Snowy Christmas

by

Helen Scott Taylor

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Copyright © 2015 Helen Taylor

Cover design © Helen Taylor

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The right of Helen Taylor to be identified as
the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the UK Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters
in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the
author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same
name or names. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission
of the Copyright owner.

Emily Tiptree stared through the slashing windshield
wipers into the gloom as she drove home from her disappointing job
interview. She'd thought her ten years' experience as a chef would
let her walk into the job at the pub in the next village. She
hadn't counted on the owner thinking she was overqualified.

Churning out glorified pub grub wasn't what
she wanted to do anyway, but she couldn't be picky when it was
difficult to find a chef's job in the middle of the Cotswolds in
rural England. She had to earn some money quickly, or she'd default
on her credit card payments this month. Then she'd have to ask her
brother for a loan and admit what an idiot she'd been.

Something white caught in the beam of the
headlights, jerking Emily out of her thoughts. With a shriek of
surprise, she slammed her foot on the brakes and swung the car to
one side, away from whatever had been in the road. When the car
skidded to a halt on the wet asphalt, she sat still for a few
seconds, recovering from the shock, her hand pressed over her
pounding heart.

It had been some kind of small white animal,
she was sure. Had she hit it? Heavens, she hoped not. There hadn't
been a bump. Grabbing her phone from her handbag, she switched on
the flashlight app and stepped out of the car she'd borrowed from
her brother to go to the interview.

Her best black pumps sank in the road's muddy
grass shoulder, and cold water ran into her shoes. Her years in
warm, sunny Spain seemed like a distant memory now, even though
she'd only left Malaga two days ago.

Turning up her coat collar against the chilly
rain, she pointed the flashlight at the woods beside the country
road. At first she saw nothing, and wondered if whatever it was had
gone. As she moved the beam of light, two shiny eyes gleamed back
at her.

That gave her a shock for a second before she
ruled out anything dangerous. She was in the English Cotswolds.
Nothing more threatening than a fox or badger could be hiding under
a bush on the Rosemoor Estate.

Her shoes squelching, she stepped closer to
the shiny eyes, half expecting the creature to flee. She angled the
light away from the animal, not wanting to dazzle it, and noticed
that now she was out of the car, it wasn't as dark as she'd
thought.

She switched off the flashlight. Once her
eyes adjusted, she could make out the small pale creature huddled
beneath a leafless bush. In the fading light of the dreary day, big
dark eyes stared back at her from an adorable fluffy white face.
The little dog looked like a Westie.

"Hey there, sweetie." Emily crouched and held
out her hand for the animal to sniff. "Are you hurt?"

The small dog stretched out its black button
nose, and its warm tongue brushed her fingers. Twigs and bits of
leaf litter clung to the dog's fur, and it was soaked and
shivering.

"It's all right, little one. I'm going to
help you."

Gently, she reached under the bush and eased
the dog out. Her fingers sank through the wet, matted fur to the
bones beneath. "Oh, baby. You're hungry, aren't you?"

Emily eased the small dog closer and drew the
wet bundle of fur into her arms. She was a little girl, and there
was nothing of her. The small creature trembled harder and licked
Emily's hand. Her heart nearly melted.

The poor little thing needed something to
eat, but although there weren't any visible injuries, the first
stop had to be a veterinarian in case she was hurt.

The rumble of a vehicle approaching drew
Emily's attention, and headlights cut through the gloom as a huge
four-wheel drive pulled up behind her car. It looked like a
Rosemoor Estate vehicle.

The driver stepped out. His tall,
square-shouldered silhouette suggested he was one of the Bramwell
men. "Is someone hurt?" The upper-class English accent confirmed
it.

"Owen?" she said tentatively, hoping it was
her brother's boss. She hadn't seen him since she arrived back from
Spain two days ago, but she knew he was a nice guy from what her
brother said.

"No, I'm Owen's cousin Marcus."

"Oh." Emily swallowed. She knew who Marcus
was, of course—the lord of the manor in effect. Although he didn't
actually hold a title, he owned Rosemoor Hall and most of the
surrounding area. She'd seen him from a distance around Rosemoor
Village many times while she was growing up, but she'd never spoken
with him before.

"Hi, I'm Emily Tiptree. My brother, Ned, is
the dairy manager at Rosemoor Farm. This dog ran across the road in
front of me, but I don't think I hit her."

She couldn't see Marcus clearly because he
was silhouetted in the beam of light from his headlights.

"Have you checked her over to see if she's
hurt?" He raised a hand towards the dog and she shrank back against
Emily, shaking violently. He quickly pulled back. "I think we need
to take her straight to my sister-in-law. She's a
veterinarian."

"Okay. I was thinking she needed to see a
vet."

"I'll give you a ride so you can hold
her."

"What about Ned's car? I borrowed it, and
he'll need it tomorrow morning. The keys and my handbag are still
in there."

"Ned can get a ride out to pick it up later.
It's only five minutes from the farm."

Without further discussion, Marcus placed a
hand on her back and ushered her towards his vehicle. He opened the
passenger door and supported her elbow to help her into the
blissfully warm interior. A black Labrador's nose poked between the
seats.

"Stay in the back, Peggy," Marcus said,
stroking the Lab's face.

Marcus grabbed Emily's handbag from Ned's car
before he locked it, and climbed into his driver's seat. Emily
managed to fasten her seat belt using one hand before hugging the
little white dog closer, hoping the contact would reassure her.

"It's all right, sweetie. We're taking you to
someone who'll make sure you're not hurt."

