Sunflower Lane (8 page)

It was right after he finished loading his supplies in the truck that Wes spotted the dog.

Pausing in the pale spring sunlight, he stared at the white-and-black-speckled mutt wandering through the park. There wasn’t anyone near the animal, and the dog ignored the kids laughing and shouting on the swings and the slide. He was all alone, nosing around the wastebasket near the picnic tables. Searching for food, Wes realized with a frown.

The animal was skin and bones.

He’s got a little bit of pit bull in him. Maybe mixed in with some Lab. And God knows what else.

The mutt’s coat was dirty, his body scarred in a lot of places, and he looked weak. Grimacing, Wes strode toward him.

He watched the dog sniff around the grass beneath the picnic tables and find a crust of bread, which he gobbled up even as Wes approached.

No collar, Wes noticed. His gut tightened as the dog cowered when he drew near, then started to veer away.

“Hey, buddy. It’s all right. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Sure as hell not me.”

The dog didn’t seem to believe him and turned to run, but Wes spoke with authority.

“Sit
.
”

The animal glanced back at him, looking confused—half alarmed and half intrigued.

“Sit,” Wes repeated.

The dog sat.

“So you
were
somebody’s pet once.” Wes approached slowly so as not to scare him. The mutt didn’t appear to be sick—or mean. But he was plenty weak, and more than a little apprehensive.

Pity and anger churned through Wes.

Pity for the animal. Anger at whoever had inflicted some of those scars on the dog’s scruffy coat.

“You don’t have a home, do you, buddy?” Though he was speaking more to himself than to the dog, the mutt’s ears lifted hopefully.

Sophie and Rafe might want another dog. They already had Tidbit and Starbucks, but still. . . .

His eyes narrowed as the mutt’s scraggly excuse for a tail started to wag.

“I’m going to help you, pal, but I’m not going to keep you,” he added, feeling the need for some full disclosure. “First off, we’ll get you checked out by the vet.”

Kneeling beside the dog, he felt the lick of a dry tongue.

“Bet you’d love a steak right about now, wouldn’t you, buddy?”

The dog offered him a paw.

“Tough guy, huh?” Wes chuckled as he stroked behind the dog’s ears. Hell, the repairs could wait.

From the corner of his eye, he saw two boys running
across the park toward him. One of them was Annabelle Harper’s nephew. The fair-haired kid slid to a stop a few feet away, causing the dog’s ears to shoot up warily. Then the second boy dropped onto the grass alongside Ethan.

“This your dog?” Ethan asked eagerly.

“Nope, just happened to come across him. We’re headed over to the vet to check him out. Maybe you want to keep him?”

“Yeah! I wish! But my sister Megan’s scared of dogs, so we can’t get one. But I sure wish we could!”

The other boy spoke up. “We’ve got a dog and two cats. My mom keeps saying that’s enough for one house.”

As he spoke, the mutt took a tentative step toward the two boys. They both reached out to pet him.

“He’s so skinny,” Ethan whispered.

“And look at all his scars.” The other boy gently stroked the dog’s back.

“Yeah, that’s why I want the vet to see him.”

The dog leaned his head tentatively toward the boys, and his droopy tail began to wag. Wes watched Ethan rub behind the dog’s ears. The mutt immediately huddled in closer, sitting right between the two boys, suddenly looking very much at home.

Ethan’s face lit. “I just had an idea. We should name him Treasure!” He glanced excitedly at his friend, who grinned widely. The boy was all teeth and freckles.

“Yeah. That’s perfect!”

As Wes raised an eyebrow, Ethan explained, “This is Jimmy. His great-grandfather and my great-grandfather were both part of the old Barnum gang—they were train robbers and bank robbers! They hid all their treasure somewhere near Lonesome Way and we’re going to find it!”

His enthusiasm made Wes grin. “Awesome.”

“All the members of the gang shot one another to death,” Jimmy added with relish, “and the gold could be buried anywhere. A lot of people think it’s up in the mountains
near Coyote Pass. We read this book that says there’s a hidden map somewhere that shows the exact spot. We’re going to find it.”

“Great. Happy hunting.” Wes couldn’t hold back a smile at their enthusiasm. He stood to his full height, glancing down again at the mutt. “See you later, guys. I’d better get him over to the vet, and see he gets some food and water in him.”

“Jimmy! Ethan!” A woman’s voice rang out from across the park. “Come on, boys. Time to go home!” A fortyish female in jeans and a tucked-in white shirt was motioning for the boys to join her.

“That’s my mom.” Jimmy sighed. “We gotta go. See ya.” He took off running toward his mother, and Ethan raced after him.

“Bye, Treasure,” he called over his shoulder. “Bye, Mr. McPhee.”

Wes bent and lifted the dog into his arms. The mutt licked his chin.

“No slobbering,” he ordered as he headed for the vet’s office.

The dog merely licked him again.

“No getting attached, either.”

It was the way he lived his own life. Not everyone’s style. But it suited him. It had for the past twelve years. Hell, in the DEA, you’d better not get too attached to anyone because everyone you knew, everyone you worked with and socialized with, could be dead in an instant. And often were.

It had worked for him. He’d absorbed the losses the way he’d absorbed all the other blows in his life. His father’s stinging criticism, sharp reprimands, and brutal sarcasm. He hadn’t minded so much what Hoot said to him. But when he’d started in on his mother and on Sophie—even when Sophie was still just a little kid . . .

Wes had been filled with anger. Swift, hard, ugly anger.

