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‘But he could at least be kept in a fenced yard—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake—get real!’ He looked daggers at her in the mirror. ‘He hates being shut in. He goes berserk if you try to tie him up or keep him behind the fence; he nearly kills himself trying to get loose.’
Kate’s hands stilled their restless stroking, her eyes widening as the certainty hit her like a freight train.
‘He belongs to you!’
His eyes whipped back to the road. ‘He’s a stray.’
It all came together. The shocked curse. The grim examination. Having the vet’s phone number handy on his desk. And, most telling of all, the hard carapace of flinty self-control.
‘Maybe he was a stray, once. But he’s your dog now, isn’t he?’
‘Nobody wanted a hopeless mongrel like him.’ He shrugged. ‘He would have been put down.’
She took that as a yes. ‘Because he only had three legs?’
‘He had all four when he first landed on my doorstep,’ he said drily. ‘He lost his back leg when he practically shredded it ripping his way through a chain-link dog-fence I put up to keep him “safe”.’ He glanced back just long enough to see her wince. ‘Which of course only made him even more unattractive to your average dog-lover who either wants a purebred or something useful or cute.’
‘So when did you adopt him?’
‘I didn’t adopt him.’ He sounded as if she had accused him of an iniquity. The muscles at the back of his neck stiffened. ‘The vet says he was probably abused in a confined space as a pup—which makes him very much of an outside dog. I’ve never owned an animal, but said I’d let him hang around
at my place until something could be arranged that didn’t involve a lethal injection. That was five years ago, just after I built the house. Unfortunately no one ever answered the ads, and I’m still stuck with him.’
And still deep in denial about it!
He had built the house with the proceeds of that first book, she realised. Prior to that he had been a wanderer, spending his money as he went. But as soon as he’d had the means, he had made a place for himself, and, although he might categorise it purely as a place to write, a temporary refuge, it was more than that—it was home. He had been secretly putting down roots.
‘What happens to him when you go away?’ she asked curiously. ‘If he hates being shut up he obviously can’t go into a kennel.’
‘I usually drop him off with a mate of the vet’s, who has a lifestyle block up in the hills. In the shorter term I pay a local to come and live in the house,’ he admitted gruffly. In other words he firmly kept a foot in both camps—the dog owner and the rootless wanderer. And, of course, he also had his town mistress on a completely separate string!
‘Doesn’t he pine?’
‘Not noticeably. He likes company but he’s not particular. He doesn’t like to be owned. Mostly he needs the freedom to come and go.’
He could be talking about himself, thought Kate, struck by the stunning psychological similarity. They both had attachment issues. She had often wondered about Drake’s family background, but he had never responded to her tentative comments, and she knew only the vague details—that he had been orphaned as a teenager by the death of his mother, and had no contact with his father. She suspected abuse, but had known better than to ask.
She did have one more question, however, that did urgently require an answer: ‘So what’s his name?’
‘He didn’t come with a birth certificate.’
‘You must have given him a proper name.’
‘Since he never comes when I call him, it seems a bit pointless.’
‘So what is it?’ She could see he was relishing her frustration at his evasions. She could also see that his hands were more relaxed on the wheel and the muscles in his jaw were no longer clenched. ‘Let me guess.’ She pretended to think. ‘Rumpelstiltskin!’
He almost smiled.
‘No? How about Rover? Very appropriate to his nature.’
There was no response from dog or man.
‘Spot? Montmorency de Waverley Assortment?’
That got her a human snicker. She raised her eyebrows and he gave in to her persistence, his worried eyes wary as they reflected his surrender.
