Rescue Me

Was AJ about to kiss her?

Mary Hannah stared into his intense blue eyes, wondering if the heated intent was real or an illusion from the dash lights. She should just open the door, get the hell out of his messy all-terrain vehicle where these even messier emotions were jumbling up inside her. She would hop the gate to the Second Chance Ranch and run all the way to her studio apartment.

But she couldn't seem to make her hands let go of the edge of the seat.

PRAISE FOR
THE SECOND CHANCE RANCH NOVELS

SHELTER ME

“There is indeed plenty of love to go around, and animal fans in particular will be swept away by it.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“A story about the redemptive power of love told with heart. With
Shelter Me
,
Catherine Mann delivers another unforgettable romance.”

—Cindy Gerard,
New York Times
bestselling author

“
Shelter Me
is contemporary romance done right! Brimming with wonderfully
real
characters, hard-hitting emotions and enough sexual tension to light my e-reader on fire, I couldn't put it down!”

—Julie Ann Walker,
New York Times
bestselling author

PRAISE FOR
THE NOVELS OF CATHERINE MANN

“Catherine Mann weaves deep emotion with intense suspense for an all-night read.”

—Sherrilyn Kenyon, #1
New York Times
bestselling author

“Catherine Mann's picture should be in the dictionary next to ‘superb.'”

—Suzanne Brockmann,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A brilliant . . . adventure woven with gripping emotion.”

—Dianna Love,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Heart-pounding.”

—
Booklist

Berkley Sensation titles by Catherine Mann

Second Chance Ranch Novels

SHELTER ME

RESCUE ME

Dark Ops Novels

DEFENDER

HOTSHOT

RENEGADE

PRO
TECTOR

GUARDIAN

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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RESCUE ME

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Catherine Mann.

Excerpt from
Shelter Me
by Catherine Mann copyright © 2014 by Catherine Mann.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63749-4

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / February 2015

Cover illustration by Anna Kmet.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my husband, Rob—thank you for always supporting me in my animal rescue efforts, for listening when I ramble endlessly about the latest cool thing I learned about animal care and for holding me when I cry for the ones I couldn't save.

As always, I am deeply grateful to my editor, Wendy McCurdy, and the entire Berkley team for the opportunity to tell these animal rescue stories that are so near and dear to my heart. Endless thanks also goes out to my longtime agent, Barbara Collins Rosenberg, for always being in my corner. My critique partner and very best friend, Joanne Rock, is truly one in a million—I appreciate you, my friend, more than I could ever say. Many thanks as well to my super beta readers—Haley Frank and Jeanette Vigliotti—I adore you both and appreciate your always being there for me at the drop of a hat.

I'm also lucky to have the most amazing street team, led by Ann, Vickie and Stephanie. Wow, y'all are the best! I'm so grateful for each and every one of you—for your cheers, your support and, most of all, your friendship.

Daily, I'm blessed to work side by side with my friends in the animal rescue community, in particular the staff and volunteers at the Panhandle Animal Welfare Society. I want to send a shout-out to a few of my shelter volunteer friends who so deeply embody the heart of rescue—Susie, Zo, Virginia, Debbie and Dixie. I want to be just like you when I grow up.

Lastly, all my love to my two-legged family and my four-legged pack. Thank you for loving me back!

F
OR TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS
I had three names—Bitch, Fat Mama and Dumbass.

I didn't dare ignore the voice that growled more fiercely than any animal. I didn't question if I deserved to have a single name of my own. My existence followed a pattern. Hungry, not hungry. Hurt, healed. Pregnant, nursing. And above all, obey or pay.

Looking back, the contrast from then to my life now is staggering. Some people have said they wonder how I survived so long in that cabin with limited human contact, only the drone of game shows on television and the bubbling mix in the kitchen to break the tedium. How I kept my spirit intact. How I didn't turn into a mirror image of the voice that both fed me and hurt me. I have to confess I came close to becoming like the soulless monsters that drifted in and out during those early years.

Until I was saved from crawling into the dark hole of hurt and misery forever. I was given a hint of hope beyond the rank four walls of my home.

I smelled honeysuckle.

Just a whiff of the perfume drifted through an open window one summer Tennessee day. At first, I thought I'd imagined it. I tipped my nose into that gentle breeze curling through the half-cracked pane, each puff parting the despair one ripple at a time. Overriding even the constant hum of quiz shows.

Then there it was again. Honeysuckle. Sweet. Soft. Light. Everything opposite of what I'd known from birth.

Desperate for more, I crawled to the window, slowly, praying no one would see me. Life was easier if I stayed hidden, because otherwise I feared I would one day have to fight back. Still I was willing to risk detection to breathe more of that flowery perfume.

I have a particularly keen sense of smell, so living in a filthy meth house for twenty-eight years took a toll on me. And just to clarify, twenty-eight human years equates to four dog years for me. As a dog, that explains why the stench hit me hard.

Did you know that canines can identify smells up to ten thousand times better than a human? Well, we can. I learned that about sniffers on
Jeopardy!
My brain has forty percent more capacity devoted to smell than yours. Not that I mean to sound condescending or call you inferior. Facts are facts. I have more than two million olfactory sensors in my nose. You have opposable thumbs. Truly, aromatherapy is wasted on you people.

I like facts. The endless television programs offered that much at least, game show after game show. Back then, I embraced those quizzes, soaking up data, anything to prove I wasn't a dumbass at all. If I'd been a human and hadn't started having babies so early, I've often thought I would have become a professor with thick black glasses. I would have sequestered myself in an office lined with books, solitude. Peace.

But back to my sniffer.

Back to the honeysuckle.

And how all that relates to the day I found freedom in a splintered door.

To be clear, I spent my life watching methamphetamine being cooked, smoked, shot, sold. The rancid odor of the drug left me groggy. Sometimes even made me snarl, when that's not my nature. The smell of it saturated the walls, peeling the paper down in strips I chewed in moments of frenzied boredom. It permeated the saggy sofa I never sat on. Even clung to the mattresses on the floor in both bedrooms where junkies had sex. Worst of all, the toxic clouds hung in the kitchen, counters packed with everything from drain cleaner to funnels to my bowl full of scraps.

But that afternoon during my fourth summer, when I discovered honeysuckle, I considered that maybe, just maybe, there was something better for me, if only I could wait long enough to escape farther than the chain in the yard allowed.

Easier said than done, because I was a moneymaker, just like that steaming meth cooker. My litters of boxer pups were worth a lot, so I ate well, periodically. No one kicked me for a while. Until my babies were taken away so I could breed again. They always took them too early, and then I was alone.

You may already be thinking
puppy mill
, but that's not one hundred percent accurate. The woman who owned me—I won't bother to distinguish her with a name—would be more appropriately labeled a backyard breeder who used me and other dogs to supplement her meth income. Up until that honeysuckle moment in my fourth summer, I thought my mission in life was to have babies for people to love even if I never got to experience that feeling myself, other than for the few brief weeks I was allowed to keep each litter, their warm, tiny bodies snuggled up against me.

By the fourth winter, I wondered if I'd imagined a honeysuckle world just to survive. I began to lose hope, drawing in nothing but the fumes that made me mean.

Then, on the bitterest, coldest morning, my world changed on a larger scale with another beautiful scent. Peppermint. It's still my favorite perfume, even above honeysuckle. Those two beautiful smells outnumbered the one evil stench of that cabin. There was more out there past my chain. So much more.

And I thank the Big Master who made us that the peppermint-scented lady understood I was not at my best the day she and the sad-eyed policeman broke down the meth-house door to rescue me.