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They emerged onto a narrower street, also tree-lined and shady. This side held several houses, but opposite them was a rambling, single-storied structure and behind it, a fenced area that ran the length of the short street. Barks, yips, and the occasional howl permeated the air, and Casey spotted several dogs racing along the fence.
“Harrison Veterinary Clinic, I presume?”
“Yep. Randolph Scott still there?”
“Yes, but he’s got misgivings if the judgmental tilt of his ears is anything to go by.”
“Hmmm. He’s quicker than he looks, so we need to plan this.” Kenny pulled his phone out of his back pocket and touched the screen. “Ty? We’re out front with Randolph Scott. What’s the game plan?” Kenny glanced back at the cat, who had sat down and shot out a rear paw, digging between some extremely impressive claws with his teeth. “Seriously? That’s your plan?” He sighed. “Fine. But don’t dawdle.” He disconnected the call. “We’re supposed to detain him.”
“Us and what army?” Casey glanced down at the cat, who had moved on to the other paw. “Unless you’ve got a machete in your pocket, he’s way better armed than we are. His feet are enormous.”
“Polydactyly,” Kenny said. “He’s got six toes on each front paw.”
Just then, Randolph Scott looked up and met Casey’s gaze with wide golden eyes. “Uh oh. I think we’ve been made. Should we run for it?”
Kenny laughed, although it sounded to Casey as though there were an edge to it. “Nah. If he had it in for you, you’d know. He tends to express his disapprobation with dismembered rodents.”
“Good to know.” Casey glanced sidelong at Kenny as Randolph Scott sauntered forward, his tail in the air. Casey had never had a pet—his father claimed cats shed, dogs were too needy, and fish belonged on a plate with lemon.
While he was gathering ammunition to try to change his dad’s mind—which had never happened, and not just about pets—Casey had watched a ton of videos on all kinds of domestic animals. He remembered that cats were evolutionarily wired to expect danger from above, so he took a sustaining breath and lowered himself to his haunches. Slowly.
“Hey, boy.” He held out his hand, palm down, careful to keep it below the level of Randolph Scott’s eyes. “I’m Casey.”
The cat dabbed at Casey’s fingers with his nose, then ducked his head under Casey’s palm and nudged it imperiously, a purr that rivaled Pete’s mower vibrating Casey’s hand. Smile dawning, Casey obeyed the order and stroked the ginger fur, scratching behind the notched ear. “Wow. His fur is so soft.”
“It is now.” Kenny knelt down next to Casey. “Wait until the end of summer when the grasses go to seed. He gets covered in burrs. It takes Ty forever to get them out, since Randolph Scott scorns brushes.”
“If I’m still around, I’ll help. I don’t mind. I like—”
A light brown hand reached over Casey’s shoulder and scooped up the cat. By the time Casey registered what had happened, Randolph Scott was already on the ground again, shaking his leg before casting one baleful glance over his shoulder and darting off under a hydrangea bush. Casey rose reluctantly to face the owner of the hand, who was capping an empty syringe.
“Thanks, guys. He’s been dodging me all week.” He held out a hand. “Ty Harrison. You must be Sylvia’s student.”
Casey shook, trying not to be too obvious about comparing Ty to his cousin. While he was about Dev’s height, or maybe an inch or two shorter, his eyes were more almond-shaped, his skin a couple of shades lighter, and his black hair straight, not curly. Their broad cheekbones were the same, however, as were the golden-brown eyes.
“That’s me. Casey Friel. Nice to meet you.” He glanced at the bushes, which were shaking alarmingly. “Is he going to hate me now?”
“Nah.” Ty brandished the syringe. “He knows who to blame. You, he likes, or he wouldn’t have let you pet him. Be careful or you’ll find him underfoot constantly now.”
Casey smiled. “I don’t mind. I always wanted a pet when I was a kid, but my dad wouldn’t allow it.”
Ty gestured to his office. “I run a no-kill shelter out of my practice and I’m always looking for volunteers to socialize with the animals, so if you’re ever in need of some one-on-one furbaby time, you’re welcome to stop in.”
Casey shrugged apologetically. “I kind of doubt I’ll have much free time, but if I do, I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Excellent. Now, since you two have done me a signal service, allow me to buy you the beverage of your choice from the Market.” Ty patted Casey’s shoulder. “I’m impressed with how you charmed Randolph Scott, but if you can work the same magic on Kat Hathaway, I’m nominating you for sainthood.”
Sylvia hadn’t returned after her meeting, which wasn’t unusual since she often met with her sponsor afterward before returning to her home outside Merrilton. Her absence had given Dev the perfect excuse for avoiding the summer kitchen—and its tempting new student—for the rest of the day, although he could pinpoint the exact moment Casey entered his room in Harrison House.
Not that I’ll ever admit it out loud.
He wished he could convince Sylvia move to Home—he had at least half a dozen Harrison properties with no current tenants—but Sylvia insisted she wanted to keep where she lived separate from both work and her ongoing recovery.
Maybe someday, if Dev could figure out how to bring more activities to town that were interesting but still maintained the town’s atmosphere, Sylvia would reconsider. Since he’d been racking his brains for that Holy Grail from the moment he’d arrived following Garlan’s death, however, he didn’t really expect to have a sudden epiphany.
It was still on his mind, though—along with that tantalizing glimpse of Casey’s ass—as he pounded down the street at dawn the next day on his morning run. He’d made the circuit of West Road and was on his way back, slowing to a stop as usual by the small marble plaque that marked where Garlan and Grandfather had gone off the road.
As he crouched to run a finger across the date carved into the surface, Ty emerged from the path down to the flooded quarry, shirtless, his skin still glistening with water from his swim and, for some reason, holding a battered cardboard box and wearing a thunderous scowl.
