Chapter 4
Four
Finn trudged into his kitchen, tearing open the top envelope he’d grabbed from the mailbox at the end of his lane. He didn’t really need to open it to know what it said. But maybe he was a glutton for punishment. Approvals didn’t come in envelopes. Rejections did.
That didn’t stop hope from rising in his chest as he flipped open the single sheet.
Dear Mr. Chaffey,
We regret to inform you
That was all he needed to read, all he needed to know.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise—although the first three banks had at least bothered to call him to reject his loan application. He made a move to crumple the letter but then tossed it on top of the pile of invoices on his desk.
He dropped his chin to his chest to let out a long sigh, then groaned as his nose came in contact with his shirt. Oof. That was ripe. Which was saying something coming from someone who had spent most of his life in a barn.
But he didn’t reek of hay or dirt or hard work. He smelled like the harbor. Like rotten fish and salt and seaweed. It was beyond unpleasant.
Joe Jr. trotted up to him, slurped up a drink of water from the bowl along the wall, and then nipped at the hem of his shirt. A low growl came from deep inside the barrel-chested dog. Apparently, Joe agreed.
Finn gave the dog a good ear scratch with one hand. With the other, he grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked it over his head before chucking it toward the laundry room. “Is that better?”
Joe woofed and slobbered into his hand.
“Good boy,” he said, slipping his friend a biscuit from the tin on the counter.
When the crunching quickly ended, Joe looked up with big black eyes, silently begging for more. Crouching down, Finn rubbed his giant head between both hands. Joe’s fur was thick and coarse, his ears soft and pliable. “You think you earned a second treat today?”
Joe nearly smiled at the familiar word. He had jumped in to rescue Cretia that morning. No hesitation. No stumble. He’d looked better than some of the dogs Finn had trained as rescue swimmers.
Of course, those dogs performed as they’d been taught ninety-nine percent of the time. Joe did as he was told about one percent.
Still, he’d picked today to do as he was asked, so Finn reached for another bone-shaped treat. Without him, Finn would have had to plunge into the harbor to save Cretia. “Thanks for sparing me a cold swim.” And making sure Finn had the strength to carry her to the inn.
Even if she had made his shirt smell like a cesspool.
The memory of her exhausted smile flashed across his mind’s eye, pulling at something low in his gut.
Joe crunched his cookie and trotted off to his enormous pillow in the living room as though he was the goodest boy who ever was.
Ridiculous dog.
Shaking off thoughts of his pet and the pretty woman Joe had rescued, Finn grabbed a fresh T-shirt from the basket on top of his dryer. It was a little wrinkled, but there wasn’t a body in the barn that would care. He stepped through the back door and strode across the lawn toward the traditional red building and gray-shingled roof visible from a kilometer away. His grandfather had built it nearly half a century before, though it had only recently started housing a cow.
As far back as Finn could remember, the barn had only been for the dogs his family bred and trained. It kept them warm in the winter and cool in the summer and kept them away from any other wildlife.
Until recently.
Not that his bunnies and cow were strictly considered wildlife. But over the last few years, Finn had brought in a few strays.
As he slid the door open and stepped into the dim light, one of those strays greeted him with a low moo.
“Hey, Roberta.” Finn strolled across the tidy cement floor and patted the black-and-white former milk cow between the eyes. Or rather, beside her lone eye. The vet had had to remove the other thanks to a nasty infection. A permanent reminder of her previous living conditions. “Got enough to eat there?”
The old girl mooed again, contentedly chewing on her hay. But his question seemed to set off decidedly less satisfied calls from every other corner of the floor. The three goats in the next pen bleated like an entire herd. The dogs barked like they’d been starving for days. Even the rabbits in his homemade hutch chirped especially loud.
The cacophony nearly made him miss the ring of his phone, but the vibration in his back pocket made him jump. He jerked the phone free, flipped it open, and pressed it to his ear. “Hello?”
