When Silence Falls. Shirlee McCoy

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      She cleared her throat, turned her gaze away from the dog. “What were the reasons Samson was returned?”

      The volunteer rocked back and forth on his heels and scratched the top of his head again. “At the first placement we found for him, he broke about a thousand dollars’ worth of antique glassware. At the second, he didn’t break anything, he was just under his new family’s feet and constantly knocking over chairs and lamps.”

      “I guess a big dog needs a lot of extra room.”

      “Depends more on the owner than the dog. A young gal like you will have plenty of energy to take Samson for walks, get rid of all his extra energy. Come on and meet him.”

      Before Piper could protest, he’d pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the kennel door. The dog rose from his haunches, tail wagging, brown eyes staring into Piper’s. If dogs could speak, Piper knew this one would be saying, “Go ahead. Take me home. You won’t even know I’m there.”

      He walked out of the kennel with the volunteer, grinned a big, sloppy doggy grin and sat on Piper’s feet.

      She couldn’t help smiling as she leaned forward to scratch Samson behind his ears. His fur felt warm, smooth and much softer than she’d expected. Maybe taking a dog home wasn’t such a bad idea.

      She was going to take the dog. Cade could see it in Piper’s face—worry, dread and excitement. The dog knew it, too, his giant head pressed against Piper’s stomach, his eyes staring straight into hers. A con man if Cade had ever seen one.

      Piper rubbed the dog behind its ears. Then she straightened, her ponytail swinging with the movement. Brown fur stuck to the shimmering treble clef symbol on her T-shirt and she brushed it off, a frown line appearing between her brows as she met Cade’s gaze. “I guess you’re not going to try and talk me out of this.”

      “You told me not to let you go home with multiple dogs. You didn’t say anything about pony-sized ones.”

      “So, you don’t have any opinion about it?”

      “My opinion doesn’t count. You’re the one who’s got to live with him.”

      “I know. And I should probably get a smaller dog. But he’s just so…”

      “Pitiful?”

      “I was thinking sweet.” She looked disgruntled as she reached down to pat the dog’s head. “My brothers are going to think I’m insane. I can just hear Gray now—what were you thinking, Piper?”

      “So?”

      “You’d have to be the youngest child to understand.”

      “Maybe. But even if I were a youngest child instead of an only, I don’t think I’d let my siblings’ opinions keep me from doing what I thought was right.”

      “I don’t plan to. I’m just preparing myself for their disapproval.” Her voice was light, but there was an undercurrent of something—maybe frustration—lacing the words.

      “They won’t disapprove. The dog is big enough to scare away the most persistent intruder. Your brothers will appreciate that.” He gave in to temptation and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, letting the silky threads of it slide through his fingers.

      Her eyes widened, her face—usually pale porcelain—tinged pink and she stepped away, the frown line back between her brows. “One way or another, I’m about to find out.” She turned to the volunteer and smiled. “What do I need to do to adopt him?”

      

      An hour later they were on their way home and Piper was wondering what she’d gotten herself into. Again. She sighed, pulled the rubber band from her ponytail and rubbed the sore spot at the base of her neck. Talk about tension! Who knew deciding to adopt a dog could be so stressful? At least she had a few days to prepare for Samson’s arrival, though she wasn’t sure that was even possible. Samson was huge. Her house wasn’t. Maybe the SPCA would decide her bungalow wasn’t a suitable home for the dog she’d chosen. Piper couldn’t decide if that would be a disappointment, or a relief.

      “Regretting it already?” The quiet rumble of Cade’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

      “Not regretting it. Just wondering how I’m going to manage. I work a lot. Travel some. This summer I’ll be doing even more of that than usual.”

      “Yeah? Why’s that?”

      “I’ve been hired to write a book about the nonprofit organization my uncle founded.”

      “Music Makers?”

      “Yes. There’s going to be a huge fund-raising event next December. A twenty-fifth anniversary gala—those are Miriam’s words, not mine. The book is going to be given out as a gift.”

      “Miriam?”

      “Miriam Bradshaw. Curator of the Lynchburg Museum of Fine Arts. Friend of my uncle. Longtime supporter of Music Makers. She’s got a million hats and wears them all well. If I were half as organized and efficient as her, I’d be happy.”

      “You seem pretty organized and efficient to me.”

      She snorted.

      “You do.”

      “Because you don’t know me. But that’s not the point. The point is, I’m going to be traveling out of state to conduct interviews. Miriam wants the book to be a photo history of Music Makers’ service to the community. We’ve picked one or two people from each year, successful musicians who owe at least some of what they’ve accomplished to the foundation. We’ll get photos of the musician, his or her instrument, then…” What was she doing? Boring Cade to tears, most likely. She’d yet to meet a man who was even vaguely interested in what she did for a living.

      “Then what?”

      “Put the photos together with my commentary, but I think you’ve probably heard enough. I’m excited about the project and tend to talk about it incessantly.”

      “You’ve got a right to be excited. The book sounds great. Your uncle would have been pleased.”

      “I know.” She fell silent, not sure what else to say, the weight of her uncle’s death still heavy on her heart.

      She thought Cade might say something comforting, offer the same words she’d heard over and over since Marcus’s death. Instead, he reached for her hand and squeezed it, letting her have her silence.

      She cleared her throat, forced back her sadness. “It’s going to be hard to find someone to pet-sit this late in the season. Everyone already has plans.”

      “Not everyone.”

      “You know someone who might be willing to watch Samson?”

      “Sure do. My father.”

      “I thought he wasn’t doing well.”

      “He’d be doing a lot better if he’d stop feeling sorry for himself.” The words sounded harsh, СКАЧАТЬ