girl. Come here.”

His normally obedient schnauzer didn’t so much as glance in his general direction. She was too busy canoodling with her new best friend, sniffing and dancing around an

d generally being coy.

Oliver went after her, scanning the fence line as he walked. Sure enough, he found a half-rotted board and a hole that was sufficiently large for a determined dachshund to gain entrance.

“Party’s over, buddy.” He reached down to scoop up the dachshund. The dog wriggled desperately, but Oliver kept a tight grip, only releasing him when he’d arrived at the fence. He squatted, pointed the dog at the hole and stood guard until the sausage dog had wiggled into his own yard. There were a few loose bricks in the garden bed nearby and Oliver used them to build a blockade. He’d patch the hole properly later, but the makeshift barrier should keep Romeo out in the interim.

He returned to the house and did a thorough tour of each room, making notes on the work that needed to be done. He’d reached the kitchen when he realized Strudel had disappeared. He checked the living room, sure he’d find her making herself at home on the overstuffed couch. She wasn’t there, however.

He glanced outside as he returned to the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the dachshund planted at the bottom of the exterior steps.

Bloody hell. Houdini had done it again.

He found Strudel sitting at the door, gaze fixed longingly on the handle, almost as though she was willing it to turn. He had no idea how she knew that her furry friend had come calling, but clearly she did.

“You can do much better, girl,” he said. “He’s way too short for you.”

He went outside, Strudel hard on his heels. He watched in bemusement as the two dogs greeted each other with what he could only describe as the canine equivalent of a twenty-one-gun salute. Didn’t seem to matter that they’d seen each other less than an hour ago.

“Okay. Hate to break it up, but Houdini has to go home.”

He picked up the dachshund and carried him to the hole in the fence. To his surprise, the barricade was still intact. He followed the fence farther into the garden, squirming hound under his arm

By the time he’d reached the rear of the property he’d found another three holes, which made the dachshund more of an opportunist than an escape artist. Oliver considered the problem for a few seconds, but he really couldn’t see any alternative to biting the bullet and paying his not-very-neighborly neighbor another visit. She needed to be made aware of the issues with their shared boundary. As tempting as it was to simply attach a note to her dog’s collar and send him through one of the many holes in the fence, Oliver figured the news would probably be better received in person.

He ushered the interloper inside and clipped Strudel’s lead onto his collar. He had to practically drag the dachshund out the door, however, and he could hear Strudel whining beseechingly as he crossed to Mackenzie’s driveway. He knocked on her door, then looked down. The dog was staring up at him with sad eyes, the picture of abject misery.

“Yeah, yeah, your life is hell. I get it.”

He could hear footsteps inside the house. He braced himself for more rudeness. Mackenzie opened the door and stared at first him, then the dachshund.

“Why do you have my dog?” she asked, a frown furrowing her brow.

“Because he was in my yard. Twice. The fence between our properties is riddled with holes.”

She crouched, one hand reaching for the door frame for balance.

“Mr. Smith, what have you been up to? Have you been out making new friends?” Her tone was warm, even a little indulgent.

She knelt, rubbing the dog beneath his chin. Oliver stared at her down-turned head, noticing something through her dark, clipped hair. A white, shiny line sliced across her scalp along the side of her skull, then curled toward the front just inside her hairline.

A scar.

A pretty wicked, serious one by the looks of it.

She glanced at him. “Thanks for bringing him back.”

She wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup. Her skin was very fair and her long, dark eyelashes stood out in dramatic contrast to her piercing blue eyes.

She unclipped the leash, then straightened. Maybe he was looking for it after seeing the scar, but it seemed to him the move wasn’t anywhere near as easy and casual as she’d like him to think. He reminded himself of the reason he was here—and it wasn’t to ferret out her secrets.

“We need to do something about the fence,” he said.