Page 44 of Dirty Mechanic
But I can’t stop watching the greenhouse.
She’s in there, wrapped in greens and flowers until evening falls, shaking off ghosts like dirt clinging to skin.
The low growl of tires pulls me toward the front porch. George’s old Ford coughs up a trail of dust as it comes to a stop.
I go to meet him out front. Outside, stars blink awake.
He climbs out, and nods once. “Ran into Simon earlier.”
That never means anything good.
“That bastard Mike, filed a vandalism complaint against you. Slashed tires, apparently.” George’s voice is gruff, but not surprised. “Sheriff says his hands are tied. The guy’s got himself a lawyer outta Mill Creek sniffing around about other stuff as well.”
Of course, he does.
The kind of man who hides behind legal briefs and courthouse technicalities, instead of owning a clean fight.
I grind my jaw. “Coward’s armor.”
George shrugs like he’s seen worse, and probably has. He pops open the tailgate and pulls out a crate. “Thought you’d want to see what I found behind the bakery.”
Inside, five tiny puppies squirm against their mother’s side. It’s the stray Annabelle and I spotted this morning.
My soft spot for strays is practically public record. Two rescues already call this place home, and plenty more came before Bear and Kara. Six more? That just means more names to forget in the middle of the night when someone starts howling.
I kneel beside the crate, fingers resting near the mother’s head. Her coat’s matted, ears twitching, but her eyes lock on mine, calm and trusting.
Like Annabelle’s.
Another stray. Another survivor.
Skittish and scarred, but brave enough to curl up beside someone like me and hope for warmth.
And damn it, I want to be worthy of that kind of trust.
“Thanks, George.” I place the crate on my front porch.
He nods, already heading off like it’s just another Tuesday.
I settle the new family in the RV with an old blanket, make sure they’re warm, then head to the greenhouse.
The sky over the valley is a deep indigo bruised with clouds.
Annabelle’s moved to the garden rows, squatting low, hands working the weeds like they insulted her.
There’s a tremble in her fingers, and her back is too straight. Too stiff.
Like she’s holding herself together with sheer will.
“Guess what?” I call, keeping my tone light as I approach. “George found the pregnant dog.”
She looks up, and something flickers. That dull glaze lifts for just a second, replaced by something brighter.
“She had five puppies,” I add. “All safe in the RV. And as it turns out, not quite as spider-infested as I may have led you to believe.”
She tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite stick. “Imagine that.”
I crouch beside her, close enough to smell the faint trace of vanilla on her skin.
