Tuck pulled Molly from the washout to make sure all the other babies were dead. When he felt confident there was only one to rescue, he rested his hand on the adult blue heeler’s head. “You were a good dog, Molly. I’ll be back to bury you and your babies, I swear. But right now, I’ve gotta save your son.”
Scooping the puppy up in his hands, Tuck smiled again when the tiny blue heeler found the strength to growl at him. Granted, it was a faint growl, but it gave measure of his mettle. “You’ve got the heart of a lion,” he observed as he opened the front of his sheepskin jacket and tucked the puppy inside his shirt. “If I can save you, you’re gonna be one hell of a dog someday.”
Holding his left arm across his ribs to keep his new charge held safely against him, Tuck swung back into the saddle and clicked his tongue at the gelding. “Easy does it, Bolt. We’re carryin’ precious cargo.”
Tuck knew it would take at least three hours to get the dog to his ranch. Molly’s son wouldn’t last that long, not without sustenance and more warmth than Tuck could provide. He tipped his head back, pictured an aerial view of the surrounding terrain, and decided to head for Smokey’s Bar. As the crow flies, it was about an hour away. Tuck went there often at night to have a few beers with local ranchers. Most of them had raised puppies on a bottle at some point, and Nora, the owner and operator, kept a fire blazing in the potbelly stove all winter.
He turned Bolt in that direction and settled in for one of the most urgent rides of his life. It seemed like forever before he finally saw lights in the distance. Maybe Nora had a recipe for puppy formula and the ingredients to make some.
Only a few rigs dotted the parking lot, which sported more potholes than gravel. Tuck recognized most of the vehicles and counted their owners as friends. He was glad Prince’s red Silverado wasn’t there. He was in no mood for a run-in with Jared over ownership of this dog. He cradled the puppy against his chest as he dismounted. The buckskin chuffed and grunted as Tuck flipped the reins over the boardwalk railing.
“I know,” Tuck said to Bolt. “Time for your supper. I’ll be back out shortly.”
His footsteps rang out on the weathered steps. He pushed hard on the door and let the snow-flecked wind at his back help blow him inside. Nora, whose long, straight hair had turned salt-and-pepper, glanced up at the sound of the bell. She wore her usual attire, an oversize T-shirt over faded jeans. An expression of concern moved over her square-shaped face.
“Dear God, Tuck. You got a busted rib? Did Bolt throw you?”
Tuck realized he was still hugging his chest with his left arm. “Hell, no, Bolt didn’t throw me. I’ve got one of Molly’s pups inside my shirt.”
A broad smile curved Nora’s mouth. Mike Polson swiveled on his barstool. “After all this time, you finally found Prince’s dog?”
Another rancher, named Dick Schneider, emulated Mike’s movement to give Tuck an incredulous look. “Well, Jared will be fit to be tied. All he does is whine about losing the money he’d have made on that litter. Purebreds, and he could’ve registered all of them.”
“I found her, but I was too late. She and the rest of the pups didn’t make it.” Tuck strode to the bar, reaching inside his jacket. “You got a heatin’ pad and a warm blanket, Nora? Even better, if you’ve got the fixin’s for puppy formula, I’ll celebrate.”
Nora shook her head. “I’ve got a blanket and heating pad, but I’ve never made puppy formula.”
Glancing down the counter at Polson, Tuck said, “If I remember right, your wife saved a bunch of pups when your Aussie’s milk didn’t come down. You think she’s still got the formula recipe?”
As Tuck withdrew the puppy from inside his jacket, Nora pressed her hands together as if she were praying. A glow touched her skin, blurring the wrinkles that fanned out from her blue eyes. “If that isn’t the cutest thing I ever saw!”
Tuck had admired the puppy’s gumption earlier, but he hadn’t assessed him for cuteness. Turning the little guy to study him, he couldn’t help but smile. All babies were cute, he guessed, but this one was downright handsome. Prick ears, outlined in black and furred within with curry, stood up at each side of his head like inverted shovel blades. The white blaze on his forehead veered off-center and ended just above his right brow, which looked as if it had been drawn with a charcoal pencil in a perfect arch. Temple splashes of rust offset his dark eyes. His nose was as brown and shiny as a raisin. Overall, except for more burnished markings on his chest and feet, his coat was the classic blend of gray and white common to blue heelers.
