Sawyer, Meryl (40 page)

"What kind?"

He swallowed the bite of chicken salad. "My past is a closed
book. Remember?"

"I was just thinking how well you trained Jenny and wondered
if you had a lot of experience."

"I had just the one dog." It had suffered such a painful
death that it had taken him twenty-five years to get another.

"Jenny," Royce called and the retriever darted out of
the bushes, her tail wagging. "Here's a Bonz for you."

Jenny obediently sat, paw raised, to shake for her treat. Mitch
couldn't help smiling. Like people some dogs have it so good, while others have
nothing but misery. Even all these years later he could still hear his old coon
dog's soulful whimpering.

If he told Royce about it, she'd cry. He wasn't ready to trust her
with his secrets quite yet. When the trial was behind them and the future
decided one way or the other, then he'd have a better idea of how she felt
about him. If she admitted she cared for him, he'd be damn tempted to tell her,
but she held back. Would she always hold her father's death against him?

Royce waited several minutes, but Mitch didn't speak. Well, he
certainly wasn't going to reveal anything about his past. She sucked in a calming
breath and cursed herself for leaving her portable phone at home. If she had
it, she could slip off to the restroom and try to reach Wally. She had to
convince him to stop investigating Mitch. A man who guarded his privacy so much
that he couldn't talk about his dog would be furious if he found out about
Wally.

"Come on," Mitch said. "Let's race."

She watched his powerful thighs pedaling the bike and recalled
those same thighs, slightly rough with hair, covering hers. Since when had
desire replaced hate? Why did she want to get closer rather than run away?

Day by day her feelings about Mitch had been changing. Surely she
wasn't falling in love with him, was she?

By late that afternoon when they returned the bicycles to the
stand, Mitch wasn't doing wheelies yet, but he was riding quite well. Best of
all, he seemed to love it. Maybe next weekend she'd teach him how to
roller-skate.

"Where to?" he asked as they left the rental stand.

"Let's make our own pizza for dinner. There's a great Italian
market nearby. We can get everything there."

Mitch draped one arm over her shoulders and they walked out of
Golden Gate Park, Jenny leading the way. They hadn't brought his car.
Attempting to park near the popular recreation area was impossible, so they'd
walked.

Once Royce would have caught a bus, too much in a hurry. Now, with
this weekend disappearing and with only three weekends left until the trial,
she cherished the opportunity to be outside. Free.

"I'm leaving tomorrow for Chicago," Mitch announced.
"I'll be back at the end of the week."

She wanted to beg him not to leave. Just knowing he was in
town—even if she wasn't with him—was comforting. More comforting than she had
realized until now. But she couldn't beg him. He had his job, his own life that
didn't include her.

Instead of commenting on yet another absence, she called to the
dog. "Jenny, be careful. Wait for us."

"I wouldn't go if I didn't have to. This has been scheduled
for months."

What could she say? It was immature to dread the lonely nights.
And tomorrow, Sunday, she'd mentally made plans, but now she'd be alone with
Jenny. She spotted the retriever ahead of them, one paw in the crosswalk.

She yelled, "Jenny, wait."

A car careened around the corner and caught Jenny stepping off the
curb. The dog bounced off the fender and for one heart-stopping moment was
suspended midair. She landed headfirst in the middle of the street—limp.

Mitch charged down the sidewalk with Royce at his heels. His
frantic cry—"Jen-n-ny"—was butchered by the squeal of brakes. A van
skidded to a halt just inches from Jenny's head.

Mitch leapt off the curb—nearly being struck by a taxi— and
bounded to the center of the street. He dropped to his knees beside Jenny.

Royce followed him, cutting through traffic and crouching next to
him. Jenny whimpered, her head lolling from side to side in pain, blood seeping
from her golden fur.

"Hang on, old girl," Mitch pleaded, his voice rife with
anguish.

