Inglath Cooper - A Year And A Day

But Audrey Colby? He didn’t think so.

He ran a hand over his face. Told himself to leave it alone.

As of tonight, by his own proclamation, he had started over with a career he could accept. No more crusades. No more families looking to him for justice. No more trying to fix in himself what could never be fixed.

Audrey Colby was married to one of the wealthiest men in Georgia. Probably had a life most women would sign up for in a heartbeat.

His problem? He needed to quit imagining that the whole world needed his help.

He turned into his driveway and hit the remote for the garage door.

Something darted out in front of him, seeking cover under the hedge of boxwoods separating his driveway from his neighbor’s.

A light above the garage illuminated the center of the driveway, but the bushes were shadowed, making it difficult to see anything.

He rolled down his window, then cut the engine. A soft whimper drifted from under the boxwoods.

Nicholas got out, walked over to the hedge and dropped to his knees. Two unblinking eyes stared back at him.

Black as the night sky, the dog wasn’t wearing a collar. It inched backward, making another whimpering sound.

Nicholas sighed. He just wanted to go to bed. Sleep for at least a dozen hours. He lifted the lower branches of the bush. “Hey,” he said. “Are you hurt? Come on out. Let me take a look.”

But the dog wasn’t budging.

Food. He needed a lure. The only thing he had in the car was chewing gum. He grabbed his keys from the ignition and let himself into the house, heading for the kitchen. It looked like a mini shrine to pizza takeout. Four empty boxes sat on the table. One sink was stacked high with coffee cups.

On Mondays, a cleaning service came in and got rid of the boxes, washed all the cups. It was a little like living in a hotel. A place to eat and sleep. Temporary.

He found a loaf of bread in the pantry and removed a couple of slices from the bag. He went back outside, dropped to his knees again, moisture seeping through his tuxedo pants. He held the bread out, tried some coaxing words. The dog sniffed, but didn’t move. Nicholas waved the bread around. No interest. He sat for a minute or so, tried again. Still not budging.

Finally, he stood. What else could he do? Drag the dog out from under the bush? He’d tried. He could go with a clear conscience. “Okay. I give up. I’m going in.”

But no sooner had he stepped away than the food won out. The dog crawled forward far enough to reach the bread, and gobbled it up in a single bite.

Medium-sized, it appeared no more than three inches wide at its thickest point. In the light, he could see white markings on its legs and chest. The dog’s coat was matted in places, dull by malnutrition or maybe parasites. It looked up at him, instantly shrinking to a crouching position. Nicholas’s stomach turned. He dropped to his knees again. “It’s not like that. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

The dog scooted away from him, then jumped up and trotted off toward the street.

Headlights flashed from the intersection at the corner. The dog sent an anxious glance over its shoulder. The car was almost in front of them now. Nicholas sprinted after the dog and lunged. The dog dropped flat, looking as if it wanted to melt into the driveway.

“Hey, it’s okay. I just didn’t want you to get on the road.” He reached out to rub the dog’s head. The animal quivered.

A clinic a few miles away stayed open all night. He could drop the dog off there, and they could figure out what to do with it.

He picked the animal up, carried it to the car, placed it in the passenger seat and eased the door closed.

He reached the clinic within five minutes, grateful to see lights on when he pulled into a parking space. He got out and jogged to the front door. A small plaque gave instructions to ring the bell. Someone would be right with him.

Thirty seconds later, a young woman appeared. “May I help you?”

“Yeah. I have a dog outside. It’s hurt,” he said.

“Do you need help bringing it in?”

“No. I’ll be right back.” He walked to the car and carefully opened the door. In the front seat, the dog had tucked itself nose to tail. He rubbed its back once, then picked it up as gently as possible. It whimpered again. “Sorry,” he said.

The young woman held the door for him and then led him to a waiting area and through a set of double doors into a large examining room. “I’m Dr. Filmore, the vet on call tonight.”

“Nicholas Wakefield.”

The walls were lined with large cages in which a few dogs were sleeping. A dark-brown cocker spaniel raised its head and whined.

“It’s all right, Bo,” Dr. Filmore said. “You can go back to sleep. On the table here,” she directed to Nicholas.

He placed the dog on the stainless tabletop as gently as he could. “I found it outside my house.”

The vet dipped her head, then looked back up. “She.”

“What?”

“The dog is a she.”

“Oh,” Nicholas said, nodding.

“She’s starving for one thing.” The vet was young, but she spoke to the dog in a soft, reassuring voice and ran her hands over her in a way that suggested she knew what she was doing. “I think her left hind leg is broken. It feels like she has a couple of busted ribs, as well. We’ll have to get some radiographs.”

“Could she have been hit by a car?”

“Maybe. More likely kicked from the way she’s acting,” the doctor said, her voice flat as a Kansas plain.

A sick feeling settled in Nicholas’s stomach. “You see this often?”

“Too often.”

He didn’t know what to say. What kind of person would kick a helpless dog? “Doesn’t it get to you?” he asked.

She sighed. “Yeah. It does. But the only alternative is to quit.”

He’d once said the same thing about his own profession. He admired her dedication. Wished for a moment that the fire of his convictions hadn’t burned out.

“So you’ll fix her up?”

She nodded. “The best I can. You could wait, or go home, and I’ll call you when I know something.”

“She’s not my dog.”

The doctor frowned. “Are you saying you don’t want to treat her?”

“No. I mean, yes, treat her. But I can’t take her home with me.”

The young woman dropped her gaze, then looked back up, her jaw a hard line. “Would you like to treat her first and then call Animal Control?”

He heard the disapproval in her voice, and yet he balked at the implication that he was somehow responsible just because he’d happened across the dog. “I can’t have a pet,” he said. “I work long hours. I’m not set up for—”

“Leave your information with the receptionist out front,” she interrupted, then turned her back to him in dismissal.

Nicholas glanced at the dog. She was stretched out with her head on her paws, eyes closed as if she could shut out everything around her. He swung back through the double doors, filled out the forms at the front desk in handwriting that was barely legible. He couldn’t get to his car fast enough.

But once he was there, he stared at the building.

Animal Control.

He slapped a hand against the leather steering wheel, got out and rang the after-hours bell again. The receptionist let him in this time and pointed at the doors leading to the examining room. “Go right on through.”

The vet was still busy working on the dog. She didn’t look up when Nicholas came in. “Yes, Mr. Wakefield?”

“Call me when she’s ready to go.”

The young doctor glanced up, her smile instantly removing him from her loser’s list. “Did you leave your number?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Have a good night then.”