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Chapter Two
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“Car ride, boys.” Ethan Nash opened his front door and slapped his hands on his thighs.
Three Belgian Malinois dogs bounded over the polished slate of his entry way like hairy, slavering, hopped-up gazelles and crashed to a stop at his feet. Car ride and treats. Their three favorite words.
“What say we go to town, huh?”
He was meeting a potential new client later in the afternoon and it was best if the dogs worked off some of their ferocious energy before he had to work.
Jaws gaped, tongues lolled, and a small whine came from Gun, his youngest and greenest dog. They quivered as if they hadn’t been outside for days.
Which was not true. He spent hours with them, training, exercising and playing. But they were social creatures and let’s face it, he was just one man.
He put the boys in the back of the Land Rover and pulled out of the yard, reminding himself that if he ever wanted to be accepted into the community, he had to keep showing up. It was a nice place. He’d feel at home here, eventually.
Unfortunately, when he first arrived four years ago, he’d been seeking an idealized, romanticized version of small town life, a safe place where people smiled at and cared for and brought out the best in each other. A kind of Mayberry, with picket fences to go with his rose-colored glasses.
Anything to wash the taste of New York from his palate.
In reality, Cherry Lake was full of people just as flawed and ordinary as any other place.
Some of it was his fault, he acknowledged. At the time, he hadn’t exactly wanted to parade himself around town. He didn’t enjoy his own company, let alone that of others. He needed time to lick his wounds, in private.
And time had healed. He was in a better place now, and ready to start over, but the old adage about no second chances for first impressions seemed to be the law here.
“It’ll be fun,” he said, more to himself than the dogs. “We’ll go for a run at the lake, maybe meet some new friends, and on the way home, I’ll stop at Doc’s for some treats.”
At least he could count Dr. Morrow, the vet, as a friend.
Ethan slipped on his sunglasses, turned on the radio, then started down Mission Range Road to town. When he reached the park at the edge of town, he pulled into a shaded spot at the far end. There were only a few other cars but he wanted to keep the dogs well away from the children’s play area. Powerful, working dogs could be intimidating to the short crowd.
“Here,” he said, slapping his leg as each dog jumped down from the back of the vehicle. They stood beside him, waiting, excited but controlled.
Ethan checked again for people – there were none nearby – and then led them to the shrubbery at the far end of the field, where the young dog promptly lifted his leg and took care of business.
Naturally, the other two took the opportunity to leave their own, superior, calling cards. He watched them explore the smells of a new, exciting environment, admiring their waving coffee-colored tails and intent faces.
The air coming off the lake was fresh and cool, despite the heat promised for later in the day, and he breathed deeply. The dogs trotted down to the water and he followed, smiling as Gun attempted to tease the older dogs into a game of tag. He reached down for a stick and threw it into the water, laughing out loud as Gun promptly catapulted in after it.
The sound of high, excited voices alerted him to the approach of a couple of women surrounded by small children, coming from the gravelled parking lot. One of them was pushing a stroller.
“Come on, boys,” he called, pulling out the leashes.
Ashur and Mars returned immediately. Gun’s attention, however, was caught by the squealing sounds coming from the small prey-like creatures scrambling over the grass. He dragged himself from the water, shook violently, then stood transfixed.
Damn.
“Gun, here,” he snapped. The dog’s ears flickered. He looked at Ethan and took a few steps toward him, his tail down.
But then one of the kids kicked a ball, directly within the dog’s sight-line.
Gun took off like a bullet, his long, sleek body stretched out like a puma.
“Gun!” yelled Ethan, dropping the leashes. The dog meant no malice; he was going for the ball. Ethan knew that. But the women – now screaming – would only see a large dog pelting toward a small child.
