One Man's Promise. Diana Whitney
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strained gasps ceased, the child’s breathing deepened as she focused a skeptical stare. “I already take good care of Rags.”
“I’m sure you do, but did you know, for example, that Rags loves bananas?” The girl’s eyes widened. “That’s right, but if he eats more than two bites, he gets really, really sick, so you have to be sure to keep them out of reach. He likes apples, too, but again, you have to be careful how much he can have. There are certain brands of dog food he won’t eat.”
The girl brightened. “Daddy had to buy three different kinds before he found one Rags liked.”
“You see? You’ve already discovered one of his secrets. He’s finicky, and as long as you feed him apples and bananas, he figures he doesn’t have to bother with stuff he doesn’t really like. You have to be careful only to give him treats that are good for him. His tummy can be sensitive.”
Lissa nodded solemnly. “Is he allergic, like me?”
“Well, he reacts badly to fleabites, I’m afraid, but that can be controlled. I have some medicine that helps him. I’ll—”She paused, bit her lip, then managed a tremulous smile. “I’ll bring it to you.”
The child cocked her head. “You will?”
“Yes. I’ll bring you all of his vet records, and his favorite toys, too, but you have to promise me that you’ll watch him carefully, especially when he’s on his skateboard, because sometimes he doesn’t pay attention to—”
Richard interrupted. “Skateboard?”
C.J. glanced up with a shaky smile that made his heart quiver strangely. “Rags is quite the little sports dog. He also jumps rope, surfs and knows how to ride a windjammer. I was planning to take hang gliding lessons this summer, and had a special harness made so he could come with me....” Her voice drifted away.
Lissa’s eyes were appreciatively wide. “Gee, Rags does lots of tricks, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.” It was a whisper. C.J. cleared her throat, offered a bright smile with quivering corners. “But he can also be quite a rascal. He’ll try to get away with lots of things that are dangerous. You’ll have to learn how to protect him, and keep him safe. You have to train him to respond to you. I can teach you how, if you like.”
It was a generous offer. For a moment, Richard thought Lissa might actually accept. Instead, the child’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I can do it all by myself.” Lissa spun, strode to the front door, paused with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Ragsy is my dog. He doesn’t need you anymore.”
“Lissa!” Richard flinched as the front door slammed, then faced the shaken woman rising to her feet. “I’m sorry.”
C.J. shrugged. “It’s all right. This has been difficult for her. I understand.” Oddly enough, he believed that she did. She raked a hand through her hair, took a deep breath, then suddenly fumbled in her slacks pocket and extracted a business card. “I’ll forward Rags’s things. If you have any questions or problems, you can reach me here.”
He absently glanced at the card, did a double take. “‘All That Jazz Academy of Dance’?”
“If I’m not there, that number will forward to my beeper.”
She licked her lips, blinked rapidly. Too rapidly. “Please give my regards to Lissa. Tell her I’m glad Rags found such a good home.”
“Ms. Moray—”
But she’d spun away, crossed the yard and was already climbing into her car. A moment later, she drove down the street and disappeared, leaving Richard both relieved and conflicted.
For the sake of a child she did not even know, C. J. Moray had relinquished all claim to the pet she clearly adored. He was grateful, of course, but he was also deeply saddened by the niggling sense that this might have been one battle his daughter should not have won.
“You just left him there?” Under the best of circumstances Bobbi Macafee was an imposing woman, tall, broad shouldered, with a thick mane of ebony hair and a horsey face that oddly enough was not unattractive. When perturbed, that face tightened into a furious mask, reddened like a neon beet and was frightening enough to have once cowed a professional wrestler, who’d unwisely refused to pose for a photograph, into hiding behind his trainer to escape her wrath.
Now Bobbi loomed large and intimidating, jammed her fists on her hips and gaped at C.J. as if she’d just confessed to abandoning an infant on a doorstep. “How could you do such a thing? I mean, Rags is family! You might as well have given up your own child!”
“There wasn’t any choice,” C.J. mumbled, retrieving the palm-sized glucometer from a kitchen shelf. She pricked her finger, smeared a blood drop on a test strip, which she inserted into a slot at the side of the machine. “That little girl loves Rags. She would have been devastated to lose him.”
“What about you?” Bobbi insisted. “Don’t your feelings count?”
“I’m a grown-up. She’s a child, a sick, lonely little girl who desperately needs love.” C.J. checked the digital readout for her blood sugar level, then put the glucometer away, measured a precise amount of orange juice into a glass and prepared a lean turkey sandwich for lunch.
Behind her Bobbi paced and fumed, ranting about the injustice of the world. C.J. ignored her. Although fiercely loyal and opinionated to the point of irksome, Bobbi was first and foremost a dear friend. They were like sisters, had been since their college days, and C.J. understood that the guilt of having been responsible for Rags’s loss in the first place weighed heavily on her roommate’s conscience.
Not that C.J. blamed her. Moving an entire household wasn’t easy, even for a woman who could bench-press two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t Bobbi’s fault she’d been left to tackle the task alone. If anyone was responsible for Rags’s loss, it was C.J. herself. She should have been there to protect her precious pet during the move.
“You should sue,” Bobbi announced, nodding so vigorously that her spectacles slipped down her nose. “I know a lawyer—”
“No.”
“But the county was negligent! Honest to God, Ceejz, I called the shelter six times a day for two solid weeks after Rags ran away, and every dadgummed time they said no animal of that description had been picked up. They lied, they screwed up, they gave your dog away, for Pete’s sake! Someone has to be held accountable for that.”
Heaving a sigh, C.J. set the orange juice down. “No lawyers, no lawsuits. It’s over. I’ve made my decision. Rags is happy, well cared for, and loved. Please, can’t we drop it now? This entire subject is...painful.”
Bobbi’s face crumpled in despair. “Oh, hon—” She stepped forward, stopped when C.J. raised a palm to signal that she was perfectly fine and didn’t wish to be fussed over.
Of course, C.J. wasn’t perfectly fine and Bobbi clearly knew that. She also understood C.J.’s aversion to being the subject of worry or concern, and respected her silent request even if her furrowed brow displayed disagreement with it.
Frustrated, Bobbi straightened her glasses, heaved a deflating sigh. “Look, I have to go. The magazine is sending me out to interview an over-the-hill jockey who’s accusing some racing association of age discrimination.”
CJ. nodded without comment, took a bite of sandwich while her roommate hustled around the cluttered room gathering her briefcase, pocket recorder, camera and other tools of the journalistic trade.
Pausing at the front door, Bobbi shouldered the briefcase strap, raked red-tipped fingers through her thick tangle of long black hair and regarded her friend with blatant concern. “Are you going to be all right, Ceejz? I can reschedule this thing—”
“I’m fine,” C.J. assured her. “You go, do your job.” She enforced that