Page 15 of No Kind Words

Luke looks to me, then Maeve, then to Ben. “Um, okay. Benny, it’s this way.”

The door closes behind them, and I focus on the dog. Maeve has already got an IV line into the dog with fluids to hydrate it and the X-ray ready to go. Damn, I’m off my game. “I’m sorry. That was kinda weird. I wasn’t expecting to see him, not after the way you said he dismissed you. Which was bloody rude, by the way.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that already. Can we get to work and forget about him? This is more important.”

So that’s what we do. We insert a metal rod to bring the two broken parts together and stabilise the leg. The poor dog, that is actually a she, not a he, has had a rough night ahead of her. Along with the broken leg, she’s got broken ribs, a lot of cuts and abrasions, and bruising to her stomach and liver. The torn foot pads and ripped nails have been bandaged. Plus, a cut above her eye needed stitching. Whoever hit her must have been travelling at some speed. I’d like to get my hands on them. A thin nylon collar with a bit of snapped lead still attached is wrapped around her neck. There’s more to this than just a hit and run, and the idea of what makes me shudder. Was she dragged? Once she’s patched up and coming out of the anaesthetic, I carry her through to the crates and get her settled. Her drips have antibiotics and painkillers flowing through them.

“We need to check for a microchip.” Maeve has the scanner already in her hand. After running the device over his body, it beeps, bringing up a number.

“Bugger,” she says. “I was kind of hoping there wasn’t one. I’ll go and run it through the database and get the details.”

I nod and stay with the dog. I have a horrible feeling Ben is going to be disappointed that she has an owner. It will hurt to tell him, but hopefully, the knowledge that he saved the dog’s life will be enough for him. With a final pat, I close the crate door and go to the office to write up the details of the surgery and injuries. Maybe they would be useful if it ever came to finding the Formula One wannabe.

Maeve comes storming into the room with a face like thunder. “That fucking wanking-tosspot-arsehole.” She collapses onto the chair. “You wanna know what he said?” Her Scottish accent becomes so much more pronounced as she gets angrier. “He said he wasn’t going to pay a penny for fixing her up. She wasn’t supposed to survive. Whatever the hell that means, and that we should go ahead and put her down.”

“Who was it? Someone from the town?” I can’t believe someone from around here would do such a thing.

“That’s just it. The address on the database is somewhere in Exeter. I think they drove down here and dumped her. He could be the one who hit her.”

The idea of what really happened feels more possible. “You could be right, but we can’t prove anything. She’s going to be here for a few days anyway. We can seek out foster care.” I scrub my hand down my face. “I’m gonna go and talk to Ben.”

When I get out into the reception room, Ben is asleep, slumped in one of the comfy chairs, but he jolts upright as I stop in front of him.

“How is he?”

Startled, I jump up from the seat, rubbing my face to try to wake up. Jethro is standing in front of me, looking worn out but not unhappy. “Is he okay?”

His smile is small, and the attempt at laughter is even worse. “He is actually a she, and she’s pulled through. She’s got a long way to go, though, and it will take a while for her to fully recover. I’ll be keeping her here for the next forty-eight hours, maybe more. She’s resting now and has both painkillers and antibiotics being administered through a drip.”

While it’s great to hear the dog is going to recover, all I can think of is whether they’ve found a microchip. “That’s good. I mean, it’s great, but all I want to know is if he—sorry, she—has a chip? Have you found an owner?”

Jethro’s expression becomes hard, angry even. “The dog is microchipped, and Maeve spoke to the owner, but I need to talk to him myself. It’s complicated. Maybe you should get home, Ben. It’s late, and there’s nothing more you can do tonight.”

Now there’s a dismissal if I’ve ever heard one. I wasn’t just waiting for news on the dog, but to see him—Jethro. To talk to him. But it’s obvious he doesn’t want to. Like he said, it’s late. “Can I see her before I go?”

He stares at me for a fraction too long, and I back-pedal. “Okay, I get it.”

“No, wait. It’s fine. I hope she’ll be sleeping again. Come this way.”

I follow him through the door separating the public area from the private one. I pay more attention to it all this time around. Everything looks smart and sleek, expensive. Talk was he hadn’t kept any of the sale of his house, so this must have cost a pretty penny. He stops at the door. “She has had a lot of fur shaved away so we could get to all the injuries, so she’s in a bit of a sorry state.”

This poor dog has got under my skin way more than it should’ve done. I want to be the one to look after her. But I’m not sure my life is conducive to having a dog. I’m up early every morning to bake, then work in the shop until late afternoon. A little voice in the back of my head adds its opinion.You’re only there because you have nothing better to do.Maybe it’s right. I do work long hours because I have nothing else to do. When I was with Jamie, I took more time off, but when that relationship went to pieces, I lost myself in baking.

I’m getting way ahead of myself. The dog has an owner. There may be issues with that, but it still doesn’t mean I can take ownership. I’m getting in way too deep, too quickly. Hell, Jethro can hardly look me in the eye, let alone see me regularly with a poorly dog.

When I look into the only occupied crate, my breath comes out in awoosh.She’s pretty banged up, with the stitches, the shaved fur, and, most obvious, the heavily bandaged leg. I raise my hand, wanting to stroke her, to offer her comfort even in her sleep. Jethro must have noticed because he opens the door a little, and I can touch her sweet, soft muzzle and nose. I pull back quicker than I want to, but Jethro is right. She needs her rest. “Thank you.”

It's time to go home. I don’t want to get into any kind of conversation at this late hour. We’re both tired, and I’m feeling emotional after everything that’s happened tonight. “Can you please keep me updated?”

“Of course. You did an amazing thing tonight, Ben. You saved her life.” Jethro tries to touch my arm, but I shrink out of the way. I’m already hanging by a thread, and exhaustion is coming over me in waves. “Hey, it’s okay. I know you must be tired. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Drive carefully, please.”

I nod and retrace my previous steps into the reception and out the door. As I breathe in deeply, the air freezes in my throat as I hold back a sob. I need to be at home, in my bed. I can have a meltdown then.

But I don’t. In fact, I don’t even remember the drive home or climbing into bed.

The next morning, the dull, dark grey clouds greet me through the window framed by undrawn curtains. I stretch out in my bed and cringe at the click in my back and knees as my joints begrudgingly wake up. Memories of last night flood my mind, forcing any residue of sleep away. The dog. Jethro.

My phone rings, and I jump out of bed to the pile of scrubs I stripped carelessly out of last night. “’Lo.” It comes out scratchy. I clear my throat and start again. “Hello.”

---