Making Christmas Special Again / Their One-Night Christmas Gift. Karin Baine
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hospital administrator, who has agreed to stall the sale until the new year. If the Christmas ball goes to plan, the hospital is happy to leave Plants to Paws as is.’
‘In perpetuity?’ Max obviously had his own set of conditions.
‘Precisely. The only thing—’
He huffed out a laugh. ‘I knew there was a catch.’
She let her eyebrows take the same haughty position his had earlier. ‘The only thing, Dr Kirkpatrick, is that I require the head of each charity to select two patients whom you think might benefit from a service dog.’
‘Oh. You require it, do you?’
She ignored him and soldiered on. ‘We can offer the patient two weeks of one-to-one training at the canine therapy centre, all expenses included, and a follow-up care package if they have financial difficulties.’
His expression didn’t change, but she could see he was actively considering her offer.
‘What sorts of things do your dogs do, apart from search and rescue?’ Max asked.
She smiled. She might have trouble bragging about herself, but she could big up her dogs until the cows came home. ‘We have service dogs specially trained to work with epileptics, diabetics, people with cancer, people with mobility problems. I imagine you see the full gamut of patients in A and E. I’ll forward you a full list of the services we can provide. We also have emotional support dogs, who work with people suffering from PTSD or anxiety.’
He nodded. ‘Would I have to play any part in this?’
Normally he would, but no way was she inviting Max Kirkpatrick to Heatherglen. He was setting off way too many alarm bells. Before guilt could set in, she reminded herself that she made the rules. She could also bend them.
‘Apart from attend the ball to receive a big fat cheque?’ She shook her head. ‘Not necessary. We’re an all bells and whistles facility, so…’ The lie came a bit too easily. She always invited the charity founder to join the patients and their families up at Heatherglen, but two weeks in close proximity with Max Kirkpatrick at this time of year, when the castle was romantically bedecked for the festive season? Not. Going. To. Happen.
Her mouth continued talking while her brain scrambled to catch up. ‘We run the training sessions at our canine therapy training centre. There’s also a medical rehabilitation clinic my brother runs in the main building. I have a week-long slot from December fifteenth up until the twenty-third of December, when we hold the ball. I understand the timing could be awkward with Christmas and family obligations, but as the developer is so keen to get construction under way, I thought we’d best get cracking. The patients could take the dogs home over the holidays then return for a second week of training sometime in January. If that suits.’
She watched his face go through a rapid-fire range of emotions. All of which he erased before she could nail any of them down.
‘I’m fine with that,’ he said evenly. ‘As long as we make a few of my guidelines clear.’
Esme couldn’t help it. She laughed. ‘Excuse me, Dr Kirkpatrick. If I’m not mistaken, I’m the one helping you here and as such—’
‘As such,’ he cut in, ‘I don’t want you steamrolling my charity into something it isn’t.’
‘And what makes you think I plan on doing that?’
‘Bitter experience.’
The second the words were out of his mouth Max regretted them. Hearing Gavin Henshall’s name had a way of catapulting him straight back into the scrawny fourteen-year-old kid who’d mown lawns, taken out rubbish and thrown himself at all the rest of the chores his stepfather had set him as if his life had depended on it, only to discover he’d changed the goalposts. Again.
Military academy, apprenticeships over the summer holidays, boot camp. No matter what he’d done or how hard he’d worked, he had never been permitted into the house to shield his mum from the emotionally abusive relationship she’d unwittingly married into.
Not that he blamed her. They’d both fallen for Gavin’s smooth lines. He’d promised her love, respect, a house with a big garden on the right side of town. A proper education for her ‘shockingly bright boy’, the son he’d always hoped to have.
How the hell Gavin had convincingly passed off the lies still astounded him. The only plus side of the cancer that had taken his mother’s life was that it had freed her, at long last, from Gavin. It was more than he’d been able to do.
He shook his head and forced himself to focus on the here and now.
Esme Ross-Wylde didn’t strike him as a steamroller socialite. The type of do-gooder who blithely floated round the city flinging gold coins for the ‘have nots’ to do her bidding. Sour memories teased at his throat. Money brought power and no one had made that clearer to him than Gavin. ‘You earn your keep? You’re in. You don’t? You’ll have to learn how to make a real man of yourself.’
‘What’s your role in all of this?’ Max had already been hit by one bombshell today. This one—the Henshall H-bomb—was making it harder to harness any charm. If he was going to tell everyone who cared about Plants to Paws it was going to survive, he needed to trust it was a genuine offer. Trusting a woman who could clearly cut and run from any scenario that didn’t suit her was a tall order.
‘Apart from being Mrs Claus, you mean?’ She pursed her lips in a way that suggested he’d definitely hit a sore spot then said, ‘As well as running the foundation, I’m a vet and an animal behaviour specialist. I also pick up poo, in case that’s what you’re really asking.’
It was all he could do not to laugh. Brilliant. Esme Double-Barrelled-Fancy-Boots picked up poo. It was a skilful way to tell him there was a vital, active brain behind the porcelain doll good looks. A woman who wanted to be mistress of her own destiny as much as he’d worked to be master of his.
‘That it?’ He knew he was winding her up, but…his flirting skills were rusty. Rusted and covered in a thick layer of dust if he was being honest.
Her smile came naturally, clearly more relaxed when talking about her work. ‘The vet clinic is the only one in our area and the therapy centre’s busy pretty much round the clock. The service dogs are trained to aid patients with specific tasks they are unable to do themselves. Like press an alert button for someone having an epileptic seizure, for example. Much like a dog who works on a bomb squad or for drug detection, they are not for the general public to cuddle and coo over.’
‘That’s the therapy dog’s job?’ Max liked hearing the pride in her voice as she explained.
‘A therapy dog’s main role is to relieve stress and, hopefully, bring joy—but often on a bigger scale. Retirement homes, hospital wards, disaster areas. An emotional support dog tends to provide companionship and stress relief for an individual. People with autism, anyone suffering from PTSD. Social anxiety. That sort of thing.’
Max nodded. The smiles on the faces of patients when they were reunited with their pets out here in the garden spoke volumes. Pets brought joy. Too bad people couldn’t be counted on to do the same.
She continued, ‘We’re obviously highly selective, but find that dogs who come from animal rescue centres are particularly good for emotional support, learning and PTSD. The bigger dogs are wonderful with ex-soldiers who might need a service and emotional support dog all in one big furry package.’
He gave a brisk nod at that one. A few guys from his platoon could probably do with a four-legged friend. He still didn’t know how he’d managed four tours in the Middle East without as much as a scratch. Physically, anyway. Emotionally? That was a whole mess he’d probably never untangle. ‘And your brother? The one with the medical clinic?’ Max crossed his arms again. ‘How much of a say does he have in who