Abby and the Bachelor Cop / Misty and the Single Dad: Abby and the Bachelor Copy / Misty and the Single Dad. Marion Lennox
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were … were …
Let’s cut out the emotion here, she told herself hastily. This dog is nothing to do with you.
She fumbled under the dog for the door catch and climbed out of the car. The dog’s backside sort of slumped as she lifted him. Actually, both ends slumped.
She carried him back to Raff. The little dog looked up at her and his tail still wagged. It seemed a half-hearted wag, as if he wasn’t at all sure where he was but he sort of hoped things might be okay.
She felt exactly the same.
Raff was back in the middle of the crashed cars. ‘Raff, I can’t …’ she called.
Raff had given up trying to get Mrs Ford to steer. He had hold of her steering wheel and was steering himself, pushing at the same time, moving the car to the kerb all by himself. ‘Can’t what?’ he demanded.
‘I can’t take this dog anywhere.’
‘Henrietta says it’s okay,’ Raff snapped. ‘It’s the only one she’s caught. She’s trying to round up the others. Come on, Abby, the road’s clear—how hard is this? Just take him to the vet.’
‘I’m due in court in ten minutes.’
‘So am I.’ Raff shoved Mrs Ford’s car another few feet and then paused for breath. ‘If you think I’ve spent years getting Wallace Baxter behind bars, just to see you and your prissy boyfriend get him off because I can’t make it …’
‘Cut it out, Raff.’
‘Cut what out?’
‘He’s not prissy,’ she snapped. ‘And he’s not my boyfriend. You know he’s my fiancé.’
‘Your fiancé. I stand corrected. But he’s definitely prissy. I’ll bet he’s sitting in court right now, in his smart suit and silk tie—not like me, out here getting my hands dirty. Case for the prosecution—me and the time I can spare after work. Case for the defence—you and Philip and weeks of paid preparation. Two lawyers against one cop.’
‘There’s the Crown Prosecutor …’
‘Who’s eighty. Who sleeps instead of listening. This’ll be a no-brainer, even if you don’t show.’ He shoved the car a bit further. ‘But I’ll be there, whether you like it or not. Meanwhile, take the dog to the vet’s.’
‘You’re saying you want me to take the dog to the vet’s—to keep me out of court?’
‘I’m saying take the dog to the vet’s because there’s no one else,’ he snapped. ‘Your car’s the only one still roadworthy. I’ll radio Justice Weatherby to ask for a half hour delay. That’ll get us both there on time. Get to the vet’s and get back.’
‘But I don’t do dogs,’ she wailed. ‘Raff …’
‘You don’t want to get your suit dirty?’
‘That’s not fair. This isn’t about my suit.’ Or not very. ‘It’s just … What’s wrong with him? I mean … I can’t look after him. What if he bites?’
Raff sighed. ‘He won’t bite,’ he said, speaking to her as if she were eight years old again. ‘He’s a pussycat. His name’s Kleppy. He’s Isaac Abrahams’ Cairn Terrier and he’s on his way to be put down. Put him on your passenger seat and Fred’ll take him out at the other end. All I’m asking you to do is deliver him.’
It was twelve minutes to ten on a beautiful morning in Banksia Bay. The sun was warm on her face. The sea was glittering beyond the harbour and the mountain behind the town was blue with the haze of a still autumn morning. The sounds of the traffic chaos were lessening as Raff’s attempts at restoring order took effect.
Abby stood motionless, her arms full of dog, and Raff’s words replayed in her head.
He’s Isaac Abrahams’ Cairn Terrier and he’s on his way to be put down.
She knew Isaac or, rather, she’d known him. The old man had lived a mile or so out of town, up on Black Mountain where … well, where she didn’t go any more. Isaac had died six weeks ago and she was handling probate. Isaac’s daughter in Sydney had been into the office a couple of times, busy and efficient in her disposing of Isaac’s belongings.
There’d been no talk of a dog.
‘Can you get your car off the road?’ Raff said. ‘You’re blocking traffic.’
She was blocking traffic? But she gazed around and realised she was.
Somehow, magically, Raff had every other car to the side of the road. Raff was like that. He ordered and people obeyed. There were a couple of tow trucks arriving but already cars could get through.
There was no problem. All she had to do was get in the car—with dog—and drive to the vet’s.
But … to take a dog to be put down?
‘Henrietta should do this,’ she said, looking round for the lady she knew ran the Animal Shelter. But Raff put his hands on his cop hips and she thought any minute now he’d get ugly.
‘Henrietta has a van full of dogs to find,’ he snapped.
‘But she runs the Animal Shelter.’
‘So?’
‘So that’s where he needs to go. Surely not to be put down.’
Raff’s face hardened. She knew that look. Life hadn’t been easy for Raff—she knew that, too. When he was up against it … well, he did what he had to do.
‘Abby, I know this dog—I’ve known him for years,’ he told her, and his voice was suddenly bleak. ‘I took him to the Animal Shelter the night Isaac died. His daughter doesn’t want him and neither does anyone else. The only guy who loves him is Isaac’s gardener, and Lionel lives in a rooming house. There’s no way he can keep him. The Shelter’s full to bursting. Kleppy’s had six weeks and the Shelter can’t keep him any longer. Fred’s waiting. The injection will be quick. Don’t drag it out, Abby. Deliver the dog, and I’ll see you in court.’
‘But …’
‘Just do it.’ And he turned his back on her and started directing tow trucks.
He’d just given Abigail Callahan a dog and she looked totally flummoxed.
She looked adorable.
Yeah, well, it was high time he stopped thinking Abby was adorable. As a teenager, Abby had seemed a piece of him—a part of his whole—but she’d watched him with condemnation for ten years now. She’d changed from the laughing kid she used to be—from his adoring shadow—to someone he no longer liked very much.
He’d killed her brother.
Raff had finally come to terms with that long-ago tragedy—or he’d accepted it as much as he ever could—but he’d killed a part of her. How did a man get past that?
It was time he accepted that he never could.
What sort of name was Kleppy for a dog?
He shouldn’t have told her its name.
Only she would have figured it. The dog had a blue plastic collar, obviously standard Animal Welfare issue, but whoever had attached it had reattached his tag, as if they were leaving him a bit of personality to the end.
Kleppy.
The name had been scratched by hand on the back of what looked like a medal. Abby set the dog on her passenger seat—he wagged his tail again and turned round twice and settled—and she couldn’t help turning over his tag.
It was a medal. She recognised it and stared.
Old Man Abrahams had done something pretty impressive in the war. She’d heard rumours but she’d never had confirmation.
This