Breakaway. Rochelle Alers
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the driveway rather than in the two-car garage. Moving quickly, she got out, unlocked the door and disengaged the alarm, while leaving the front door open.
She retrieved her bag, spread a stack of towels on the table in the kitchen’s dining area and turned a hanging light fixture to the brightest setting. She’d placed two pairs of latex gloves and the instruments needed to clean and suture the wound in the dog’s side on a folded pillowcase when Gavin walked into the kitchen, cradling the puppy to his chest.
“Put him down on his uninjured side,” Celia ordered Gavin. “After I wash up I want you to do the same.”
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Why?”
She gave him a dimpled smile. “You’re going to be my assistant.”
“Oh, hell, no,” Gavin protested.
“Oh, hell, yes, Gavin Faulkner! If you didn’t care about this animal you never would’ve stopped. Now, stop sniveling and do as I tell you.”
Gavin glared at Celia. He wasn’t sniveling. In fact, he’d never sniveled about anything in his life. He wanted to tell her only girls sniveled but didn’t want her to think he was a sexist.
Celia took his silence as acquiescence. “Please watch him while I go and wash up.”
Taking off his cap, Gavin tossed it on one of the four chairs at the oaken round table. His gaze shifted between the motionless puppy and Celia’s retreating back. He hadn’t realized how slim Celia was until he saw her from the back. She was taller and much slimmer than women who usually garnered his attention. At six-four and two hundred twenty pounds, he liked women who were a bit more substantial than the sharp-tongued doctor.
He’d only mentioned the possibility of her being married because of her hyphenated last name. There were many professional women who’d elected to keep their maiden names.
Exchanging places with Celia, Gavin went into the half bath off the kitchen to wash his hands and forearms. He felt like an actor stepping into a fictional role as a surgeon when using a nail brush and antibacterial soap to scrub his fingers. Shaking off the excess water, he returned to the kitchen. Standing only inches from Dr. Celia Cole-Thomas, he smiled down at her head when she dabbed his arms and hands with a towel before holding a pair of latex gloves for him to slip on.
“Damn, Doc, they’re too tight.”
Celia shot him a frown. “Stop whining, Gavin. They won’t be on long enough to cut off your circulation.” He tried flexing his fingers. “Stop that or you’ll rip them,” she added, this time in a softer tone as she slipped her hands into a pair of gloves.
“Why do I have to wear them if you’re going to perform the procedure?”
“I’m operating in what is a non-sterile environment. I’m going to put Terry under, and I’m going to need you to hold him steady.”
Gavin gave her a sidelong glance. “When did he become Terry?”
“He’s a fox terrier, therefore, he’s Terry.”
“You can’t name someone else’s dog, Doc.”
“Stop calling me that. And I doubt if he’s anyone’s pet. He’s filthy and undernourished, which means he’s probably a stray.”
Celia ripped open a package with a sterile syringe and inserted it into a bottle of morphine, filling the syringe with a small amount of clear liquid. “Please hold him, Gavin. He’s going to feel a little prick.”
Gavin held the puppy’s head between his palms. “How do you know how much to give him?”
“It’s based on body weight. I doubt if this little guy weighs more than seven pounds. You, on the other hand, would have to be injected with the entire bottle before you’d go out.”
His eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”
Celia swabbed an area on the puppy’s hip, wiping away dirt and debris. If she’d had the time, or if the wound hadn’t been infected, she would have given the dog a bath. She gave Gavin a quick glance. “You’re at least six-four or five, and I’m willing to bet you weigh about two-twenty or thirty, and that translates into injecting you with a lot more morphine to put you down than what I’m going to give Terry.”
Gavin exhaled an audible breath. “I really don’t like the term put down.”
Terry let out a small yelp with a prick of the needle. Seconds later he lay completely still. His ribs were clearly visible under a sparse coat of grimy, light-colored wiry fur.
Celia winked at Gavin, her gaze lingering on his cropped black hair. “Not to worry, Mr. Faulkner, I promise not to put you down. You can let go of his head now.”
Concentrating intently, she shaved the area around the wound and cleaned the infected flesh. She applied a topical antibiotic then closed the laceration with small, even sutures.
Gavin leaned over to survey her surgical skill. “You do very nice work, Dr. Thomas.”
“Thank you. You can take your gloves off now.”
“When is he going to wake up?”
“He’ll probably sleep for the next two to three hours. I’m going to call the animal hospital in Asheville to let them know I want to bring him tomorrow for an observation. After that, I’m going to try and clean him up.”
“I’ll do that,” Gavin volunteered as he gently lifted the puppy off the table.
Celia gave him a skeptical look. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Yes, I’m very sure. Where are you going to wash him?”
“We’ll use the mudroom.”
She led the way across the kitchen to a side door that led to an unheated mudroom. It was where she stored garden equipment and did her laundry. She filled two plastic basins: one with warm water and a mild shampoo and the other with lukewarm water for rinsing. Reaching for cleaning cloths from a stack in a canvas basket, she spread them out on the utility table attached to a wall.
“Gavin, please try and not wet the sutures.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said as she turned and walked out.
He dipped a cloth into the soapy water, wringing out most of the moisture, then began the task of washing and rinsing the grime covering the puppy’s fur. Gavin poured out the water, refilling each bin before he was able to discern the white coat with a faint tan patch of color on the back of the neck, back and above the tiny tail. Wrapping a fluffy towel around the canine, he picked him up and dropped a kiss on the top of his head.
Celia stopped in the doorway to the mudroom, smiling when she saw the tender moment between Gavin and the dog. There was something about him that enthralled her. The longer she remained in his presence, the more she knew it had nothing to do with his face or body.
Even as an adolescent, she’d never been one to find herself attracted to a boy because he was cute. For Celia, it was always deeper than that. With Yale, it had been his passion for medicine, yet with Gavin she hadn’t been able to identify what it was. For all she knew he could be married with half a dozen children.
When his head came up, he saw her staring at him. “He smells wonderful.”
She smiled. “He looks adorable. I spoke to a veterinarian at the animal hospital, and he’s set up an appointment to see Terry at eleven.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Celia shook her head. “Don’t bother. I can take him.”
“Are you going to be able to hold him while you drive?”
“Maybe I’ll ask my neighbor to go with me if she’s not busy.” Children’s book illustrator Hannah Walsh was also a stay-at-home mother. She was now in her last trimester with her second child.
“I’m