“He’s damned near perfect, ain’t he?” Murmurs of agreement made Tuck’s smile broaden. He told his friends about finding the pup and getting his thumb bitten. “So weak he could barely walk, but he was determined to protect his family. I said, ‘Let ’er rip!’ So that’s what I’m namin’ him—Rip.”
“You keeping him?” Mike asked. “You haven’t had a dog since Tabasco died.”
Tuck chuckled. “Nope, and it’s high time I change that.”
Nora whirled away, calling over her shoulder, “A heating pad and a blanket, coming right up. Mike, call your wife. If Molly and the other pups are dead, that one can’t be long for this world. We need puppy formula, fast.”
Mike fished his cell phone from his hip pocket. Bruce Smelt grappled for his as well. “Susan made puppy milk last spring. Maybe she saved the recipe.”
Tuck swung up on a barstool and slipped Rip back inside his coat until Nora could fetch bedding. When she returned, she made a fluffy pallet on the bar, plugged in the warming device, and rested her palm on it to test the temperature.
“It’s ready for him,” she said. “Just a gentle warmth.”
Tuck laid the puppy on the pad and pulled a corner of the blanket over him. “That’ll warm his bones. Poor whippersnapper.”
Bruce said, “Susan just texted back. She kept the recipe, and she has the stuff to make a batch. She’ll have it here in an hour and a half.”
“Good thing,” Mike inserted. “My wife can’t find her recipe.”
Nora slipped her hand under the blanket to touch the animal. “He’s painful thin, Tuck. Not much to him but fur and bones. What if he doesn’t last until Susan gets here?”
“He’s in God’s hands, Nora, same as the rest of us. He’ll make it or he won’t.”
Nora nodded. “Gonna break my heart if he dies. He’s mighty precious.”
Just then Rip pushed his nose from under the blanket and staggered onto the Formica countertop. Nora got tears in her eyes. “He’s hungry. If he bit your thumb, he must have teeth. You think he could eat a beef patty if I crumble it up for him?”
“Maybe.” Tuck glanced at Mike. “It’s blizzardlike out there. I need to get Bolt inside and fork him some hay. While Nora’s grillin’ a patty, can you watch my dog? I don’t wanna take him back out in that bitter cold.”
Mike reached over to move the puppy and bedding in front of him. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t fall. Can’t promise he won’t cock up his toes from hunger, though.”
Tuck nodded and swung off the stool. “Bolt put in a long day.” Angling a look at Nora, he added, “I’ll catch a ride to my truck and board him here for the night. I’ll happily pay.”
Nora flapped her hand. “Don’t be silly. What’s a few flakes of hay between old friends?”
Tuck refastened the front of his jacket. When he reached the porch, the wind cut through the sheepskin and chilled him to the bone. Bolt whickered and chuffed. Tuck could barely see him through the swirling snowflakes.
“Sorry, old friend.”
Tuck led his horse to Nora’s ramshackle excuse for a barn. Worried about the puppy, he made fast work of unsaddling Bolt, rubbing him down, and putting him up for the night.
“You’ll do fine now,” he said, reaching over the sagging gate to scratch the horse’s poll. “You did me proud today, Bolt. Always
do. You’re a loyal friend, and that’s a fact.”
Once outside again, Tuck shuddered as he picked his way back toward the tavern. When he pushed back into the building, snow followed him inside and salted the rough-plank floor. He slapped his coat and stomped his riding boots on the rubber-backed carpet runner. “It’s too cold out there for man or beast. Thank you, Nora. Bolt appreciates the accommodations.”
Nora’s face bore an odd expression. She glanced at Mike. “I’m sorry, Tuck. They don’t listen worth a damn.”
Tuck stepped over to the bar and saw that Rip had his head stuck into Mike’s glass, his little tongue lapping beer at high speed.
“What the hell?” Tuck cried, reaching for his dog. “That stuff ain’t good for him! What are you thinkin’?”
Mike lifted a staying hand. “The beef ain’t done yet, and beer won’t hurt him none. At least it’s some nourishment.”
Tuck glanced at Nora. “Is beer safe for him?”
