Page 32 of Every Little Kiss
“She cooked the ham hock in the five minutes it took to call me?”
“Hotas in stolen. She grabbed it right out of the butcher display over at the Bunny Slope Supermarket.” The older woman looked overcome with distress. “Don’t you understand?” she cried.
Ford was afraid he didn’t. He didn’t understand how he’d busted his ass to become one of the most sought-after K-9 rescue officers in the industry, only to be trapped in Mayberry handling neighbor feuds and dog-tampering cases.
Because you’re scared of a damn mountain.
Not that it was a completely foreign concept. He’d felt trapped back in Reno. Staying there hadn’t been an option. Reexamining old cases, second-guessing past decisions, until the second-guessing caused him to make shit decisions. Decisions that made him a risk to his teammates and subjects. So he’d come here, to close the file on the one case he couldn’t seem to let go of. Only the case was closed, but he still felt trapped.
The truth was, Ford had felt trapped ever since his dad disappeared, leaving behind more questions than Ford could ever solve. Wasn’t sure he even wanted to. Because what person would want to know, with certainty, that his father’s love had limits? Or exactly what he was lacking that made him so easily disposable?
Douglas Jamison was a private man who one day decided domestic life wasn’t for him, and he left behind a wife and son without warning.
Ford still remembered his mom pleading with the police to find her husband, swearing that there must be a problem because her husband would never run off and leave his son. The cleaned-out closet and missing personal items told a different story. A story Ford didn’t understand until his mom admitted, many years later, that Ford was the result of a long-term love affair.
His father was a private pilot for an oil company who had another family on the other side of the country. When his wife discovered the truth, she gave him an ultimatum.
Ford was merely collateral damage.
Over the years, he’d watched in awe as people searched the globe for their missing loved ones. Ford’s dad knew where his son lived, but he never once came searching for the missing love that had shaped Ford’s life.
“Bubbles’s campaign is sunk,” Dorothy cried, gripping her chest with such force it challenged the support of her sports top and had Ford looking down, where he saw Bullseye studying the woman’s fuzzy leg warmers—as if they were Lambkins’s long-lost cousin.
Ford gave a stern look and shook his head. Bullseye ignored this, his eyes trained on the pudgy old lady with nuzzle-worthy legs.
“I can already see the headlines in theAcorn Gazette: ‘Pageant princess blows the crown for a piece of cheap meat.’ I bet Patty’s already given them the ex-ex”—sniff, sniff—“exclusive,” Dorothy cried, Bullseye noticing the way her voice squeaked. Much like a chew toy.
“Nothing will turn off the mommy voters like a shoplifting sc-sc-scandal.”
Head low to the ground, mouth twitching in anticipation, Bullseye slowly moved forward.
“Bullseye, no,” Ford said sternly.
Bullseye stopped, his eyes darting from the pink furry legs to Ford with an excitedBaby?look, to which Ford gave aLambkins is in the carlift of the brow. With a dramatic huff, Bullseye hobbled over obediently and lay by Ford’s side.
“I’ll make sure there’s no mention of the ham hock in my report,” Ford said seriously, as if this were an actual case.
Dorothy stopped crying and dabbed her eyes. “Are you going to help my Bubbles, then?”
Ford cupped the bill of his hat and pulled it low. “On two conditions.”
“Anything,” she promised, taking his hands in her pudgy ones.
“Not a single mention of the wordsmiraculous,celestial,holy,godlike, orsupernatural,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers.
“How abouttranscendent?”
Ford shook his head. “Nothing that implies divine intervention or I will confirm the rumor that Bubbles was in possession of stolen meat.”
A collective gasp filled the studio, and one of the ladies moved to light the sage candle.
“I have a jar of baby food in my trunk. Blueberry Buckle flavor, a search dog’s biggest weakness. It can tempt even the most timid of dogs down a hundred-foot ravine.” He stuck out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Dorothy studied his hand, pausing before she took it. “What’s the second condition?”
Ford smiled. “You tell everyone who asks that it was Harris Donovan whose quick thinking and even quicker response saved Bubbles. And then you give them this number.”
Ford scribbled down Harris’s personal mobile number and handed it to Dorothy.
