Page 23 of Always Almost You

“I hear her,” Mike said. “Do you have your phone? I left mine inside. I’ll use the flashlight.”

Lauren fumbled for it in her pocket, unlocked it with shaking fingers, and activated the flashlight before handing it to him.

They stepped carefully into the trees. Branches scratched at their jackets. Snow shifted treacherously underfoot. The beam of light cut through the darkness, illuminating patches of brush, tree trunks, and snow-covered ground.

Then—there she was. Pumpkin stood several yards ahead, tail thrashing the air.

Lauren rushed forward and scooped her up, clutching her to her chest. “What in the world are you doing?” she breathed into her fur. “You scared Mommy to death.”

Pumpkin twisted in her arms, squirming and whining.

“There’s something else in here,” Mike said. He widened the arc of the flashlight.

Pumpkin wriggled free and darted forward again, stopping a few feet away. She lowered her front legs into a play bow, her back end high, tail wagging in wild invitation.

Mike moved the beam beyond her. The light caught two eyes, about eighteen inches off the ground. The creature stood still, watching. Mike lowered the flashlight beam so it wouldn’t blind the animal.

A shaggy golden head emerged from the shadows. Then shoulders, followed by the body of a large dog. It was a golden retriever, with a coat matted and dirty from neglect.

The two dogs approached each other cautiously. Pumpkin’s greeting was unrestrained, her tail whipping like windshield wipers at high speed. The larger dog was wary but didn’t retreat. They performed the ancient, intimate ritual of canine introduction: circling, sniffing, and assessing.

Mike dropped to one knee and extended his hand slowly. “Hey, buddy,” he said in a low, even tone. “What’re you doing out here on a night like this?”

The dog flicked his gaze toward Mike but stayed with Pumpkin.

Lauren stepped closer, moving carefully to avoid spooking him. “I don’t see a collar,” she whispered. “He’s a stray.”

A gust of wind cut through the trees, and Lauren shivered. “We can’t leave him out here,” she said, her voice firm despite the tremor. “He won’t survive this.”

Mike nodded. “Agreed.”

The dog’s ribs showed faintly beneath his coat. He looked exhausted.

“Do you think we can grab him?” Lauren asked.

Mike stood slowly. “I don’t think we’ll need to.”

Pumpkin trotted back toward Lauren, then returned to the stray, as if inviting him.

“Our friend here seems very taken with Pumpkin,” Mike said. “And vice versa.”

Lauren picked up Pumpkin’s leash again. “You mean … I just start walking?”

“It’s worth a shot,” Mike responded.

Lauren took a breath. “Pumpkin. Heel.”

Pumpkin glanced at her, then obeyed. They began walking toward the parking lot.

For a long, suspended moment, the larger dog remained where he was, watching. Then he took one tentative step forward. And another. He followed slowly at first, then steadily.

Mike walked a few paces behind, keeping the flashlight low and non-threatening. The wind howled behind them as the four figures moved together across the snow toward the warm glow of the hotel.

CHAPTER 19

“The rear entrance to the hotel is over here,” Lauren called over her shoulder, veering left. “We can get in with my key.”

“My room is straight ahead,” Mike replied. “The one with the sliding glass door completely open.” He glanced down at the stray. “Our buddy here is limping. I’ll bet he’s got snow packed in the pads of his paws.”