“Finnegan.” The deep voice needed no introduction, but he offered one anyway. “It’s your dad.”
Finn smiled as he tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he could grab a pallet of hay for the goats. “This is a surprise.”
“I thought you might be feeding.”
“I am.”
His dad offered a throaty chuckle. “Your mother always says I have perfect timing.”
Finn offered an obligatory laugh. They both knew his mother said no such thing. Never had. Thomas Chaffey was notoriously late, and only Bea Chaffey’s sainthood had kept them married for nearly thirty-five years.
“What’s up?” Finn asked as he opened the gate and stepped into the goat enclosure. Jenna immediately ran to him, butting her head against his legs to get at the meal in his hands. Her two kids kept their distance, prancing in the far corner and eyeing him with their strange horizontal pupils.
“Your mother heard there was an accident at the harbor today. Aretha Franklin just called from the Bahamas. She heard it from Kathleen, who heard it from ... well, never mind. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. A tourist fell in the harbor. And it was kind of my fault.”
With the mama goat adequately distracted by fresh hay, he strolled toward the kids, who tried to escape to the small pasture behind their pen. If not for the locked gate, they would have been long gone. Squatting before them, he slowly held out his hand to let them investigate it. Not even a month old, they still wobbled a little on their spindly legs, but they were definitely warming up to him, seeing as he’d been supplementing their feeding with daily bottles of milk.
“Kind of?”
His dad’s delayed question made him jump and nearly lose his balance. Swaying to stay upright, he scared off the kids, who staggered toward their mother for their own dinner.
Finn pushed off his knees and stood slowly. “She bumped into me. Actually, she sort of bounced off of me.”
His dad said nothing, but Finn had no problem picturing his questioning eyebrows.
Finn dumped out the goats’ water tub and scrubbed it clean with the brush that hung from a nail on the back wall. “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. I was just taking Joe Jr. for a walk—”
His dad snorted a laugh. “Enough said.”
“He’s not that bad, Dad. He’s just...” Finn chewed on his lip as he searched for the right description for his sidekick. The dog had always been just a little bit off. While the rest of his litter had been easy to train, Joe had been a big goofy pup. And he’d grown into a big goofy dog.
His dad probably knew by now that there weren’t exact words for Joe, so he asked only, “Is the girl all right?”
“Uh ... mostly. Physically. Her stuff is ruined, though. But I set her up at the Red Door. Marie is taking care of her until we can figure it out.”
“You’re going to help her get her gear sorted?”
“Yeah. I’ll check in on her tomorrow. I’ll make sure she can get whatever she needs.” Assuming those electronics weren’t as much as the new tractor he’d been eyeing or the expansion on the barn he’d been dreaming of, he’d be willing to cover the cost of replacements. Not that she was likely to let him. She’d been pretty stuck on paying Marie for a simple lunch. But at least he could offer.
“Good man.”
Finn rubbed at his chest, right over the center of the warmth that spread through him. It didn’t matter that he was thirty-three. His dad’s approval still mattered.
“So, how’s the new litter?”
With a chuckle, Finn walked toward the puppies in question. Stretching up on their back legs, they pawed at the fence, barking for dinner, a drink, and affection. “Not so new. They’re at least twenty pounds now.” Reaching through the chain links, he stroked the soft black fur, fluffy and mostly clean. For now. He’d given them all a bath after a romp in the pasture the night before, but two of them had thoroughly rolled in their hay bedding.
Ringo gnawed on his knuckle, his puppy teeth not quite sharp enough to break skin.
“Already? How are they shaping up? Ready to start training?”
Finn gave the four pups a harder perusal. “Good shape, strong. And good dispositions.”
“Good. Good.” There was a longing in his voice, and Finn knew that his dad would rather be training this litter than be anywhere else. Except at his wife’s side. But after almost a year of tests and more years of painful joints, his dad had been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. He physically couldn’t keep up the business, so he’d passed it to Finn more than ten years before.
