Too Good to Be True

“Damn it!” I cursed. Turning around, I ran back into the house, grabbed a flashlight then ran back outside, into Callahan’s yard to avoid having to climb over the back fence in my own yard.

“Grace? Everything okay?” The back porch light came on. He was back.

“Angus is chasing a raccoon,” I blurted, running past the deck without stopping, tearing down Cal’s yard to the woods, my breath coming in gasps already. Visions of my adorable little dog with his eye torn out, with slash marks down his back, blood staining his white fur…Raccoons were fierce, and this one could very well tear up my little dog. It had looked much bigger than Angus.

“Angus!” I called, my voice high with fear. “Cookie, Angus! Cookie!”

My flashlight illuminated the raindrops and dripping branches of the state forest. As I crashed forward, twigs snapping in my face, a new fear lanced my stomach. The river. The Farmington River was a hundred yards away, full and dark from the spring rains and snow melt. It was more than strong enough to sweep away a small and not-very-bright dog.

Another light flashed next to mine. Callahan, wearing a slicker and Yankees cap, had caught up.

“Which way did he go?” he asked.

“Oh, Callahan, thank you,” I panted. “I don’t know. He went under the fence. He tunnels. I usually fill them in, but this time…I…I…” Sobs ratcheted out of me.

“Hey, come on. We’ll find him. Don’t worry, Grace.” Callahan slipped his arm around my shoulder, gave me a quick squeeze, then aimed his light overhead into the canopy branches.

“I don’t think he can climb, Cal,” I said wetly, rain and tears mixing on my face as I looked up.

Cal smiled. “The raccoon can, though. Maybe Angus treed him. If we find the raccoon, maybe we’ll find your little dog.”

Smart idea, but after five minutes of shining our flashlights into the branches, we had found neither the raccoon nor my dog. There was no sign of him, not that I was a tracker or anything. We were closer to the river now. That which had once sounded sweet and comforting now sounded menacing and cruel…the uncaring river rushing past, carrying anything along with it.

“So where have you been the past few days?” I asked Callahan, shining my light under a fallen branch. No Angus.

“Becky needed me to do a quick job down in Stamford,” he answered.

“Who’s Becky?”

“The blonde from the bar. She’s an old friend from high school. Works in real estate. That’s how I found this house.”

“You could’ve let me know you were going out of town,” I said, glancing at him. “I was worried.”

He smiled. “Next time I will.”

I called Angus again, whistled, clapped my hands. Nothing.

Then I heard a distant, sharp bark, followed by a yelp, that sickening surprised cry of pain. “Angus! Angus, buddy, where are you?” I called, tripping forward toward the direction of the cry. It came from upriver. In the river? I couldn’t tell.

It was hard to hear over the noise of the rain and flowing water. Images of Angus when I first bought him, a tiny ball of shivering, coconutty fluff…his bright eyes staring at me each morning, willing me to wake up…his funny little Super Dog pose…the way he slept on his back with his paws in the air, his crooked little bottom teeth showing. I was crying harder now. “Angus!” I kept calling, my voice harsh and scared.

We came to the edge of the river. Usually I thought it so beautiful, the rushing, silken water, the stones beneath, the flashes of white where the current collided with a rock or branch. Tonight, it was sinister and dark as a black snake. I guided my beam over the water, dreading the sight of a little white body being swept along.

“Oh, shit,” I sobbed.

“He probably wouldn’t go in,” Cal said soothingly, taking my hand. “He’s dumb, but he’s got some instincts, right?

He wouldn’t drown himself.”

“You don’t know Angus,” I wept. “He’s stubborn. When he wants something he just doesn’t stop.”

“Well, if he’s chasing the raccoon, the raccoon would have enough sense, then,” Cal said. “Come on. Let’s keep looking.”

We walked along the river, through the woods, farther and farther away from home, calling my dog’s name, promising treats. There were no more yelps, just the sound of the rain hissing through the leaves. I didn’t have socks on, and my feet were freezing inside my plastic gardening clogs, which were covered in mud. This was all my fault. He dug all the time. I knew this. Usually, I checked the fence line on weekends for just this reason. Today, I hadn’t. Today, I’d been dress shopping with stupid Natalie.

I didn’t want to picture life without my dog. Angus who slept on my bed after Andrew left me. Angus who needed me, waited for me, whose little head popped up in the living-room window each and every time I came home, overjoyed at the miracle of my very being. I’d lost him. I should’ve filled in that stupid hole, and I didn’t, and now he was gone.

I sucked in a ragged breath, tears, hot and endless, cutting down my rain-soaked face.

“There he is,” Cal said, shining his light.

He was right. About thirty yards west of the river, Angus stood next to a small house that, like mine, backed up to the state forest. He was sniffing a tipped over garbage can and looked up at the sound of my voice. His tail wagged, he barked once, then went back to investigating the trash.

“Angus!” I cried, lurching up the slight hill that separated me from my dog. “Good puppy! Good boy! You worried Mommy! Yes, you did!” He wagged his tail in agreement, barked again, and then I had him. Gathering my dog in my arms, I kissed his soggy little head over and over, tears dropping into his fur as he wriggled and nipped me in delight.

“There you go, then,” Cal said, coming up behind me. He was smiling. I tried to smile back, but my mouth was doing that wobbling contortion thing, so I didn’t quite pull it off.

