Waiting Out the Storm. Ruth Herne Logan

life, leaving a wife and three young kids to sweep up the remnants of his actions.

      Sarah had established a farm nearby. Goats? Sheep? Something wool-bearing, cleft-footed and ridiculously stupid. In Craig’s estimation, the description applied unilaterally. Al though he treated a wide range in a country animal practice, he’d developed favorites. Cattle. Horses. Dogs. Cats. Even pigs were a step up from sheep. At least pigs were intelligent. Sheep? Other end of the spectrum, entirely. No one in their right mind ate mutton, did they?

      Hank Townsend, the senior veterinary partner, generally handled Sarah’s veterinary needs, allowing Craig a wide berth. But he wasn’t there, and Craig couldn’t ignore the besieged dog. He glanced at Sarah. “You squeamish?” The question came out harsher than intended. A lot of people handled their own pain better than that of a loved one, including pets.

      Julie stepped forward. “I can stay, Craig. I’ll just call Glenn. He’ll understand.” Julie had a date tonight. Craig knew that because she’d chattered about it nonstop. Ralph, the other vet tech, had left over an hour before. And Maremmas…

      Craig kept his gaze on Sarah, noting her lowered eyes. The dark sweep of lashes against honey-toned cheeks. High cheeks, at that, smooth and unblemished, not a freckle or mole in sight. “I know you’d stay, but Maremmas are singular creatures. They’re bred to identify with their owner. They don’t shift allegiance readily.”

      “I’ll help.”

      Sarah’s lack of inflection offered nothing. He eyed her, appraising, noting the air of capability belying her small size, then jerked his head toward the door. “Head out, Julie. We’ll be fine.”

      “You’re sure?” At his nod, Julie moved back. “Thanks, Craig. I owe you.”

      “No problem.” Craig prepared the anesthetic as he spoke, studying the animal scale. “Ninety-six,” he observed, glancing up.

      Sarah nodded, jaw set.

      Julie turned, then swung back. “Bagels in the morning?”

      “With garden vegetables cream cheese.”

      “Can do.” She shifted an uneasy glance from Craig to Sarah, then left, her footsteps soft against the tiled floor.

      Turning full attention to the suffering dog, Craig bent. “Sorry, fella. I’ll be quick.”

      As Craig administered the medication, Sarah eased small, capable hands down the dog’s ruff, her tawny skin a contrast to the dog’s white coat. She whispered to the dog, occasionally dropping her face to the thick fur, nuzzling. She seemed oblivious to Craig, which was probably best. Small talk options were limited. Her family?

      No.

      His?

      Ditto.

      Her farm?

      Not if he wanted to be anything construed as sociable. The finer points of sheep were lost on Craig, and lamb wasn’t a dish his Irish mother offered except at Easter.

      That left the weather. Or…

      “Beautiful dog.” Craig eyed the Maremma with a hint of envy, remembering his Lab’s youth. Rocket was nearing fifteen now, slow to rise, and mostly deaf. Old age didn’t go easy on big dogs, and his barrel-chested chocolate Lab with a graying muzzle was no exception. “Yes.”

      She wasn’t giving him much to work with, but maybe a quiet surgical intervention was better than empty words. Head bent, Craig snipped the quill ends with surgical scissors. Seeing her look of question, he explained, “Cutting the ends releases air pressure, making removal easier. Less painful.”

      “But he’s under.”

      Her stoic tone caricatured Native Americans, her deep voice calm and unemotional. Craig nodded. “He wouldn’t feel it now, but withdrawing the quills with the pressure would make the punctures more painful during recovery. The holes have to get larger to withdraw the spines if I don’t cut them.”

      “Oh.”

      Silence stretched again, the passing seconds marking time from the old analog wall clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. “How old is Gino?”

      Sarah’s long, dark braid fell across her cheek as she soothed the dog. Her mother had been a Native American mix, Craig remembered, though he’d never met her. She’d died, when? Twelve years back, give or take. Long enough to have her self-absorbed stepsons grown and gone, while Sarah would have been a teenager.

      At least Peg Slocum hadn’t lived to feel the shame of Tom Jr.’s crimes. Craig thinned his lips, concentrating on the sensitive mouth of the Italian guard dog. The uncomfortable recovery could enervate the young dog, but he should be fine in the long run.

      “Ten months. Nearly eleven.”

      Her answer took so long, Craig nearly forgot the question. “Did you rebreed his mother?”

      “Next time.”

      “Must make it interesting during heat cycles.” Craig eyed the dense mass of Gino and envisioned his sire. Substantial, like the son, and probably difficult to discourage when a nearby female was in heat.

      “Neighbors take him.”

      “I see.”

      His cell phone vibrated. He glanced at the numerical page and bit back a twinge of guilt when Maggie James’ number flashed in the small display.

      He’d dated the local nurse several times over the winter, making her what? The third nurse he’d dated? Fourth, he realized. Amy, Kayla, Brianna and Maggie. Hadn’t his buddy Marc joked that the hospital installed a new warning system designed to alert the female staff when he was on site? Very funny.

      He’d ended the short-lived relationship after the Maple Fest. What should have been a fun late-winter day had been relegated to shopping indoor craft booths because Maggie hadn’t dressed warmly enough for the outdoor festival, more concerned with her outfit than the event.

      Craig liked people. He embraced country life, the rigors of treating animals in all kinds of conditions. He felt equally at home in office or barn.

      But not sheep barns.

      Employing gentle twists and flicks, he withdrew the last barbs from the dog’s muzzle, then stepped away to gather ointment and antibiotics. After glancing at his watch, he wrote instructions on a small prescription pad.

      “You know how to administer pills to a dog?”

      “Yes.”

      He handed Sarah the vial and the salve. “Apply the salve twice a day. The pills are an antibiotic to prevent infection. Some of those quills went deep. You’ve got enough for ten days. If you see signs of infection or need a follow-up, give Hank a call.”

      They both understood the meaning of his words. Nodding, she sank her hand into the dog’s ruff. “Come on, fella. Let’s go.”

      “He’ll be woozy. Might want to wait a few minutes, let him shake off the effects of the anesthetic.” Regardless of the human awkwardness, the dog should have a few minutes of quiet, rejoin-the-world time. Walking the thick-set dog through the door, Sarah nodded, her chin tucked.

      “We’ll wait outside so you can close up.” The weight of the dog listed her step. At the second entry she turned. “You stayed late,” she said, her deep tone a blend of smooth gold and rough, gravel roads. A different sound, unique to her. A voice that suited her caramel skin, the long, thick braid, the high cheekbones that hinted at her Native American ancestry. She looked anywhere but at him. “Thank you.”

      He had no pleasantries to exchange with her. Nothing that wouldn’t sound trite and manufactured. He huffed a breath as he shut and locked the door.

      Minutes later he cruised out of the lot. Slowing his SUV to negotiate the turn, he noted the woman and dog in the cold front yard of the veterinary clinic.

      Straight and still, she perched