janet dailey- the healing touch (8 page)

Chapter Five

"Well, how did it go? What happened, Daddy? Huh? What did you do? Where did you take her?" Katie bounced up and down on the front porch, unable to wait until her father had entered the house.

"For heaven's sake, kiddo, let me get my foot in the door before you interrogate me."

Katie gave him one of those female know-all-and-see- all looks. Damn, she was good at that and she was only eight. He pitied the poor guy who was to be his son-in- law someday. She propped her hands on her waist and planted her tiny sneakers apart, blocking his entrance.

"Did you guys have another fight?" she demanded. "You did! You were rude to her again, weren't you?"

He slipped his hands under her arms, lifted her and set her aside, out of his way. "No, we didn't have a fight. Good grief, you make it sound like we're heavyweights, going fifteen rounds. I don't fight women."

"Were you mean to Dr. Rebecca?" She followed him inside, slamming the door behind her. "Did you yell at her again?"

He reached the living room and collapsed into his favorite easy chair, suddenly exhausted. Patting his knee, he invited his daughter to sit on his lap. He knew he was in trouble when sh
e shook her head. Having always
been an affectionate child, Katie never refused the opportunity to cuddle.

"I'll stand, thank you," she said with cool formality and dignity far beyond her years.

He stifled a chuckle. "Katie, I did not yell at your dear Dr. Rebecca. I was not rude to her. You will be pleased to hear that I even refrained from chewing my nails, scratching my armpits and picking my nose in front of Dr. Rebecca."

"No burping?" she asked without cracking a smile, hands still on her hips.

"No burping. No bodily expulsions of any kind.''

She continued to give him the deadpan stare. "I'm so very proud of you," she replied flatly.

"Thank you."

Dropping the indignant act, she climbed happily onto his lap and gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek.

"So, tell me all about it," she said. "I want to know everything. Did you kiss her?"

He drew back and stared at her, eyebrows raised in shock. "Katherine Stafford! How could you suggest such a thing? I'm a gentleman!"

"Nah," she said, pinching his cheek, "just because you didn't burp or pick your nose doesn't make you that much of a gentleman. Did you kiss her or not?"

"Not! I took her out for a banana split, and I didn't kiss her, didn't serenade her, didn't tango with her in the moonlight, didn't—"

"Okay, okay. Then tell me one more thing, but it has to be the truth. You can't fib at all, promise?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I promise."

"You didn't kiss her, huh?"

"Katie!"

She leaned forward until the tip of her nose was touching his, her blue eyes filling his vision. "Did you want
to
?"

Did he want to?

Hell, yes, he had wanted to. It was all Michael could think about as he sat at his desk the next day, pretending to be working, pretending to be doing anything except fantasizing about Rebecca Barclay.

She had looked so cute, sitting there across from him in the ice cream parlor, a couple of yellow and blue fluffs of feather in her hair, compliments of Frederick the parrot. And later, the kindness she had shown the old dog and his owner had touched Michael's heart, whether he had wanted it to or not.

"Michael, I'm going home now. Michael..."

The soft voice reached into his reverie, pulling him back to the present. Mrs. Abernathy stood in his office doorway, purse and keys in hand.

"Oh, yes, good night. See you tomorrow."

She gave him a crooked smile and shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Why? Are you taking the day off? Did I forget your dentist appointment again?"

"No, Michael," she said, "I'm not going to the dentist, because he's taking
the day off tomorrow, too. The
whole country is taking off. It's Thanksgiving, you nitwit."

Briefly, Michael wondered how he had ever hired an employee who would call him a nitwit to his face. Then he realized she was right. How could he have forgotten Thanksgiving?

"Oh, well sure. I knew that."

She laughed and shook her head. "I assume this means that you and Katie don't have plans for dinner."

"Ah... not solid plans.''

Her face softened. "I'm sorry, Michael. I'd love to have you come to my house, but I'm not cooking this year. I'm going to visit my daughter in the valley."

"No problem, Abernathy, really. We'll be fine. See you on Monday."

After a couple more apologies, Mrs. Abernathy left, and Michael decided to do the same. Without her there, and with the salesmen and mechanics gone, the place seemed too quiet. Tonight he wasn't in the mood for quiet. Aware now that it was the day before Thanksgiving, he felt more lonely than ever.

Each holiday since his wife's death, he had tried to celebrate with Katie, but it was difficult. Beverly had always done the decorating, the cooking, the shopping, and he had taken her efforts for granted. He didn't seem to have that knack for making occasions special for Katie. Or for himself, either.

A multitude of plans raced through his head as he walked through the elegant showroom with its restored classics, turning lights off and alarms on. Bridget and

Neil would be leaving at sunrise tomorrow morning to go to her mother's home in San Francisco. Weeks ago, they had asked for the days off and he had gladly granted them. He had assured Bridget that be would make Thanksgiving dinner plans on his own, that she didn't need to leave a full meal in the refrigerator.

Which left him with a dilemma: What should he do for Katie?

He could take her out to a restaurant, try to cook a bird himself—fat chance he could pull that one off—or get a bucket of chicken somewhere and pretend it was turkey. Maybe he could fa
c
e her out with some of those deluxe microwave dinners.

No, she was a little too sharp for that. He could see it now, Katie hauling the empty boxes out of the garbage and shoving them under his nose.

A restaurant was probably the best bet. He wondered what might be open. In this small, family- oriented community, most businesses closed on the holidays.

When he stepped outside the back door, locking it behind him, he heard a strange sound that interrupted his frantic planning session. A tiny, high-pitched whimper, coming from the garage area.