“Thank you,” I managed. Callahan reached out to pet Angus, who suddenly realized that his nemesis was there, turned his little head and snapped.

“Ingrate,” Cal said, giving my dog a mock scowl. He bent down and scooped the trash back into the garbage can, then set it aright.

“You’ve been really great,” I said shakily, clutching my dog against my chest.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Cal returned.

We walked down the driveway of the house to the street. I recognized the neighborhood—it was about half a mile from Maple Street, a bit posher than where Cal and I lived. The rain gentled, and Angus snuggled up on my shoulder, doing his baby impression, cheek against my neck, front paws on my shoulder. I stretched my jacket around his little body and thanked the powers that be for the safety of my dopey little dog, whom I loved more than was probably advisable.

The powers that be, and Callahan O’ Shea. He came with me on this cool, rainy night and didn’t leave till we found my dog. Said nothing irritating like, “Oh, he’ll come back.” Nope. Callahan had stuck with me, reassured me, comforted me. Picked up trash for me. I wanted to say something, though I wasn’t sure what, but when I glanced at my strong, solid neighbor, my face burned hot enough to power a small city.

We turned onto Maple Street, and the lights of my house glowed. I glanced down. Cal and I were covered in mud from our feet to our knees, and soaked to the skin. Angus resembled a mop more than a dog, his fur soaked and matted.

Cal noticed my glance. “Why don’t you come over to my house?” he suggested. “We can get washed up there.

Your house is kind of a museum, isn’t it?”

“Well, not really a museum,” I said. “It’s just tidy.”

“Tidy. Sure. Well, want to come over? It won’t matter if we get my kitchen dirty. I’m still working on it.”

“Sure. Thanks,” I said. I had been wondering about the house, what it was like inside, what Callahan had been doing. “How’s that been going, anyway? You flipping the house and all?”

“It’s going fine. Come in. I’ll give you a tour,” he offered, reading my mind.

CAL LET ME IN the back door.

“I’ll get a couple towels,” he said, taking off his work boots and disappearing into another room. Angus, still on my shoulder, gave a little snore, making me smile. I slipped off my filthy gardening clogs, pushed my hair out of my face with one hand and took a look around.

Cal’s kitchen was nearly done. A trestle table with three mismatched chairs overlooked a new bay window. The kitchen cabinets were maple with glass panes, and the counters were made from gray soapstone. Spaces gapped where the appliances would go, though there was a two-burner stove and a dorm-size fridge. I should definitely invite him over for dinner, I thought. Seeing as he was so nice to me. Seeing as he’d held my hand.

Seeing as I had the hots for him and couldn’t seem to remember the reasons that I’d once thought Callahan O’ Shea made a bad choice.

Cal came back into the room. “Here,” he said, taking my sleeping pooch from me and wrapping him in a big towel. He rubbed the dog’s fur, causing Angus to blink sleepily at the strange man holding him. “No biting,” Cal warned. Angus wagged his tail. Cal smiled.

Then he kissed my dog on the head.

That was it. Without even quite realizing that I’d moved, I found that my arms were somehow around Callahan’s neck, that I’d knocked off his Yankees cap, that my fingers were in his wet hair, that I was squishing Angus and that I was kissing Callahan O’ Shea. Finally.

“It’s about time,” he muttered against my mouth. Then he was kissing me back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

HIS MOUTH WAS HOT AND SOFT and hard at the same time, and he was so solid and warm, and he was licking my chin while he kissed me…or no, wait. That was Angus, and Callahan laughed, a low, scraping laugh. “Okay, okay, hang on,” Cal murmured, pulling back. One of his hands held Angus, the other cupped the back of my head. Oh, crap, my hair. The man could lose a finger in there. But he gently disentangled himself, then set my damp little dog on the floor and straightened up, looking at me in the eyes. Angus yarped once, and then he must’ve run off somewhere, because I heard his toenails clicking away. But I wasn’t looking at anything except the man in front of me. His lovely, utterly kissable mouth, the slight scrape of razor stubble, those downward slanting, dark blue eyes.

Now those were eyes I could look into for a long, long time, I thought. The heat of him shimmered out to me, beckoning, and my lips parted.

“Want to stay over?” he asked, breathing hard.

“Sure!” I squeaked.

And then we were kissing again. His mouth was hot and fierce on mine, my hands clenched his hair. His arms went around me, crushing me against him, and God, he felt good, so big and safe and a little scary at the same time, so masculine and hard. And his mouth, oh, Lord, the man knew how to kiss, he kissed me like I was the water at the end of a long stretch of burning sand. I felt the wall against my back, felt his weight pressing against me, and then his hands were under my wet shirt, burning the damp skin of my waist, my ribs. I tugged his shirt out of his jeans and slid my hands across the hot skin of his back, my knees practically buckling as his mouth moved to my neck. Then his hand moved a little higher and my knees did buckle, but he held me against the wall and kept kissing me, my neck, my mouth. All that time in prison must have made Callahan O’ Shea a little desperate, and the fact that he was with me, kissing me…it was overwhelming. A man like this. With me.

“You sure about this?” he asked, pulling back, his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed. I nodded, and just like that, he kissed me again and lifted me, his hands cupping my ass, and carried me into another room. One with a bed, thank God. Then Angus yarped and jumped against us, and Callahan laughed. Without putting me down, he gently shoved my dog out with his foot and closed the door with his shoulder.