And his mom had done what she could always do. She’d talked her husband into her heart’s desire—a home with a harbor view in Summerside, steps from a coffee shop that was purported to have the island’s best oatmeal lemon bar.
“You can come visit anytime, you know,” Finn said.
“Same goes to you. Your mother was just saying we haven’t seen you in far too long. Busy saving damsels in distress, I suppose.”
Finn chuckled. “Cretia isn’t what I’d call distressed.” She would have marched out of the inn and probably all the way back to Charlottetown on a bum ankle if Marie hadn’t stopped her.
“Cretia? Sounds like you’re awfully friendly already.” There was a note of teasing in his voice, but Finn couldn’t defend himself fast enough.
“Well, I couldn’t carry someone whose name I didn’t know.”
He nearly bit off the tip of his tongue. He’d opened a world of questions without thinking about it.
“You carried her to the inn? You should have led with that.”
Before Finn could explain that it had all been quite innocent—and necessary—his father hollered away from the phone. “Bea! Come here! He picked her up and carried her.”
“What?” his mother shrieked from somewhere deeper inside the house. “Where? Why? Is he going to see her again? Soon? You know he’s in his mid-thirties. We were married at nineteen.”
Finn sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face.
That response was exactly why he hadn’t started by telling them that he’d held her in his arms. Cretia was a stranger. A strong, smart stranger—with long black eyelashes that shaded dark chocolate eyes. And high cheekbones. And smooth pink lips.
Not that he’d looked that closely. Besides, none of those things changed the fact that she wouldn’t be around long enough for him to get to know more than how her soft curves fit into arms.
Which had been nice.
Really nice.
Of course, he hadn’t given that more than a passing thought besides how she’d started off so stiff, pushing away from him, nearly fighting him. The fear that had clenched his gut when he’d nearly dropped her. And the moment she’d finally given in, sinking against his chest. Warm where they touched.
This was not a topic of conversation he was eager to have with his dad—and especially not his mom. Individually they’d dropped more than a hint or two that they’d like him to keep the family tree going. Together, they were relentless.
“She couldn’t walk. That’s all. I was just helping her get to the inn so she could dry off.”
“But you’re going to see her again?” his mom called from the background.
“Yes,” his dad said. “He already told me he’s going to help her replace her things. It was his fault she fell in, after all.”
His mom cried out, and he could picture her covering her mouth. “Oh, honey. No. Did you push her in?”
“What? Why would I push her in?” Raking his fingers through his hair, he sighed. “It was an accident.”
“Joe Jr.,” his dad supplied by way of explanation.
“Oh.” His mom didn’t need more.
“Listen, guys, I’ve got to finish feeding and spend some time with the pups.”
“Okay,” his mom called. “But bring her down here when you get a chance. We want to meet her.”
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. But he said only, “We’ll see.”
“Say hi to the Fab Four for us,” his dad said in lieu of a goodbye.
With a quick “I will,” Finn flipped his phone closed and shoved it into his pocket.
Squatting down in front of Ringo, who was still pressed against the fence, Finn scratched his ears through the chain link. “You going to set the rhythm for this group?” he asked.
The pup barked a joyful response. More likely he was just hungry, so Finn set about measuring the all-natural kibble into four silver tins. The puppies had only been eating solids for a few weeks, so he added a dash of water over each to keep them soft.
Balancing the puppy-sized bowls, two in his left hand and two in the crook of his left arm, he let himself into the kennel with his other hand. John, Paul, George, and Ringo loped toward him, tangling between his legs. Their little black faces looked up with eager expectation, and their high-pitched yaps filled the barn from floor to wooden roof beams.
“Hey now, everyone calm down.”
They did not.
Not that he’d expected them too. And the sound of his voice only seemed to rile them up, making them hop on his feet and wag their long tails.
