Operation Soldier Next Door. Justine Davis

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СКАЧАТЬ grab a sizable dog he barely knew and try to drag him out. Something had him fascinated, and—

      The pot.

      He realized suddenly that the dog was staring at Lacy Steele’s cooking pot. Or whatever it was. That kind of big, tall pot had a name; his grandmother’d had one, but he couldn’t remember what she’d called it. He’d finished the stew last night—and it had been as good as it had smelled—and had thoroughly washed the pot when he’d finished. And there on the counter it had been ever since, because he couldn’t quite work himself up to taking it back to her.

      “It’s empty, dog,” he said sourly.

      Cutter glanced at him then, and Tate had the strangest feeling that had he been human, it would have been the equivalent of “Well, duh.” Maybe it was because obviously the dog’s nose would have told him that.

      But he went back to staring at the pot, anyway. Only now he started glancing at Tate every few seconds, expectantly.

      “What is it you want?” he asked after the third time through the cycle. “You know it’s empty. And you can’t possibly know it doesn’t belong here.”

      Or maybe he did know, Tate thought suddenly. And almost on the thought, the person to ask knocked on his front door.

      “Morning, Tate. I’m assuming my errant dog is here again?” Hayley Foxworth asked cheerfully as he opened the door. She was in running clothes, with her hair tucked up into a Seahawks cap. Her green eyes were bright, as if reflecting her mood. Or maybe the green on the cap.

      “Leash?” he suggested wryly, then regretted it; he wanted to ask her something, not make her mad. At least her husband wasn’t with her to give him that warning look again if he didn’t like the way Tate spoke to his wife. And the man was impressive enough that Tate knew a fight would be a real one. Quinn Foxworth wasn’t someone to trifle with. He was the kind of man you wanted on your side, and the kind you dreaded to come up against.

      “Wouldn’t do any good,” Hayley said, her cheerful tone unchanged. “He’s on a mission, and he’ll find a way.”

      “A mission?” Tate repeated, diverted for the moment. “What mission?”

      “You,” the woman answered simply.

      Tate blinked. “Me?”

      “Whatever your problem is.”

      “My problem,” he said, speaking carefully, “is a dog who keeps showing up and interrupting what I’m trying to get done.”

      “Maybe you should put him to work.”

      “What?”

      She smiled, and it matched her tone. Quinn Foxworth, Tate thought, was a lucky guy.

      “He knows a hammer from a screwdriver from a wrench, and he’s happy to fetch and carry.”

      He blinked. Again. “You’re saying if I tell him to bring me a hammer out of a pile of tools—”

      “He will. Helpful if you need to nail something you can’t let go of.” As if she hadn’t just boggled him she went on in that same jovial tone. “So where is the lad?”

      “In the kitchen. Staring at a pot. An empty pot,” he added, to explain how odd it was.

      “Hmm” was all she said.

      “He must hear you out here,” Tate said, truly puzzled now. “Why hasn’t he come out?”

      “Told you. Dog on a mission.”

      “So you said. But I don’t have a problem. At least, not one he can fix.”

      She laughed. “You might be surprised. But I’ll go get him, if it’s all right?”

      Smothering a sigh, he nodded. When she hesitated and he realized she didn’t know, he pointed toward the kitchen and remembered what he’d wanted to ask in the first place.

      “Has he been here before?” he asked as he followed her into the room where the dog’s tail wagged happily, but he didn’t move from his selected spot. “Before the explosion, I mean.”

      “Not that I know of.”

      “So he didn’t...know my grandfather?”

      “I don’t think so,” Hayley said, an understanding look dawning on her face. “Nope, it’s all you.”

      Tate wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Or the knowledge that his theory that the dog kept showing up here because he was looking for Gramps had just been shot down.

      “So, that’s the pot?” she asked, looking at it where it sat innocently on the counter.

      “Yes.”

      “Doesn’t fit with the rest,” she said with a glance at the overhead rack his grandmother had so loved, but that he was seriously considering taking out now that he’d banged his head on the low-flying skillet once too often.

      “No.” She just looked at him, waiting. You and your dog, he thought, his mouth quirking. Finally he gave in. “It belongs next door.”

      “Ah. Your charming neighbor.”

      When she wasn’t sniping at him for his bad manners, Tate thought. Rightfully so, his conscience nudged.

      “He probably wants you to take it back to her, then.”

      For a third time Tate blinked, this time long and slow, and with a shake of his head.

      “Dog,” he said—unnecessarily, he thought.

      “Yes,” Hayley agreed. “And I would have thought you, of all people, would realize some dogs are different than your run-of-the-mill house pet.”

      She had him there. And, judging by her expression, she knew it.

      He was saved from trying to answer by yet another knock on the door. He stifled a grimace.

      “Grand Central Station here this morning, huh?” Hayley said with a grin.

      “Seems like,” he muttered, and wasn’t really surprised when he opened the door and found his charming neighbor on the porch.

      “Sorry to bother you,” she began.

      “That ship already sailed this morning,” he said, gesturing at the dog, who had suddenly abandoned his obsession and had come trotting happily out to greet the clearly very welcome Lacy Steele. As if the dog lived here, and not him, Tate thought wryly.

      “Well, hello there, furry one,” Lacy said, reaching to pet the dog then scratch behind his ears. Cutter sighed happily and leaned in as Lacy looked up and smiled at Tate. He was still taken aback at the jolt that had given him when she looked past him and said, “And you, too,” telling him Hayley had followed her dog out of the kitchen.

      “Good morning,” Hayley said. “I’m here to retrieve my dog. Again. Before Tate’s СКАЧАТЬ