The Best Next Thing

She didn’t know what to say to that…no wait, she did know what to say to that, but chose to keep her own counsel for now. Instead, she met the puppy’s gaze. The little dog was snuggled against his chest, wrapped in the ruined towel, and only the three black dots of her eyes and wet nose were visible. She was no longer shivering and looked quite smug in her contentment.

“We can discuss this after you’ve taken care of the dog. I have to finish dinner.”

She turned away before he could say anything more and returned to the kitchen. His words kept bouncing around in her head. They felt ominous, threatening…more oppressive than the storm raging away outside. Where would she stay if he decided to close the house for winter? If he meant for her to check on it once a week, he must intend for her to remain close by. The closest populated area was Riversend. Charity didn’t want to live in Riversend. She didn’t want to live close to anyone. She liked it here. This was her home. She felt safe here.

And what about Amos? He had plans to retire back to the Eastern Cape eventually, but for now he was happy and content to live and work here. Closing up the house for winter would force Amos to retire earlier than he wanted to.

She was chopping onions for a ragout, and her vision was so blurred—from the onions, of course—that she could barely see what she was doing. She stopped, afraid of cutting her fingers, and took a moment to compose herself.

This wasn’t her home. George and Amos weren’t her family. This was his house. And they all worked for him. She had fooled herself, for three years…fooled herself into thinking of this place as a safe haven. But she should never have stayed this long. She had never meant to stay for years. She had come here at the lowest point in her life…and she had developed this persona. This Mrs. Cole: ageless, sexless, efficient, invisible. Mrs. Cole had made her feel safe. And Charity had stayed. And had refused to listen to the gnawing voice in the back of her head. The one that told her that she should move on, move out…heal.

But she had stagnated here and had become invisible, and unrecognizable, even to herself.

And now—faced with the very real, very alarming prospect of having to leave—she found herself feeling terrified. Alone.

Hunted.

She placed her palms flat on the marble surface of the kitchen counter and lowered her head as she fought to regulate her breathing.

Snap out of it, Charity!

One deep cleansing inhalation of breath, a slow count to ten, and a gradual release of the air in her lungs, and she felt better.

Centered.

Nothing was decided. It had been mentioned in passing. Almost impulsively. Everything was going to be fine.

“Something smells good.”

The dark, masculine voice, coming so unexpectedly from behind her, nearly an hour later, disconcerted Charity. But she managed to curb her immediate fight or flight instinct in response to being startled. She braced her shoulders, forced all expression from her features, and turned to face him.

He had stepped into the kitchen, puppy tucked into the crook of his arms. The sight of the dog brought a quick, involuntary smile to her lips.

“Oh, that’s clever,” Charity said. He had used some of his legendary ingenuity to fashion a sweater for the dog out of one of his tube socks. He had cut a hole into the toe of the sock and two others below that for her head and front legs. The sock was very roomy on the tiny pup.

“Perhaps one of my socks would be a better fit,” Charity suggested, and his gaze dipped to her sensibly shod feet.

“If you wouldn’t mind donating a pair to the cause, that would be much appreciated.” He lifted the snoozing puppy slightly. “She cleans up rather nicely, wouldn’t you say?”

No. Charity wouldn’t say. Not at all.

The puppy wouldn’t be bringing home any beauty prizes. The bath hadn’t improved the nondescript brown of her partly wiry, partly fluffy coat…But she was adorable in the way all dogs were, with the earnest pleading eyes and the sweet expression and the hopeful wag of her fluffy tail. She appeared to have some Yorkie, Chihuahua, and Maltese poodle in her, and Charity doubted she’d get much bigger. Considering her tiny size right now, it was a miracle she had survived out in this weather for so long.

“I wonder if her mother and siblings are out there,” Charity mused. She hoped that if they were out there, they had found some decent shelter to weather this storm.

Miles—damn it! She was just going to consider him as such in the privacy of her thoughts—looked horrified at the notion and took a step toward the back door. Recognizing his intention, she stepped in front of him and shook her head.