He’d just begun training them, so he didn’t bother giving them a command as he leaned down to put their dishes next to each other. This evening was about socializing them. Playing with them. He’d been gone far longer than he’d planned, and he needed to help them get rid of some of their energy.
Three little rumps lifted right in the air as the heads disappeared into their bowls. John, sporting his green collar, jumped a few times, and Finn gave him one more head scratch before pointing him to the bowl.
He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a litter with so few puppies. For the last few years Maisey had delivered at least seven with each litter. One year she’d had twelve.
Four was an anomaly. Four boys at that.
He’d really had no choice but to name them after the Beatles, his dad’s favorite band. Finn still had all their albums on vinyl, and he’d fully planned on naming Joe Sgt. Pepper. Until his mom got the idea in her head that Joe Jr. was the only option. There had been no arguing with her.
But one of these days, Finn was going to have a Sgt. Pepper. Then he wouldn’t be the only one in the Lonely Hearts Club.
And maybe his folks would back off a little bit.
And maybe he wouldn’t feel quite so alone.
Not that he was by himself. Six adult Newfoundlands barked from the adjoining kennel separated by a solid wood fence, and Finn strolled over to feed them too. They all rushed toward the food, jostling him and each other for position. All except for Bella, who waddled with her very pregnant belly. The vet had said she was carrying eleven, and Finn prayed they all survived.
“Hey, pretty girl.” He squatted at her eye level, running a gentle hand from the top of her head to her swollen side. “How you feeling? ’Bout ready to have these kiddos?”
She slobbered all over his shoulder.
He’d take that as a yes.
In a few days he’d set up a whelping bed and move her into the birthing room off the front of the barn. She was probably still a week or so away, but this was only her second litter, and he’d rather be ready just in case he’d misjudged her.
With eleven more pups on the way, he had no business feeling lonely. He had more than enough work to keep any man busy. And more than enough mouths depending on him to feed them.
And his dad depending on him to carry on the Chaffey legacy. Both the family business and the family name.
But managing one didn’t leave much time for the other.
Sure, he’d thought about marriage and a family of his own a few times over the years. Not a particular woman—just the concept. And he liked the idea. Coming inside on a cold December day to a warm hug and a soft kiss. Sitting across the table from a kind smile. Sharing the weight of the business and his dad’s expectations. Waking up every morning next to the woman he would love for the rest of his life.
All good things.
Except he’d never met anyone he wanted those things with.
Sweet girls. Pretty ladies. Kind women. He’d met every single one in North Rustico, PEI. Before moving to Summerside, his mom had paraded half the female population of the north shore past him.
Not a single one had made his heart hammer against his ribs.
Until he’d picked up Cretia. And set her down. And stopped her from leaving.
Scowling, he tried to force himself to think about anything else. To not see her face every time he blinked.
This was ridiculous. He barely knew her. And what he knew made no sense. How could someone make a living by traveling around the world?
It couldn’t be safe. It probably wasn’t smart.
And when she gave up on her ludicrous lifestyle, she’d head back to her home. He wasn’t an expert at US geography, but he thought Arizona was about as far from the island as you could get and still be in the States.
In the meantime, she’d gallivant around the globe—assuming her passport hadn’t been ruined—and probably be even farther away.
But when he’d set her on the floor at the inn, he’d felt her absence deep in his gut. Somewhere not far from his heart. There had been a hollowness, like he was missing something.
How could he miss someone he’d known for exactly fifteen minutes? Besides, they’d barely said two words to each other. And, of course, the minute he had spoken, he’d shoved his foot in his mouth.
He’d never felt this way before, and he didn’t quite know what to do. Except ignore the feeling. That was probably his best option. But he had to help her replace her electronics. He could disregard whatever his gut said for as long as it took to get Cretia back on the road. Then it would just be him and the Fab Four again. And a few dozen other animals.
He’d probably barely see her anyway. He had work to do.
“Come on, boys.” He held the gate open, and the puppies tromped onto the open barn floor. “Let’s go outside and play.”