She shrugged. “He’s a mammal, just like us, and we drink it. Don’t see why it’d hurt a dog. I just worry because he’s only a baby.”
Mike tipped the glass at a sharper angle to give the puppy better access. “He’s starvin’. At least it’s something on his tummy until the burger’s cooked.”
Tuck wasn’t up-to-date on what was or wasn’t good for a dog. But he trusted his friends, who’d both raised litters recently. He also reasoned that beer had to be rich in calories. His three cans a night sure kept his belly riding proud over the top of his belt buckle. The tension in his shoulders relaxed.
“If you’re certain it won’t hurt him, I reckon it’s okay.”
“My grandpa gave his border collie a big bowl of home brew every night, and that stuff was strong enough to stand up straight and kick out behind. His dog lived to be seventeen.”
Tuck resumed his seat on the barstool. “He’s gettin’ his nose wet, for sure, and he does seem to like it.” Rip kept lapping. Then he suddenly stopped and lay down. Tuck peeked around to see the puppy’s face. The tip of his tongue protruded over his bottom teeth, and he had a happy look about him. Tuck couldn’t help but smile. “I reckon that’ll hold him until the formula arrives.”
Just then Nora emerged from the kitchen with a beef patty on a plate. When she put it on the counter and began breaking the meat into small pieces, Rip struggled to his feet and began eating. Nora laughed when the puppy devoured every morsel.
“I think he’s going to make it, Tuck. I truly do.”
Tuck hoped she was right. At one time his dog Tabasco had been his constant companion, but he’d been gone for almost ten years now. It was time for Tuck to have a new best friend.
Chapter One
Wind whistled into the big black van, whipping Tanner Richards’ hair across his forehead as he drove. Squinting at the gravel road through the brown strands drifting over his eyes, he hauled in a deep breath of pine-scented air. Five years ago he’d agonized over his decision to sell his accounting firm and move to Crystal Falls, Oregon. He’d given up a six-figure annual income with no assurance that he could even find a job in this area. Crazy, really. Looking back on it now, though, he was glad that he’d come. Being a deliveryman wasn’t as prestigious as working in his former chosen profession, but he made enough money to provide a good life for his kids, and he truly enjoyed the occupation. Having a rural route suited him. He was required to make fewer stops than he would have been in town, which equated to shorter workdays and more time in the evening to be with his children. And he’d made a lot of friends. Folks around here were more congenial than they were in larger towns.
As he rounded a curve in the country road, Tanner saw Tuck Malloy’s house. Sadness punched into him. For three years running, he’d often stopped there to visit at the end of his workday, and he’d enjoyed a lot of cold ones on the porch with his elderly friend. Now the windows reflected the darkness of an empty structure. A For Sale sign rode high on the front gate. It had appeared nearly a month ago.
Tanner had considered calling the Realtor to learn what had happened to the property owner after his calls to Tuck went unanswered, but he really didn’t want to know. Tuck had been a crusty old codger and eighty years young, as he’d been fond of saying. Unexpected things could happen to people that age. A heart attack, maybe, or a stroke. Tuck liked that piece of ground, and he would never have left voluntarily. He’d said so more than once. Tanner figured the old fellow was dead. Otherwise why would his place be up for sale?
Tanner pulled over and stopped outside the hurricane fence for a moment, a habit he had developed since the home had been vacated. He trailed his gaze over the front porch, now devoid of the comfortable Adirondack chairs where he had once sat with Tuck to chat. Recalling the old man’s recalcitrant dog, he smiled. Rip. Tanner hoped the blue heeler had found a good home. He’d been a handful and was probably difficult to place.
Damn, he missed them both. With a sigh Tanner eased the van back onto the road. He had only one more delivery before he could call it a day. Maybe he could mow the lawn and do some weeding before his kids got home. Tori, now eight, had dance class after school today, and Michael, eleven and getting gangly, had baseball practice. Since his wife’s death, Tanner had been a single dad, and not a day went by that he wasn’t grateful for his mom’s help. She got his kids off to the bus stop each morning and chauffeured them to most of their activities, which took a huge load of responsibility off his shoulders.
Tanner delivered the last parcel of the day. After he dropped the van off at Courier Express, he needed to pick up some groceries. Milk, for one thing. Tori wouldn’t eat breakfast without it. And if he didn’t get bread, he’d have no fixings for his lunch tomorrow.
