Quinn was almost home when his phone rang. His Bluetooth announced Sam Melk. Good. Just the man he wanted to talk to. “Sam,” he said, as he turned up his long dark drive. “Thanks for calling me back. I know it’s getting late.”
“Always available for my friends and clients. My wife complains, but I work twenty-four seven,” Sam’s voice was cheerful and hearty. “I’m hoping you’re interested in selling your place, not that I want to lose you here but it’s something special—”
“No.” Quinn parked in front of his sprawling six-thousand-foot house and turned his engine off. The truck lights went out, too. It was pitch dark and Noel lifted his head, and glanced uneasily out the window. “Let’s just cut to the chase. Do you really not know that Greg is giving Charity a hard time? Does this strike a chord, or is this coming out of left field?”
“Probably no pun intended, huh?” Sam joked, before sighing. “Okay, I’ll be serious. I’m aware that there is considerable tension in the office. It’s actually pretty miserable for everyone right now.”
“This is your business and these are your employees, but I’m concerned about what’s going on, and have an issue with how Greg is treating Charity.”
“Has something specific happened?”
“Greg is putting his hands on her, and it needs to stop.”
“I agree.”
“I don’t want to have to step in, but if I need to, I’ll show him some good old-fashioned Montana diplomacy.”
“I remember your Montana diplomacy. I had bruises for a week.”
Noel shifted and rested his head on Quinn’s knee. Quinn gave the dog’s ear a little tug. “I’m sure you know how to handle your own employees, so I can leave this to you?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Thanks for your time, Sam. Good talk.”
“Good night.”
“Night.” Quinn hung up and stepped out of the truck. He called Noel’s name, patted his leg, and the retriever jumped out, following Quinn up the walkway.
Quinn made a mental note to leave his porch light on when he left the house in the morning for the Gallaghers. It grew dark early in Seattle this time of year, but here in Paradise Valley it was even darker without streetlights and big buildings to brighten the night sky. As he fumbled with his key in the front door’s dead bolt, his shoulder brushed something soft and cushy. He lifted a hand and touched it. Round. Some kind of greenery. And fabric.
Swinging the front door open, Quinn turned on the porch light and studied the oversized wreath with vintage silver, red and green glass balls. Someone had hung a wreath on his door.
Someone had given him a Christmas present. He suspected he knew who that someone was, too, as his sister-in-law Sadie loved everything vintage, and she was probably the craftiest person he’d ever met.
He was touched, really touched, and while it hadn’t crossed his mind to get anything festive for the house, it clearly needed a little bit of holiday charm. Impulsively he phoned Sadie to thank her for the present, but when she answered, she denied knowing anything about a wreath. “It sounds pretty, though,” she said. “Take a picture and send it to me.”
He did, and she texted back that it was even more beautiful than he’d described, and suggested that maybe he should check with Charity or McKenna.
He texted both, neither knew anything about it. Or so they claimed. Quinn didn’t know what to make of that.
Closing the front door, he gave Noel a brief tour of the downstairs. “Kitchen,” he said, turning on the light. “Dining room. Great room. Guest bath. Smaller family room. Downstairs guest bedroom down the hall.” The dog trailed Quinn obediently, going from room to room with him before they ended back up in the kitchen.
“I’m still hungry,” Quinn confessed.
Noel cocked his head.
“You look hungry, too,” Quinn added.
Noel’s head cocked the other way.
“You’re a good boy.” Quinn gave the dog’s head another pat. “I kind of like you. And it’s nice to have someone here to talk to.”
Quinn opened the refrigerator. It was virtually empty. On one shelf was a white Styrofoam take-out container from Rocco’s, and a half-eaten roast beef sandwich wrapped in paper was on another shelf, the sandwich left over from the day he drove from Jackson Hole. It might be time to buy some groceries and settle in since he was staying through Christmas.
Quinn went into the pantry, huge bottles of water lined the floor. Cleaning supplies. Not much else.
“We need to shop,” he told Noel. “Tomorrow we’ll get you some food. In the meantime, tonight we have Rocco’s leftover gnocchi and that roast beef. How about I do the gnocchi and you do the beef?”
