Читать книгу Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Lou Allin - Страница 9

She drove down West Coast Road through corridors where massive Douglas firs had fueled life for over a century. Now that the rains and cooler weather had arrived, the smell of wood fires filled the air, despite B.C. Hydro’s fourth cheapest power in North America. Many retired neighbours, who had long careers in the forestry industry and enjoyed access to the scrap lots, appreciated the free heat. Suddenly a clear-cut broke the sylvan dream, a few token trees left standing amid the wreckage.

Long rows of power poles marched by the roadside, fragile nineteenth-century technology. After every storm in which lines were taken by falling trees, calls came for the wires to be buried. In new subdivisions, they were. Otherwise, the cost was prohibitive.

The microcosm of the timber industry on Vancouver Island continued. On one side, like a miniature graveyard with tiny white stakes for monuments, were acres of trial seedlings. On the another, a forest planted in 1948. Trees a foot and a half in diameter for six decades of growth. Her mother had been born that year.

On Otter Point Place at last, she crested the sloping driveway and parked her car behind her father’s toy-sized Smart Car, bright red with a bumptious attitude. A muted bark caught her attention. The hillside overlooking the strait resembled a bandshell, reverberating with sounds from all directions. Next door lived Katie, a black lab. Up the hill on the next parallel street, Randy’s Place, were several dogs and a new litter of puppies. She pushed open the back door and found a furry head in her groin. A border collie, young and agile and ready for play. White paint seemed to have been spilled down its ebony head in perfect symmetry. Strange to see a dog in the house after all this time. Bruna had been part of her childhood, followed by Nikon. He’d gone to Rainbow Bridge a month after her mother had vanished. After that, closing himself off to all comforting connections with the excuse that any dog was too much expense and trouble, her father had lived a solitary life.

“What’s going on?” she called as she ruffled its silken fir and traced its ribs ever so slightly, a sign of fitness. “Where did this guy come from? Is it a stray? It looks too healthy to have been on its own for long.”

Her father came through the TV room with a dishcloth in his hand. The smell of liver and onions made her stomach lurch. Doing the shopping for him, she had stocked Chef Boy-ar-dee ravioli in the cupboard, her default meal.

“He’s a rescue. Got him today,” he said. “And he’s been neutered already. A bonus.”

“Why have you been keeping this a secret?” she asked with a nervous laugh. It was his house, and he could do what he wished. His occasional sadness worried her, though he always seemed to pull himself together. Company might smooth things out. As for the comical but shallow breed, there was no accounting for tastes. On the island, border collies could do no wrong. They had free passes for any mischief.

His lean and serious face seemed to relax as he petted the animal. His eyebrows were growing fuzzy and unruly, another sign of an old man. “Suppose I have. Just wanted to think it over. I’ve seen him over by Wink’s at the soccer field. There’s a rescue place on Sooke River Road. Run by a lady called Shannon.”

“Why a border collie?” She didn’t like to discourage her father, but everyone knew that breed was high energy. This wasn’t a farm. It wasn’t even fully fenced, with the front open and one side a hedge of cedars.

“Thanks to the wise breeding of working dogs, their health is excellent and their disposition generally good. I know you loved our sheps, but their health problems cost a fortune. And this man doesn’t eat more than two cups of kibble a day. A few quality treats like bison sticks are allowed. Very economical.”

“But what about exercise? Aren’t they pretty demanding?” Watching her watch him, the dog wheeled, grabbed a rope tugger and presented it to her.

“Depends on the individual. But Hogan/Logan can settle down quickly, and he’s already house-trained, so that’s another plus. I’d never take on a new pup. Bonnie always kept each shepherd in bed with us and trained them in two weeks flat. She’d get up at all hours of the night to take them out.” He reached over and pulled out a bag with tennis balls and Chuck-it wand. “Shannon suggested running him off his feet with this device. Modern version of the atlatl.” He mimed a toss, and she ducked as she laughed.

“Hogan/Logan? Did a poet wannabe name him? Or does he have a split personality?” She succumbed and gave the rope a tug up and down and from side to side. The dog fixed her gaze with the same insane focus that genes had given him for sheep. Was he one hundred per cent nature, or would nurture play a role?

Her father sighed. “He’s had a sad history. His first owner wanted a rescue dog to help her train for marathons, but was refused because she worked long hours. She got a pup from a breeder.”

“Marathons. It’s a dog’s dream. Plenty of exercise.”

“Shannon said that pups shouldn’t run those distances.

And the rest of the time she left him alone in a yard in Esquimalt fourteen hours a day. He barked his brains out.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Though not warming to the animal, she felt sorry for his bad luck.

“So she gave him up. Points for one good decision. For the last six months, he’s been in foster homes. They changed his name to Logan.”

“Enough already.” Holly snapped her fingers at Hogan/ Logan and pointed away. To his credit, the dog stopped pestering her, picked up a ball and turned to the other human. “Logan’s even worse. Any ideas?”

Jackie and Bryan’s diesel truck chugged up the drive next door. The dog dropped the ball and gave a roaring bark. Thirty pounds of attack dog. “Small guy, big voice. Doesn’t he sound like a warrior, like...a Shogun?”

But when she tried to pet him, the dog growled and veered away. “What’s that about?” she asked.

Her father waved his hand. “He’s talking. Mumbling. Typical. Means nothing. I’ve been on-line at a rescue site.” True enough, Shogun picked up the tug again and presented it to her.

“Who’s going to walk him?” She passed her father a questioning look. He had far more free time than she did. Ivory tower perks.

“I am, of course.” He gave her an impish smile. “Unless you want to take a turn. Now and then. Be some company for you. Take him to work.”

“I don’t think so. He’s not a service animal, and he’s too small to be a protector. On a good day, I could tuck him under my arm.”

Excusing herself, she went upstairs. On the bedroom wall were pictures of Bruna at sunset on the beach, her noble head posed in profile like Nefertiti’s. Then Nikon, a puppy gazing up from the green leaves of a salal bush, his floppy ears a comical beret. In his handsome youthful vigor, leaping over a log with a determined look in his eyes. She’d always remember those shepherd eyes, deep and sober, penetrating and wise, retaining that connection even when old bones creaked and flaccid muscles flagged. Not foxy like this young man’s but full of purpose, asking, “What serious matter will we attend to today, mistress?” Not what can I pull, tug or chase to please myself? It’s all about ME. No wonder border collies didn’t appear in the ranks of guide dogs and other selfless creatures. They were too frivolous to be soulmates. Though she admired the sleek coat, white shirt and ruff with matching paws, handsome is as handsome does. Shogun reminded her of Jeff Pasquin, a shallow pretty boy in youthful plumage. She didn’t trust either one.