His cell phone, which rode atop a sticky mat on the dash, chimed with a message notification. Tanner grabbed the device and glanced at the screen to make sure the text wasn’t from his mother. She never contacted him during work hours unless it was urgent. When he read the name of the sender, his hand froze on the steering wheel. Tuck Malloy? He almost went off the road into a ditch. How could that be? The old coot was dead. Wasn’t he?
Tanner pulled over onto a wide spot, shifted into PARK, and stared at his phone. The message was definitely from Tuck. They had exchanged cell numbers months ago, and Tuck had occasionally texted to ask Tanner to pick up items he needed from the store. It hadn’t been a bother for Tanner. There was a mom-and-pop grocery not that far away, and Tuck’s house was on the road he always took back to town.
He swiped the screen. A smile curved his lips as he read the message. “I fell off the damned porch. Busted my arm, some ribs, and had to get a hip replacement. Now I’m doing time in assisted living, and the bitch that runs the place won’t let me have my beer or chew. Can you buy me some of both and sneak it in to me? I’ll pay you back.”
Tanner had been picturing the old fart in heaven, sitting on an Adirondack chair with a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a spittoon within easy reach. It was unsettling to think someone was dead and then receive a text from him.
He tapped out a response. “I don’t mind bringing you things. My kids have activities this afternoon, so I’m not pressed for time. But I don’t want to get in trouble for delivering forbidden substances. My job could be on the line.”
Tuck replied, “No trouble. Just put it inside a box and pretend it’s something I ordered. If I get caught, I’ll never tell who brought me the stuff. Sorry I can’t just call, but these nurses have sharp ears and I got no privacy.”
Tanner grinned. He trusted the old man not to reveal his name if it came down to that. And he truly did sympathize with Tuck’s feelings of deprivation. Just because a man was eighty shouldn’t mean he no longer had a right to indulge his habits. Staying at an assisted living facility was costly, and in Tanner’s estimation, the residents should be able to do whatever they liked in their apartments as long as their physicians didn’t ob
ject.
He texted, “Do you have your doctor’s permission to drink and chew?”
Tuck replied, “Well, he ain’t said I shouldn’t. I been drinking and chewing my whole life. I’m eighty. What can he say, that my pleasures might kill me?”
Tanner chuckled. He agreed to deliver the requested items and asked Tuck for the address. He was surprised to learn the facility was in Mystic Creek. Tanner didn’t cover that area, and it was a thirty-minute drive to get there. He mulled over the fact that he would be driving for more than an hour round-trip in a Courier Express van to run a personal errand. He’d also be using company fuel, which didn’t seem right, but he supposed he could top off the tank to make up for that. He could also adjust his time sheet so he wouldn’t be paid for an hour he hadn’t actually worked.
Whistling tunelessly, Tanner made the drive to Mystic Creek. He hadn’t yet gotten over this way. The curvy two-lane highway offered beautiful scenery, tree-covered mountain peaks, craggy buttes, and silvery flashes of a river beyond the stands of ponderosa pine. To his surprise, he saw a turnoff to Crystal Falls—the actual waterfall, not the town—and he made a mental note to bring the kids up sometime to see it. They’d get a kick out of that. Maybe they could spread a blanket on the riverbank and have a picnic.
Once in Mystic Creek, a quaint and well-kept little town, he found a grocery store on East Main called Flagg’s Market, where he purchased two six-packs of beer and a whole roll of Copenhagen for his elderly friend. In the van he always carried extra box flats. He assembled a medium-size one, stuck what he now thought of as the contraband into it, and taped the flaps closed. With a ballpoint pen, he wrote Tuck’s full name, the address, and the apartment number on a Courier Express mailing slip, which he affixed to the cardboard. Done. Now he’d just drive to the facility and make the delivery. The rest would be up to Tuck.
Mystic Creek Retirement Living was in a large brick building with two wings that angled out toward the front parking lot. The back of the facility bordered Mystic Creek, which bubbled and chattered cheerfully between banks lined with greenery, weeping willows, and pines. He suspected the residents spent a lot of time on the rear lawns, enjoying the sounds of rushing water and birdsong. If he were living there, that’s what he would do.