And then, one time, when Sophie had run sobbing up to
her room, and his mother was in town buying groceries, he’d had it out with the old man. Told Hoot if he ever caught him tearing into Sophie that way again, he’d knock his teeth out.

The words of an angry, frustrated eighteen-year-old trying to protect his sister had ignited a white-hot rage in Hoot that burned like rocket fuel on takeoff. His father had hit him in the face, sending him crashing into the armchair in the living room. Before he could get up, Hoot had come after him again and tried to kick him, but Wes grabbed his foot and yanked.

Hoot went down, and Wes surged to his feet.

What happened after that was ugly. Not as ugly as some of the fights for his life Wes had engaged in during his career, fights against drug lords and mob bosses and thugs of all ilk and nationality and color.

But ugly because the man was his father. Up until that day.

The day after, Wes decided he had no father. And no place anymore in Lonesome Way. He’d packed up, struck out on his own, found work on a construction crew, and put himself through college and law school without a dime from home.

It had taken him eight years. Eight years of scraping by, eating peanut butter sandwiches and potato chips for supper, wearing his jeans until they were falling apart, only going out for a beer with the guys every other week. Studying and working nonstop.

And it had been worth it never to have to see Hoot again.

Never to be beholden to him.

He’d wanted to come back and beat the crap out of him again when he heard that his father had been cheating on his mother, having affairs with several women in Lonesome Way—including Lorelei Hardin, the mayor’s wife.

But then he learned that Diana had thrown him out of the house, off the ranch that her grandfather had built, and wanted nothing more to do with him.

And Wes had forced himself to be satisfied with that. If he’d come home and confronted Hoot again at that point, given all the hell the bastard had put everyone through over the years, including his mother and Sophie, not to mention Wes himself—Wes just might have killed him.

That was what he was afraid of.

So he’d stayed away. Focused on the life and career he’d begun building for himself. He hadn’t come home, even for Hoot’s funeral.

He had to admit, the town felt different now that Hoot was gone.

It had always been a friendly town—Wes had almost forgotten that—but even as he walked to the vet’s office, people smiled at him, some reached out to pat the dog’s head as he passed, and just as he reached the building, his old girlfriend Marissa walked out of the drugstore and immediately came toward him.

“Made a new friend, I see.” She smiled—that slightly mysterious, suggestive little smile he remembered from high school. Marissa was still as pretty as she’d been in the twelfth grade. And apparently she wasn’t furious at him anymore for breaking up with her and leaving town without a word the day before the big senior blowout party following graduation.

“You want him?” he offered as she reached out to stroke the dog’s head.

“I have a cat; sorry. That’s all the responsibility I can handle right now. But you and me . . .” Her head tilted to one side. “We should catch up.”

“Yeah, well . . .” The dog was wriggling in his arms, and Wes set him down, saying, “Stay.” He looked at Marissa. “I’m not hanging around for too long.”

“Funny, I heard you’ll be in town until the Fourth of July. Darby and I got all the scoop at A Bun in the Oven a little while ago.”

“Always knew there was a reason I didn’t like small towns.”

“We’re not so bad. And . . . it’s good to see you, Wes.”

“You, too, Riss.”

“Darby and I are headed over to the Double Cross tonight. If you’re not busy, stop by, have a drink with us. We’ll catch up.”

“So happens I’ll be there, but it’s for a business meeting.”

“Perfect. Come on over and hang out when you’re done. But just so you know, Big Billy still doesn’t allow dogs.” She smiled, catlike, over her shoulder as she sauntered past him toward Spring Street.

“By tonight he’ll be someone else’s problem,” Wes assured her.

She glanced back at him, still smiling. “Then I’ll see you later.”

He watched her walk away. Oh yeah, he remembered that walk. It had turned him on back then, and now it still did, a little.

But an image of Annabelle Harper from this morning, looking luscious and rushed and in charge, her toenails painted hot pink, riotous blond curls swinging over her shoulders, a faint trace of freckles on her delicate nose as she rustled those kids out of the house, suddenly popped into his head, extinguishing Marissa from his brain. Annabelle was hot and gorgeous without even trying. There was something unaffected, determined, and honest about her that was very different from the deliberately sensual vibe he’d always picked up from Riss.

With Annabelle, there was no hidden agenda, no subtle come-on. The only thing Annabelle Harper was focused on doing was taking care of her nieces and nephew.

Refreshing,
he thought, then deliberately pushed away the memory of how her wildly sexy curves filled out her
jeans and T-shirt. Of how those golden brown eyes had warily searched his face.

Steer clear, if you know what’s good for you,
he reminded himself grimly as he herded the dog into the vet’s office.
That way trouble lies.

The animal trembled like an autumn leaf caught in a gale storm during Doc Weatherby’s quick once-over.

Weatherby checked for a microchip, but found none. Fortunately the mutt didn’t have fleas or ticks or anything else that might pose a problem. On the other hand, he was nervous, underweight, and shaking.

“He seems pretty hungry and scared,” Wes said after the exam. “You’ll feed him soon, won’t you?”

“Oh, I can’t keep him here, Wes. You’ll have to take him over to the shelter. They’ll see to him.”

“Shelter?”

“It’s a new one. Real nice facility, modern, clean, and good people run it,” the vet said. “Don’t feel bad about taking him there.”

“I don’t.” Wes glanced at the dog, who stared beseechingly into his eyes. “But I may just keep him for tonight, so I see he gets a good meal. Tomorrow I’ll bring him in for a full exam—shots, whatever he needs. Then he can go to the shelter.”