Unlike that fateful afternoon when he’d caught Ambrosia ogling him, on this night, there were plenty of rooms readily available to rent. Dash paid the innkeep, took the key, and returned outside so that he could tend to Guinevere.
At least he could take care of the one lady who truly did love him.
“I can do that for you, mister,” a boy’s voice piped up. A scrap of a thing, no more than eight or nine, hair sticking up like straw. “For some coin.”
“I tend my own horse,” Dash replied, flashing a penny, “but this is yours if you fetch me a bucket of water and a cup for myself.”
The lad’s grin spread wide. He darted off, all knees and elbows, and came pelting back with the bucket and cup while Dash hung his saddle over the stall gate and found a brush.
“Here you go, mister! Do you mind if I watch?” The boy scrambled atop a stall wall, legs swinging. “Your horse is big. Bigger than normal horses. And I know she’s a girl. I’m not ignorant, you know.”
Dash’s mouth tugged at one corner despite himself.
“Gosh, but I saw the strangest thing just now,” the boy rattled on. “Behind the inn. A lady had this funny-looking dog. At least, she said it was a dog. She said that it sleeps with its eyes open and its tongue hanging out.” He demonstrated, tongue lolling as his head flopped sideways.
Dash froze, the brush still in his hand.
“Its body was really long, like a sausage,” the boy continued, nodding with authority. “And he was a he, I know that for certain. Like I said, I’m not ignorant. But?—"
“Hold.” Dash’s voice cut sharp. His heart hammered in his chest. “You saw a lady. With a dog. Was he red, with short legs?”
The boy’s grin stretched ear to ear. “You saw him too?”
Dash swayed where he stood. His hand clenched tight around the brush.
It could not be. And yet…
He tossed the brush toward the kid. “You’ve done this before?” And at his nod, “Do your best! I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, mister! Yes sir!” the boy called, but Dash barely heard him. He was already moving, his boots eating up the ground as he rounded the back of the inn.
And there she was.
Ambrosia.
Drifting behind Lancelot, eyes lowered, her skirts whispering over the grass. And though the pup tugged and nosed through the patch of clover, she followed patiently… like an angel.
Dash simply stood there, staring, not quite willing to believe his own eyes.
Had he finally gone mad?
Had the drink, the grief, and the endless miles broken him so thoroughly that he’d conjured her from thin air?
The setting sun gilded her hair, and the breeze pressed her gown to the delicate curves he knew too well.
He could not move.
Could not breathe.
And then Lancelot saw him.
With a sharp yank, the pup tore the lead from Ambrosia’s hand and bounded across the yard, ears and tongue flying, as though he too had been waiting for this moment.
“Ah, bon garçon,” Dash murmured, falling to one knee as Lancelot leapt at him, slobbering his chin, his ears, his jaw. Dash let the dog lick him raw, one hand braced against the wriggling little body—but his eyes never left her.
Ambrosia had stilled, frozen mid-step, her hand half-raised where the lead had been torn from her grip.
For a long moment she only stared at him, her expression mirroring his own shock.
