My Funny Valentine (Pajaro Bay Series Book 4) (3 page)

"Yeah, well," Hallie said. "It shows. And whoever did it needs to learn that it's not okay."

Cassidy smiled. "Oh, he has. No, really," she added at Hallie's incredulous look. "I'm okay, honestly. I was just joking with your husband. I didn't expect him to tell the whole world."

"He didn't. He told me. I know what it's like, Cassidy. I was abused in my first marriage."

Cassidy glanced down at Hallie's hands, covered in a fine web of faded scars. "I heard about that."

Hallie held up her hands. "Yeah. So don't try to tell me it was an accident, okay? I'm not buying it."

"I wouldn't."

Hallie folded her arms across her chest. "You didn't run into a door?"

"No, I didn't."

"Somebody hit you."

"Yes. But I'm okay."

"You can get help if you need it."

"I already did," Cass said, really touched that this woman she hardly knew, who was the wife of the mayor, the head of the village's arts committee, and part of the venerable Madrigal clan, was so concerned about a complete stranger. "Thank you. I really mean that. But I've talked to the police, and it's all taken care of."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure. You can ask Captain Ryan at the sheriff's office if you don't believe me. I've gotten a restraining order and everything. He can't come within 100 feet of me—and I can't come near him, either. So it's all over now."

Hallie blushed. "I'm glad to hear it. I don't generally butt in to other people's business, but I just can't ignore abuse. When Kyle told me you made a joke about running into a door, I had to come by—and Halloween gave me the perfect excuse. Not mad, are you?"

"Mad? Of course not."

"Good." Then Hallie laughed. "Because even if you were, I'd still have said it. Been there. Done that. Never again."

Cassie nodded. "Now I can say the same. No one in my life ever hauled off and hit me like that. And believe me, once was enough. No man will ever hit me twice. I promise."

"Good for you. You're wiser than I was at your age." She picked up the carrier again. "But if there's ever anything I can do, you let me know. I'm not just saying that. Any day. Any hour. You have my number."

Cassidy felt tears welling up in her eyes. She thought back to the previous week while she'd been struggling through the shock and pain of being hit by someone who claimed to care for her. "Thank you." She cleared her throat. "Wow. That's very nice of you."

"I mean it."

"I know. but I'm fine." She wiped away the last tear and grinned. "Unless—"

"Unless what?"

"Unless you can recommend any nice, single, non-violent and sweet guys in town...?"

Hallie laughed. "So you don't spend next Valentine's Day eating pizza and watching a movie? Sure. I'll keep my eyes out. if I find one, I promise I'll steer him your way."

Halloween took that moment to let out a piercing yowl that made them both jump.

Cassidy laughed as she looked down at the calico face peering through the pink bars. "You're spayed, young lady. You don't need a boyfriend!"

C
lint was sitting
on his couch reading when he heard Mrs. Anderson's front door slam shut. He glanced up and saw Trip on the porch with a pile of dirty rags. He threw them over the rail and they landed on the wet lawn. Then he stomped down the front stairs and over to his Jeep. It roared to life and he peeled out, throwing up a plume of mud from the tires as he took off.

Clint noticed that he turned right, toward his home in Wharf Flats, not left, toward downtown and the nursing home. It occurred to him that Trip may have been taking the TV for himself, not for his aunt. He would have to call the nursing home on Monday and see if her condition was really so bad that she might not come home again. That would be too bad.

He went back to his book, but then thought again about the pile of rags.

Trip couldn't be that much of a jerk, could he?

With a sigh, Clint got up and went over to the window. The pile of rags lay there on the wet grass. But yeah, it wasn't just a pile of rags.

Clint had to count to ten to get himself under control. It had to be the dog. The thing was lying all curled up in the mud.

"I'm not doing this," he told himself as he went to the bathroom to grab a towel. His best towel, the only clean one, bright orange and nice and soft.

He stomped back to the door. He really didn't like dogs. They were vicious things that couldn't be trusted. He stood at the front door telling himself that for a couple of minutes.

"No way," he said. "I am not doing this." He stood with his hand on the knob for a while, willing himself to stop shaking.

