Taken by Storm. HEATHER MACALLISTER
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and when it eventually moves along this line, the Midwest will be in for heavy snow, probably within the next couple of days...”
Snow. Zoey did not do snow. She didn’t see snow all that often and had driven in it only twice.
While she waited for Kate and Ryan to call with her itinerary, Zoey transferred samples of Skin Garden creams into airline-approved containers. Flying all over the country was a great opportunity to test which formulas best combated dry airplane air. She even added extras to make a nice gift bag for Alexandra’s owner. Word of mouth had to start someplace.
Near midnight, her sister called. “Hey, Zoey, sorry about the slop in the flight schedules, but not all the commuter planes have pressurized, temperature-controlled cargo holds. And the layover must be long enough to let Casper potty when you change planes in Chicago.”
Chicago. Chicago was in the Midwest. “Hey—have you been watching the weather? There’s a big storm—”
“It’s January. There’s always a big storm,” Kate snapped.
Zoey had kept the TV on for company, and the projections had changed over the past few hours. The storm was growing and moving faster than originally predicted. Meteorologists were thrilled and trying not to show it, which was never a good sign. “Maybe you should have the woman at your kennel put Casper on the plane in Richmond and I’ll just fly to Chicago and meet him there. It would save a day.”
“In other words, leave the kennels unattended for hours, and then let a future Grand Champion travel by himself?”
“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, he’ll be by himself in the cargo hold anyway. You should turn on the TV. I think this storm—”
“Zoey! You promised not to think!” Kate sucked in a deep breath. “Just follow the plan.”
Right. Zoey’s plans led to failure. Kate’s led to success. “I was just wondering about the effects of the snow.”
“I appreciate your concern, Zoey.” Ryan’s voice. “But Casper needs to become familiar with you and you’ll have to learn his routine. Believe me, it’ll make traveling with him a lot easier.”
* * *
AT CHICAGO’S O’HARE AIRPORT, Cam watched with a crowd of cranky passengers as flights on the departure monitors changed from “delayed” to “canceled.”
He should have called off his trip after waiting for hours at the Houston airport because he knew incoming flights from Denver had been delayed. Snow and ice. Hadn’t Colorado figured out how to deal with snow yet? And now the storm was bearing down on Chicago. If he couldn’t get a flight out, who knew how long he’d be stuck here?
Cam made his way to baggage claim to find out where the checked luggage was being stored. If it was in some unheated warehouse, then he’d have to retrieve the beer. The foam cooler would probably keep the bottles from freezing, but the samples of wort, hops and yeast weren’t protected.
He stepped off the escalator at baggage claim into a solid wall of people and lines that were so long, he couldn’t see the end of them. The babble and smell of overheated travelers made it hard to concentrate.
To heck with this. He’d find the climate-controlled shipments himself. Better to ask the guys actually handling the cargo than to rely on the agents at the counter, who could only repeat what they’d been told.
There weren’t as many people at the end of the building where the administrative offices were located, and Cam took a moment to appreciate the lack of crowd noise. And fresher air. As some of his stress eased, he heard a dog bark. Right. Pets would be traveling in the same cargo hold as his beer. Following the signs, Cam found the area where the animals were being held. Great. Another long line.
Several frazzled owners were trying to soothe their unhappy pets, but Cam’s eyes were immediately drawn to a woman struggling with a large dog wearing what looked like a shower cap and a blue jumpsuit with “Ryka’s Casper” embroidered on the side.
The dog’s butt was firmly planted on the floor; it did not want to go back into its crate. The woman gestured, clearly trying to reason with the animal. She finally grabbed the harness and slid the sitting dog toward the crate. The poor thing had probably been confined in there for hours already.
Cam and the rest of the waiting travelers silently watched as the woman struggled to remove little blue booties from the dog’s paws.
“Casper, please!” She slipped off her backpack and set it next to the crate. “They’re all wet. I don’t even know why I bothered.”
She bent over and the end of her knit scarf caught on the travel crate. As she tried to free the scarf, the dog pulled on its leash.
“Here, let me help you.” Cam quickly moved forward and knelt by the crate.
The scarf was striped red and white, like a candy cane, and made him smile as he unhooked it from the wire door.
“Thanks,” he heard as he straightened and came face to face with flushed cheeks, huge pale green eyes and a grateful but weary smile.
The air left his lungs as though he’d been punched in the chest. He stared, well aware he was staring, but he couldn’t stop. Worse, he didn’t want to stop. He’d happily devote whatever hours before his flight was rescheduled to staring at her and her sea-glass-colored eyes, her flushed cheeks and her...nose. Okay, there was nothing remarkable about her nose. He couldn’t call it cute or even little. She wasn’t crinkling it adorably or anything. It was just a nose. But it really looked good on her.
She did have nice skin—he noticed that. And brown hair, judging from the pieces of her bangs that stuck out from the candy-cane hood she wore. The hood appeared to be attached to her scarf, and he saw the remnants of a price sticker along the turned-up edge.
She blinked at him, and the wool fringe of her scarf moved through his fingers as she gently tugged.
“Oh.” He glanced down and gave a short laugh as he released the scarf. “I guess you want that back.” He stepped away to give her space because her smile seemed a little fixed.
The dog whined and pulled in the direction of the exit.
She didn’t say anything, and Cam didn’t say anything, either, although he wanted to. He was doing well just to remember to breathe. After months of easily chitchatting with the public during Saturday tours at the brewery, now Cam couldn’t string a sentence together to save his soul.
“I guess Casper didn’t get enough of the snow and slush, so I’m going to walk him some more.” She pointed over her shoulder as she backed away, the dog straining at his leash. “Thanks again.”
Cam opened his mouth to offer to walk with her, but he was afraid of coming off as stalkerish, so instead he said, “Have fun.” Yeah. That was the best he could come up with.
He stood, unmoving, and watched the dog pull her away. He couldn’t gauge much about her body beneath the wrinkled beige coat she wore, but her legs were encased in tight jeans tucked into boots. Nice.
She stopped walking and said something to the dog. Abruptly, the dog—Ryka’s Casper, according to the ridiculous doggie coat—returned to her side and froze, head up, tail curled and legs straight. She dug in the pocket of her coat and pulled out red-and-white striped gloves. No. Mittens. She was putting on mittens. Cam grinned, pegging her as one of those quirky, sexy girls. Usually, he avoided that type because the quirkiness wore on him after a few hours, but somehow he knew she was different. Her coat said practical, her legs said sexy, and the mitten/scarf/hat combo said quirky. He liked it. A lot.
Once her mittens were on, she gave a command to the dog and they trotted toward the door in perfect step.
A show dog. No wonder he was dressed in the fancy getup. Ryka’s Casper. Did that mean the woman’s name was Ryka?
Cam might have the opportunity to find out because it seemed he’d be