Chapter 3
Ali hastily explained about her charming, dog-loving little neighbor, but then hesitated. Hayley, who had come up beside them, urged her on.
“Something’s bothering you,” she said. “Is it about Grace?”
Ali took a deep breath. She didn’t want to spread rumors that were based only on her admittedly limited observation and assessment of her neighbors. She was the newcomer to the neighborhood and had no right to pass judgment on people she barely knew. But Grace…
She was thankful Hayley didn’t push but instead gave her time to think.
She remembered all she’d read and heard about the Foxworth Foundation, all the good they’d done, on a huge scale.
Even taking down the crooked governor of the state.
Surely they wouldn’t get involved here, when she truly had no idea there was really anything wrong?
But she’d also read about them standing for the little guy in the right against the big guys in the wrong.
Helping people who had no fame, no position, no influence to barter.
She’d even read they had begun by recovering and returning a stolen locket to a little girl, the child’s only memento of her dead mother.
In the end, looking at that shattered window, she decided. Because what if that blood had been Grace’s, what if she’d broken that window to get out?
“Grace is sweet, loving, and adores Ziggy. I saw her climbing out a back window—that window—of the big house to get here once, but I accepted her explanation that the house was being cleaned and she had to stay out of the way. So it took me a while to realize that she was sneaking over here to play with him without her mother’s knowledge.
When I asked her about it, she said her mother would kill her if she found out she was coming over here.
I assumed she was exaggerating, like kids do.
I’ve met her mother, and while not the warmest person I’ve ever met, she seems okay. ”
“But?” Hayley prompted.
In for a penny… Ali went on, still doubting her own decision, but something about this woman made her trust. “But… Grace was shivering. Panicky. As if she were genuinely terrified. And all of a sudden I wasn’t so sure—”
The other dog, Cutter, suddenly let out a rolling, almost demanding sort of bark. Both Foxworths spun around. The clearly revved-up animal was at her rear door, looking back over his shoulder at his humans. The bark came again.
“I guess he needs out?” Ali suggested. Before she even finished, Quinn had quickly gone over to the dog.
“That’s his ‘You need to see something’ bark,” Hayley said.
Things started to happen so fast Ali was a little boggled.
The Foxworths were out the back door with their dog so fast it occurred to her perhaps that person who’d broken the window and grabbed Ziggy might still be around, and the dog had heard him or scented him somehow.
Hastily she put the puppy in the playpen she’d set up for him, and followed their visitors outside.
She got through the back door just in time to see Cutter clear her four-foot fence as if it were no taller than Ziggy. Quinn was next, clearing it as easily with one hand on a fence post, as did Hayley. She had less faith in herself, and headed for the gate.
They were into the trees and out of sight by the time she got out of the yard. She paused to listen but heard nothing, not even the dog who had trumpeted the announcement that had made his humans leap into action. They knew him, she thought as she ran, they must be sure this meant something.
Maybe I was right before, thinking he looked a little like those well-trained enforcement dogs.
She went carefully, slowly, not knowing what might be ahead. She at last caught up to them in a small space between some towering evergreens. They were standing facing one of the largest trees, Quinn and Hayley behind their dog, who was a yard or so in front of them.
Their dog, who was staring at the man sitting at the base of the tree, cradling a bloody arm against his chest.
The window. He was still here. And Quinn had been right—this was the source of the blood that had ended up on Ziggy.
“Guess your burglary didn’t go too well,” Quinn was saying.
“I’m not a burglar.” The man said it flatly, wearily.
Feeling it was safe now—somehow she knew that either the dog or Quinn Foxworth would stop the man if he tried anything—Ali picked up her pace. She supposed she should be grateful the guy hadn’t actually hurt Ziggy, but—
Just as she got close enough to take in the entire scene, the strangest thing happened.
The Foxworth dog’s demeanor shifted entirely.
He went from bristling and on guard to something altogether different.
His head came up, he stretched his neck out, his nose aimed at the bleeding man.
He tilted his head, as if curious. The man was looking at the dog in turn, warily.
Cutter walked toward him. The injured man shifted, starting to get to his feet, as if he expected the dog to attack.
“Don’t think about running,” Quinn advised, but made no move to call back the dog.
And then Cutter reached the man, sniffed at him closely, gave a little whuff that sounded oddly like the animal had made a decision.
The man was still edgy with the dog right there, but the dog himself seemed different.
Calmer, yet no less…determined? She sighed inwardly.
She had a lot to learn yet about dogs, if she was imparting human thoughts and emotions to this one.
And then Cutter turned around, facing his people, and sat at the bleeding man’s feet. He stared up at the Foxworths steadily, unwaveringly.
“Oh?” said Hayley, as if the dog had somehow spoken.
Quinn grimaced. “Really, dog?”
Whatever Cutter had been trying to communicate, clearly the couple understood it. Ali had the feeling this was far from the first time this had happened. Maybe she hadn’t been so wrong after all.
“Apparently so,” Hayley said.
Quinn let out an audible breath. “Well, we had December off at least.”
“And a lovely December it was.” Hayley was smiling now, and Ali was a little boggled by how relaxed they both suddenly were, when the man who had tried to break in next door was sitting right there. Not to mention they’d just had an entire conversation that made no sense to anyone else.
She stifled the pang she felt, thinking of when she, too, had had a relationship like that, and shifted her gaze to that man on the ground now. He looked as puzzled as she felt.
He also looked familiar. He was a big guy, she could tell that even as he remained crouched there. Long legs, muscular arms—the left one blood-soaked even wrapped in what looked like a strip torn from his plaid shirt—slightly shaggy dark brown hair, and bright blue eyes.
Her pulse jumped. She’d seen those eyes before.
Grace’s eyes.
The image captured in the photo Grace had once shown her, a clearly precious thing to the child, flashed through her mind. She remembered the girl pulling it out of her pocket, whispering that she had to hide it or her mother would take it away and burn it.
It showed a couple-of-years-younger Grace, a delighted grin on her face, getting a ride in a wheelbarrow pushed by her equally grinning father.
By this man.
“You’re Grace’s dad,” she said, staring at him.
The man stiffened. “You know my girl?”
She nodded. “I moved in next door three weeks ago.”
His expression cleared immediately. “You’re Ali?”
Surprised, she nodded again. But she was even more surprised by the utterly and unmistakably grateful expression that came over his face then. And when he spoke it was with a sincere tone that matched that look. And surprised her even more.
“Thank you.”