Noel’s tail thumped once.
“Good answer,” Quinn replied. While the gnocchi warmed in the microwave, he filled a medium-size bowl with water for Noel and put it on the kitchen floor in the corner. The microwave dinged and he heated the meat from the sandwich for a few seconds so it wouldn’t be so cold. It didn’t take long for them to eat. There wasn’t much, and Quinn was ready to call it a night.
He took Noel out the back door, walked him to the snow-covered grass. “Go pee,” he said.
Noel walked around a moment, sniffing here and there before doing what he was told.
“Good boy,” Quinn praised him. “Now let’s see if we can get you to sleep.”
Upstairs in the huge master bedroom, Quinn made up a bed for Noel on the ground next to his bed. He took two quilts folded them and then added a fleece blanket on top. “Spot,” Quinn said, pointing to the blankets.
Noel hesitated and then went to the bed and circled once, and then again, before lying down.
“Good boy, good Noel,” Quinn praised him, climbing into his bed. Quinn turned out the light, punched the pillow a couple of times, and almost immediately fell asleep.
When he woke up in the morning, Noel was on the bed, sleeping next to him.
Quinn yawned and grinned. It seemed like Noel had made himself at home.
*
Charity woke up to a text from Quinn telling her that Rory was going to open the tree farm for him so he could get to town for some groceries, and since he was heading her way, why didn’t he meet her at the vet’s office with Noel?
Charity quickly answered that it was a great idea.
Quinn texted that he was leaving his house now, and asked her to send him the name of the veterinarian she used, as well as the address.
After sending him the name and address for Dr. Noah Sullivan’s practice in Marietta, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail, covered it with a shower cap and hopped in the shower.
Dressed, she filled a travel mug with hot coffee, said goodbye to her mom who was doing a Sudoku puzzle, then waved to her father who was watching morning news in front of the TV, and then headed out.
It was cold this morning but clear, the sky almost too bright for her eyes. Icicles hung from the eaves of the house and the windows of her car were covered in a thick, hard ice coat.
Charity scraped the ice from her windshield as her car warmed up. She was looking forward to seeing Quinn and couldn’
t wait to hear how Noel had done last night. Hopefully, he hadn’t been too much trouble.
She arrived at Dr. Sullivan’s and discovered Quinn was already there, his black rental truck parked in front of the entrance.
She peeked inside his truck and saw it was empty and then went on in to the veterinary office. Carols played in the waiting area. A Christmas tree sat in the corner and mistletoe hung from the ceiling.
Opening the door she discovered Quinn at the front desk talking to the white-haired receptionist, who wore reindeer antlers, with Dr. Sullivan there, too, just behind the receptionist, while Noel lay on the ground at Quinn’s feet.
“Have I kept you waiting?” Charity asked anxiously.
Quinn shook his head. “No, I only got here a few minutes ago but he does have a microchip, only Dr. Sullivan didn’t need to use it. The staff here recognized Rusty right away.”
Rusty.
Her heart sank. So he did have an owner. She should be glad for Rusty.
“Will Dr. Sullivan notify the owner that we have Noel—Rusty?” she asked, trying to hide her disappointment.
“That’s the good news, bad news part,” Quinn said to her. “Rusty was a service dog, and his owner, Mary, lived here in town on Church Street. Mary passed away a couple of years ago and Rusty has taken it very hard. Although Rusty was placed almost right away with a new family, he’s proven difficult to rehome. The latest owners, a family that lives north of Livingston, don’t want him back. They vowed that if Rusty ran away again, they’d let him go. It’s too hard on their son every time Rusty leaves.”
“That makes me sad. Poor Rusty,” Charity said, stroking the top of the dog’s head. “It’s been years and yet he’s still looking for Mary.”
“That’s also a long way for him to walk,” Quinn added. “He’s lucky he hasn’t been hurt.”
Charity looked at the doctor. “So what happens to Rusty now?”
“You’ll need to take him to the animal shelter and they’ll see if they can find a new family for him, or…” His voice trailed off.
“I want him,” she said decisively. “I want to adopt him. How do I do that?”