Jenny gazed up at him, her doe-brown eyes glazed with fear, her
breathing labored. Foam coated her muzzle and blood now gushed from a wound on
her leg. Royce whipped off her scarf and made a tourniquet.

"Please call Pet Alert," Royce yelled, certain someone
in the traffic jam they'd created had a car phone and would call the pet
ambulance.

Mitch drew Jenny's head onto his lap and caressed the fur on her
noble head. In that unguarded moment his expression revealed all the pain she'd
only suspected he'd been hiding, an emotional wound so deep that it had become
a part of him, never to be healed. Tears burning her eyes in a scalding rush,
she longed to hold him, to ease his suffering, but sensed she'd be intruding on
a very private moment.

"Please, Jenny," he whispered brokenly, raw grief
flickering in his eyes. "Don't leave me."

But Jenny didn't respond. Her soulful eyes drooped shut and a
spasm shook her, bringing a rattling sound from her chest.

"O-h-h-h, Jenny," Mitch's tone implied this might be the
last chance he had to speak with his beloved pet. "No-o-o. You can't
die."

Tears blurred Royce's vision as she searched the crowd for any
sign of the pet ambulance.
Don't let Jenny die. Please. She's my friend.

How many nights had she been alone except for Jenny? Too many to
remember them all. But Jenny was always at her side, always wagging her tail.
Without question Royce knew Mitch had experienced the same overpowering
loneliness. But he'd lived with it all his life.

At the veterinarian's office Mitch went into the examining room
with Jenny while Royce gave the receptionist his Visa card. The young woman looked
at Royce closely, and Royce realized she'd been recognized. No doubt, motorists
at the intersection had recognized her as well.

What could she do? Nothing. Fate seemed to have her in the palm of
its hand, determined to squeeze the life out of her. But don't take an innocent
dog, Royce prayed. She was still praying when Mitch returned to the waiting
room.

"She's in surgery." He collapsed onto the sofa beside
Royce.

He looked so—so defeated that it actually hurt to look at him.
Usually he was tough and cynical, making no allowances for weakness in himself.
He would never have survived if he hadn't. Along the way he'd abandoned the
comfort of a close personal relationship. Except for a dog.

She recalled his cautious admission that he'd "once" had
another dog. Amid the horrors of modern society animals represented a precious
link—someone you could trust. Pets have a special place in our hearts, she
realized, thinking of Rabbit E. Lee. Unlike people they loved you without
question.

"Jus' like my ole coon dog. Jenny's suffering."

Mitch's voice was soft, his slight southern accent now more
pronounced, the way he sounded when he was really angry—or upset. He stared
straight ahead, almost as if he didn't know she was there, in his voice a low
yet ominous quality that instantly alerted her. Without knowing what he was
going to say, she hurt for him.

"I bought Jenny for myself... for a birthday present.
Twenty-five years after Harley died." Mitch kept looking forward at the
deserted waiting room now cloaked in the shadows of early evening.

"I can still remember the first time I saw Harley. It was my
eighth birthday, but I wasn't counting on getting a present. Hell, I was six
before I found out when I'd been born. I'd never gotten a present and knew
better than to expect one.

Her breath seemed to have solidified in her throat. The rare and
totally unexpected glimpse of his early years left her speechless. And angry.
Who could be so cruel to a child?

Her own youth had been a succession of joyful birthday parties—so
many that they now were a blur in her mind. But overriding those fuzzy images
was the impression of happiness—and love.

But then another bit of information fell into place. Jenny was
just two. That meant it had been twenty-seven years since Mitch first saw Harley.
That would make him thirty-five, not thirty-seven the way his birth certificate
read.

Why had he lied about his name—and his age?

"Harley wasn't a pup," Mitch went on, totally unaware of
what he'd revealed. "He was an old coon hound, white around the muzzle,
with long, droopy ears. He came trottin' up the dirt lane, and I figured God
had sent me a present.

