“I can help,” I offered.
“No, you just sit there. I like making tea, and I like making it my own way.”
Reaching down to rub Keen, I watched as Chloe worked, stepping from counter to cupboard and back again, gathering cups and fixings. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I wasn’t sure why. Eventually, I recognized that she moved with a grace I’d often admired in animals, particularly cats—always aware of where their feet landed without having to pay one bit of attention. Wrenching my gaze away from her, I glanced around the kitchen. “No Dillon?”
“Got him a job in town,” Peter said. “He’s a mechanic, a good one.”
As long as he doesn’t deal with real people, I thought, before chastising myself. The guy was a prick, but he might also have his reasons. My eyes strayed again to Chloe. He definitely had his reasons.
It sounded as though they were staying a while. I wondered how I felt about that and decided it depended on a few things. Like how well she and Dillon got along.
Oh, man. A pretty smile and I’m ready to kiss her toes. I need to have my head examined.
Chloe put the tea and some cookies on the table, and soon the three of us talked like old friends. Peter had traveled as a young man and had endless stories from interesting areas of the world I would likely never see. Chloe seemed equally rapt as my friend recounted a tale of helping to round up hartebeest for a conservation effort in South Africa, and soon I lost track of the time.
Peter fell silent and poured himself another cup. As I got ready to leave, he asked me how work was going.
“Not great,” I admitted. “The animals acted weird around me all day.”
“Weird?” Chloe’s voice had overtones that made me glance at her. “Aren’t animals always afraid of vets?”
I realized Peter also stared at Chloe, his expression unreadable.
“Animals usually like Liam,” he finally said. His eyes returned to me. “Maybe it’s something you’re wearing.”
Chloe giggled—the sound almost manic. “Cologne?”
Oookay then. Did that pretty exterior hide a messed-up interior? Time for a run. I stood up and tucked my chair beneath the table, and Keen, who had risen with me, stiffened and growled at my side. A half second later, the door opened, and Dillon strode through it. I made a wild grab for Keen’s collar as she launched at him, teeth bared. I caught fur instead, and she yelped as I pulled her back and scooped her into my arms, seventy-odd pounds of theoretical pit bull gunning for Chloe’s supposed boyfriend.
Dillon’s gaze slid from Keen to me, and his brows lowered until his eyes gleamed out of darkened pits. Behind me, Chloe and Peter stood up.
I managed a nod of greeting around a mouthful of struggling dog fur. Dillon didn’t move as I walked past him to the door and shoved Keen out before blocking the opening again with my leg. She whined and barked and pawed as I said my goodbyes.
“Thanks for the tea.” I had a fraction of a second to smile at Chloe before Dillon once again pulled his caveman stunt and blocked my view.
I looked into his face and smiled. “Catch ya later, Dill.”
As he stiffened, I slipped through and closed the door. What does she see in that idiot? I stepped off the deck, calling Keen away with me. My contrary furry friend seemed determined to stay, as if she felt Peter and Chloe needed her protection. It made me frown, assessing the undercurrents I’d sensed when Dillon arrived, and the other day, the first time I’d met him.
If Chloe didn’t want Dillon here, why didn’t she just tell him to leave? I considered the height and breadth of the man and added in the hostility he wore like a second skin. He might not be so easy to get rid of. When they were together, they lacked the warm, fuzzy, people-in-love sensation. Possession, yes, at least on Dillon’s part. Chloe, I wasn’t so sure. The thought led to certain fantasies better left unexplored if I wanted to keep all my teeth.
Still, the thoughts chased me as I jogged the same path I’d met the wolves on. I paced myself, for I hadn’t done this since before my flu. As we approached the spot where the deer had slammed into me, Keen dropped back to run at my side, her nose lifted into the air.
My stamina surprised me. I covered the three-mile loop easily, ending on the front road, where I walked for the last quarter mile. By the time I reached the drive, darkness had closed in.
Keen remained reserved, sticking close, but when we walked around to the back door, she started barking, her nose pointed toward the bush. With the clouds obscuring the moon, I couldn’t see anything, but something rustled in the underbrush, and it sounded large.
I called Keen and dropped my hand to her when she came; she was trembling. We went into the house, and I paused after I closed the door, hovering over the deadbolt, but I didn’t turn it. Like most country folk, I never locked my doors. Whatever was out there in the darkness, it had paws, not hands.
That night, I lay on my bed and listened to the sounds of rural Manitoba. The warming soil had released the frogs and their song filled the quiet spaces. After a while, it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard the coyotes all week. I missed their lonely howls. Where had they gone?
As if on cue, something howled, but this was no coyote, and it sounded close. Deep, with hoarse overtones, the howl made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, and beside me on the bed, Keen cowered and growled. The frog song silenced as though someone had thrown a switch.
I rose and walked to the window, which started at about