Curious, he took a flashlight from his trunk and followed the sound, trying to find its source. It didn't take long.

There, shivering beneath the Dumpster, was a tiny black puppy. The pup yelped with fright as Michael reached down and picked it up.

"Hey, what are you doing under there? Where's Mom and the other kids?"

Michael looked around but saw no sign of any more dogs. He called out and whistled, but the alley was silent except for the puppy's snuffling against his chest.

"Here you go," he said, tucking the dog inside his jacket. The pup nuzzled its cold nose against him. Its paws and belly were also chilled. Michael realized that if he hadn't found it when he had, the pup would have died. Eyes barely open, it was much too young to be weaned from its mother.

Michael took the puppy to his Jaguar, climbed inside and turned on the heater and the overhead dome lamp.

"Let's take a look at you," he said, pulling the puppy out and examining it. The dog was male and appeared to be a mixed breed, but mostly Labrador. A mutt, perhaps, but handsome, nevertheless. Considering the size of his paws, he was going to grow up to be a big boy, a fine pet and watchdog for someone.

Finding Michael's little finger, the pup latched on to the Mid, sucking hard in hopes of finding milk.

"Sorry, Bruiser," he said, "but you're barking up the wrong tree."

He had to feed him... soon. But what? How?

Michael didn't have a clue. But he did know who would, and all he needed was an excuse—any excuse- to see her again.

Whether he could kiss her or not.

Rebecca answered the door, expecting some terrible calamity. Usually, when they came directly to her door, it was an emergency, often an accident with a vehicle.

In the past few years she had grown to hate cars and what they did to innocent animals unfortunate enough to come under their wheels. Those were, by far, the worst cases she had to handle, traumatic for her, the animals and the owners.

But when she had pulled her robe around her and opened the door she found, not some poor mangled cat or dog, but Michael Stafford. He was standing there, whole and handsome, with a giant grin on his face.

"Oh, hi," she mumbled. "I...I wasn't expecting you." She tied the robe more tightly, suddenly feeling very underdressed. Beneath the terry cloth, she was wearing only a thin T-shirt and panties, her usual sleeping garb. If she had known he was coming over, she would have put on something more appropriate. Like a satin robe and matching chemise.

Stop that, she thought. A chemise, indeed.

"I'm sorry for just dropping by like this," he said. "I suppose I should have called first, but I have a new patient for you."

She glanced down at the ground to see if he were leading something on a leash. "A patient? Where? I don't see anything."

At that moment she heard the distinct whimper of a young puppy, coming from somewhere inside Michael's jacket.

"I've got him in here,"
h
e said, pointing to his chest. "He was cold."

"Mmm-hmm... I see. You'd better bring him in— sounds serious. I've heard of a hot dog, but a cold pup?"

He groaned. "That was awful, Dr. Rebecca."

"Well, Mr. Stafford," she said, pulling him into the house, "call next time and let me know you're on your way. I'll have someone write me some better material."

Half an hour later, Michael sat on the end of Rebecca's sofa, holding the puppy in his lap, a tiny baby bottle stuck into its puckered mouth. "He's slobbering all over my hand," he said. "It's running down on to my leg."

Rebecca sat at the other end, watching, laughing at Michael's clumsiness. The puppy didn't seem to mind at all as he slurped hungrily at the rubber nipple.

"What am I going to do with him?" he said, dabbing the milk off the pup's face with the soft white towel that Rebecca had given him. "I can't take him home. Katie will claim him right away."

Rebecca shrugged. "Let her have him."

"I'd like to, but she has enough responsibility right now, caring for Rosebud. Rosie is her first pet. I don't want to overload her with too much too fast."

"I understand, but that does leave you with a problem. He's going to need a lot of care, especially for the next few weeks. Middle-of-the-night feedings, all that."

"Not interested in having a dog, are you?" He gave her a beguiling smile and held the puppy out to her. "Here, I'll give him to you for a birthday present. Happy birthday, Rebecca! Don't ever say I never gave you anything."

She laughed and shook her head. "Nice try, but my birthday was four months ago."

"Happy Thanksgiving? Merry Christmas, maybe?"

The puppy was cute and the offer tempting. But Rebecca had learned long ago that she couldn't adopt every cute, four-legged creature that needed a home. "Nope," she said. "You found him. You are responsible for him. I'm sure you'll find him an excellent home."

"But how? I'm new in town. I don't know anyone."

"Gee, what a great opportunity to meet your neighbors!"

He scowled at her and raised one eyebrow. "I'm learning something about you, Rebecca Barclay. You are not a nice lady."

"I'm a very nice lady. But I'm not going to puppy-sit for you."

Rebecca enjoyed watching the wheels turning in his head. He was in a difficult position, to be sure, but she didn't intend to help him out of it. So many times she had witnessed the power of a small, whimpery fur ball to melt a heart encased in ice. Nothing broke down the barriers faster than the disarming innocence and charm of a puppy or kitten.

Michael Stafford needed this pup more than the dog needed him, whether he knew it or not. Even if only for a few hours.

"Take him home with you, hide him in your room so that Katie doesn't see him, and by tomorrow morning you'll probably have a great plan."

Michael sighed and tucked the dog back inside his jacket. "Yeah, sure. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. Unless I can truss him up like a turkey, no one is going to be interested."

She stood, banded him a bag full of puppy formula and ushered him to the door.

"Hey, wait a minute! I know what you can do!" she said brightly.

He perked up instantly, gullible and hopeful. "What? What can I do?"

"He's already black. Just stick a white collar on him and pass him off as a pilgrim."