"He had no collar, so they thought he'd fallen out of a truck
and wandered in from the highway. I begged for days and they finally let me
keep him."

Look at me, Royce silently pleaded. Tell me this—not an empty
waiting room. Mitch had a fundamental distrust of people so ingrained that it
had become an integral part of his personality. But the shock of Jenny's
accident had prompted him to talk. She was afraid to touch him, afraid to break
the spell.

"For the next three months Harley and I were always together.
Finally, I had someone to play with. The only time he left me was just before dawn
when I let him out to go to the bathroom. He'd come back after sunup. Then one
day they served breakfast and Harley still wasn't back."

He didn't have to look at her—although she wished he would—for his
tone to betray his inner turmoil. She longed to touch him, to close the chasm
between them, a distance he carefully maintained with everyone. Somehow, even
with her silence, she wanted him to know he could count on her.

"By noon Harley still hadn't appeared. I started checking the
woods, the hollows. I even went up to the fishing hole, but he wasn't there.
Nuthin'. Everyone said Harley had wandered off jus' like he'd wandered in.

"But I knew better. He loved me; he'd never leave me. I spent
the whole night searching. I hollered his name so loud, they must have heard me
in the next county." Now, Mitch's tone was flat, but it didn't disguise
his anguish. "I knew Harley was somewhere hurt, waitin' for me to rescue
him."

Royce kept her eyes open wide to hold back the tears. Where were
his parents, for God's sakes? She ached with a pain more intense than anything
she'd ever known, experiencing the heart-wrenching torment of a lonely little
boy as he traipsed through the dark woods desperately searching for the dog he
cherished. Crying. Brokenhearted.

"On the second day I went by myself to the nearby farms. I
came to Slocum's Chicken Farm last. The farmer came out —a big burly guy with a
long beard like they wore in the Old Testament. 'That yore dog, boy? That ole
coon hound with the long ears?'

" 'Yessir,' I said, proudly. 'Harley's my dog.'

" 'Hoo-ee,' the farmer said, grabbin' me by the arm. "
'Lemme show you what happens to egg-suck dogs.' He dragged me behind the
barn."

Mitch hesitated and Royce closed her eyes, knowing whatever Mitch
had seen behind that barn was a sight so terrible, no child should ever have
seen it. Harley wasn't just any dog. He'd loved Mitch. Quite possibly the only
love Mitch had as a child.

"The farmer had nailed his four paws to the barn, and his
ears were high above his head, pinned to the wood with a single nail. That
bastard had crucified him. Harley was alive —but barely.

"I called to him and he finally managed to open one eye. He
looked at me, pleading for help and whimpering... just like Jenny. He was
begging me to save him, but I couldn't reach him.

Royce's stomach roiled spasmodically. She'd never heard of
anything so barbaric. She could actually feel the heart of an eight-year-old
beating in double-time, desperate to rescue his beloved pet. But helpless.

" 'Where you been, boy?' the farmer yelled. 'Don't you know
that's what happens to egg-suck dogs in these parts? He's stayin' nailed to the
barn until he dies.' The old goat tucked his thumbs in the pockets of his bib
overalls. 'If'n you want to save him, you'll have to shoot him, boy.'

"I couldn't bear to leave Harley nailed to the barn to die in
the hot sun. Already flies were all over his wounds and his tongue was black
and swollen from lack of water. I said, 'Git me a gun.' "

Tears rolled down her cheeks in a silent parade, Mitch's story
shattering her composure. Dear God, what had that farmer done to an innocent
child?

"He brought me a shotgun. I'd never fired a gun. I didn't
know I was standing way too close. I didn't know the kick would knock me on my
ass.

" 'Good-bye, Harley,' I said. 'I'll never forget you.'

"Harley whimpered. It was the most pitiful sound I've ever
heard. Even now, all these years later, I can still hear his tortured cry, and
see him hanging there, helpless. Suffering the way no living being should ever
be made to suffer.