I slump against the counter, suddenly feeling every mile of hard road I've traveled these past thirty-six years. "Let's just say we had ourselves a disagreement about something that mattered, and neither one of us knows how to bend."
"I'm sorry. That sounds heartbreaking."
"Cut me right down to the bone." I hold her gaze, wondering what it is about this slip of a woman that makes me want to spill my guts.
"Point is, Beau's gonna hate finding out his prize dog's in my clinic. He'll want Dusty transferred faster than spit, whether it kills the animal or not."
"But he just had surgery," Lucy protests. "Moving him could be dangerous."
"I know that. You know that. But Beau's pride runs deeper than his common sense thesedays."
Lucy squares her shoulders, and I catch a flash of pure steel beneath all that softness.
"Then I guess I'll have to change his mind."
"Easy there, Shortie." The nickname tumbles out before I can catch it, and she blinks like I just spoke in tongues.
"When you call Beau Blackwell, you ain't just delivering news. You're stepping into the middle of a damn war."
Her chin tilts up in a gesture that's probably meant to look confident but just makes her look stubborn and young. "I can handle it."
God, I hope she's right. Because if Beau reacts the way I think he will, Lucy's about to get her first real taste of how ugly things can get in this small town.
"What's his number?"
I rattle off Beau's number from memory, watching as she dials. Part of me wants to warn her again. The other part's dying to see what happens when an unstoppable force named Lucy Reid collides with the immovable object that is Beau Blackwell.
"It's ringing," sucking in a deep breath as someone answers on the other end.
And I realize whatever peace I might've had this afternoon is about to go straight to hell.
But watching Lucy steel herself for war, I discover I don't mind the coming storm near as much as I should.
Hell, I might even be looking forward to it.
4
Lucy
My back feels like someone used it for batting practice with a sledgehammer.
That's what I get for sleeping on clinic tile all night, but I couldn't abandon Dusty. Not after what he'd survived. Not when those impossible blue eyes found mine every time he stirred, like I was his anchor to the living world.
Dawn slides through the windows, painting everything honey-gold, and I stretch against the unforgiving floor. Every muscle screams bloody murder, but it's worth it when Dusty's tail gives the faintest flutter at seeing me move.
"Morning, gorgeous," I whisper, threading my fingers through the cage bars to stroke his silk-soft fur. "Feeling better?"
His nose nudges my hand, and something tight in my chest loosens. He's going to make it.
We both are.
I sit up slowly, trying not to disturb him, and reality crashes back down. Twenty-four hours ago, I was sleeping in my van, ready to run. Now I'm employed, planning to stay in one place for the first time in over a year.
What the hell am I thinking?
Every survival instinct I've developed is screaming that this is insane. Getting close to people, especially a sheriff who asks too many questions and a vet who makes my pulse stutter, goes against everything I've learned about staying safe.
But God, I'm tired of running.