They drove the five minutes to Rosemoor Farm
in silence, Emily smoothing a hand over the little dog's coat,
gently pulling twigs off her. Marcus's car smelled new and
expensive, with a pleasant hint of aftershave in the air. She
glanced his way, taking in his thick dark hair and clean-cut
profile.

He was about five or six years older than
her. When she was a teen, the local girls all had crushes on him or
his brother, Jonathan, or cousin Owen, but the Bramwell boys didn't
mix with the local girls. They'd moved in different circles.

The tires rattled over the cattle grid at the
entrance to Rosemoor Farm and Emily turned her attention back to
the poor dog, whispering to calm her.

Marcus stopped beside a vehicle similar to
his near the farmhouse and climbed out. Then he rounded the car and
supported her elbow again as she stepped down. He spoke like a
gentleman and behaved like one too, a man from a bygone era. A
refreshing change after Vicente, her sweet-talking jerk of a
Spanish boyfriend.

Marcus knocked once on the farmhouse back
door, then opened it and shouted, "Hello, anyone here? We need
Jenn's expertise."

Feeling a little awkward to be walking into
Owen Bramwell's house uninvited, she wandered behind Marcus along
the corridor. The door in front of them opened, releasing delicious
cooking smells. A slender woman with an obvious baby bump and
shoulder-length blond hair appeared with a tall, dark-haired
teenage girl behind her.

"Marcus, what's happened?"

"Jenn, this is Emily Tiptree. She found what
looks like a Westie on the road near Adams Wood."

Emily had never met Owen's wife, Jennifer, or
their thirteen-year-old daughter, Chloe, but her brother had
mentioned them.

"Hi, Emily, nice to meet you." Jennifer
gently touched the poor dog and nodded. "Let's take her over to my
office." She glanced over her shoulder. "Chloe, wait for the timer
to ring, then switch the oven off and leave the door ajar."

"Can't I come with you?"

"Not now, love."

Jennifer pulled an old coat off a peg in the
corridor, slipped her feet into waterproof shoes, then opened the
back door and hurried across the farmyard.

Emily hurried after her, Marcus at her
side.

They followed Jennifer into a wooden
building. Lights flickered on inside to reveal a reception desk
bearing a computer, and a small waiting area furnished with padded
chairs and a table holding a heap of magazines. Posters on the wall
showed the life cycle of the cat flea, and instructions on how to
brush dogs' teeth to keep them clean. The whole place smelled of
new wood and fresh paint.

"Come on in." Jennifer tugged off her coat,
dumped it over a chair, and led Emily into a consulting room.

"I think I make the dog nervous, so I'll wait
out here," Marcus said.

"Okay." Jennifer gave him a smile and pushed
the door to the consulting room closed.

Emily carefully set the small animal on her
feet on the examination table. The dog licked Emily's hand, her
tail wagging. Then she turned her big dark eyes on Jennifer and
licked her hand as well.

"Oh, you're a sweetie pie, aren't you?"
Jennifer ran a hand over the creature while visually assessing her.
"She's very thin, and no doubt full of worms and covered in
fleas."

Emily tried not to scratch as she imagined
fleas in her clothes, but she soon forgot that as she watched
Jennifer check the dog's ears, eyes, and teeth, then feel all over
her body, legs, and paws before she took her temperature. Then she
lifted her down onto the scales and sighed.

"The good news is there's no sign of injury,
and her temperature is normal. But she's seriously underweight and
in poor condition. From her teeth and condition, I'd say she's
about eight or nine. She's obviously had a few litters of puppies.
I suspect whoever used her for breeding then dumped her when she
wasn't of use anymore."

"Oh, you poor girl."

"And she's been mistreated." Jennifer parted
the fur on the dog's nose to reveal scars. "It looks like someone's
hit her with a stick. Judging by her reaction to Marcus, I'm
guessing it was a man."

Tears filled Emily's eyes, and she blinked
rapidly to clear them. "Poor baby." She stroked the dog's ears, as
she seemed to like that. "Will she recover and be okay?"

"I hope so. With some TLC, she should have a
few years left to enjoy life." Jennifer crouched with one hand on
her baby bump and stroked the dog's face. "You're a sweet girl,
aren't you? All you need is some love." She rose and faced Emily.
"I can take her in, if you want. Owen won't mind."

"No. That's okay." Emily had no home and no
money, but she felt an affinity with this poor creature, used by a
man and then tossed aside when she'd served her purpose. "I'd like
to keep her. I'm staying with Ned for a while until I get myself a
place."

"Oh, well, that's good. You'll be just down
the road, close enough for me to keep an eye on her health for you.
I'll get you fixed up with wormer and flea treatment, and special
food that's full of nutrients and gentle on her digestive system
for the first few days, until she's used to normal-sized meals
again. Be sure to feed her good-quality dog food. I'll give you a
feeding plan to suggest how much to feed her each day."

Jennifer pulled a card off a stack on a
shelf. "She'll need to be bathed and clipped, as well. I'd give her
a few days to settle in, and then call this woman. She's excellent,
and will do a home visit."

Emily picked up the Westie and cuddled her as
Jennifer gathered the things she needed into a plastic bag. Already
Emily felt protective of this poor little girl, and when the dog
turned her trusting black eyes up to her, it nearly broke Emily's
heart to imagine someone hurting her.

Jennifer held out the plastic carrier bag
labeled Rosemoor Veterinary Surgery with the Rosemoor Estate symbol
of an angel in a Tudor rose on it.

"What will you call her?" Jennifer asked.