Finally he gave in. He opened the door and went out. It was Strudel, all right. He could see the little dog from his porch. It was cowering in the mud.

He had to do it. He went across the lawn and stood over the little dog for a minute. The pup was hardly bigger than the towel he held.

He was glad there was no one here to see him making a fool of himself like this. How could he explain being scared to death of a tiny little animal, the kind of animal millions of people kept as pets and loved and doted over? If the confident Cassidy Trujillo saw him acting this way, she'd think he was a coward.

The dog looked up at him with trusting brown eyes.

"Don't bite me," he said, in what he had intended to be a firm voice, but which came out in almost a whisper.

The dog seemed scared of him. He realized it was shivering, and he felt sorry for the poor thing. It must have no idea where its owner had gone, no idea why Trip had been so cruel to it, and no idea why this strange man was shying away from it like it was a savage beast.

"Okay, Strudel," he said. "We'll work this out. You promise not to hurt me and I won't hurt you."

Her little tail wagged tentatively.

He crouched down. He put the towel over her shivering body, wrapped it around her, and then lifted.

She weighed hardly anything. He hadn't realized how tiny she actually was. The poor little thing was shaking, so he held her close to his chest as he trudged back to his house.

Once inside, he had intended to put her down, but she made a quick whine when he started to set her on the floor, so he just sat down on the couch and held her on his lap.

She stuck her head under the towel so she was completely burrowed under the orange terry cloth, only her ears sticking out.

They sat like that for a while, and he felt himself begin to relax. It was actually kind of pleasant to feel the warm little body nestled on his lap. She seemed to get heavier as she relaxed against him, and after a while she went to sleep. Her steady breathing and quiet presence felt nice. He reached over for his book, and went back to reading while the dog slept.

Outside, it began to rain again.

H
e was really getting
the hang of this pet thing. He gave her a dish of milk, and she lapped it all up.

Then she insisted on sitting on his lap while he watched a movie. She didn't seem to mind the explosions on the video, but just curled up on him and slept some more.

R
ight in the
middle of the movie's big chase scene the dog threw up on him.

"Ugh! Get off!" he shouted, and the dog scampered away, still heaving and leaving a mess in its wake.

He was covered in it. "Great." He got to his feet and then went to the bathroom, pulling off his tee shirt as he went.

Pets. What did people see in them?

He grabbed another tee shirt and put it on, then headed back to the living room.

What a mess. He got some paper towels and began to wipe up all the vomit. Strudel had huddled in the corner, as if she were frightened by her own sickness.

"Relax, pup. It'll be okay," he said as he worked to clean the floor. He got everything cleaned up, put the towel and shirt into the washing machine, and came back just in time to witness the dog throwing up again.

She ended with a whine. She was shaking all over. This couldn't be right. She looked horrible, and cowered, whining, in the farthest corner of the living room.

"Come here, little one."

She backed away from the man who had yelled at her.

"Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. You're as scared of me as I am of you, huh?"

She looked terrible. Her big, brown eyes pleaded with him.

"Don't scare me, Strudel. I can't have you die on me."

What could he do to help her?

He realized what he had to do. He grabbed his phone and punched in the number for the person he least wanted to talk to today.

T
he front door
to the clinic burst open. It was him. Cassidy couldn't believe it. The cute lawyer who hated dogs was in tears, soaking wet, with his jet black hair glistening with raindrops. He held a little bundle of fur wrapped in a towel.

"I think she's dying! Help her, please!"

She took the bundle from him. "Let me see."

She unwrapped the towel. "Strudel! What happened to her?"

"Trip dumped her outside when he came to ransack Mrs. Anderson's house."

"What do you mean, came to ransack her house? Where is she?"

"In a nursing home. So Trip came by today and took her big-screen TV and a bunch of other stuff, and threw Strudel out in the rain."

"And you took her in?"

"She was all wet and scared." He stared at her. "That's a bad bruise on your cheek. What happened to you?"

"I walked into a door," she said crisply. "So what happened to Mrs. Anderson?"

"She fell down the stairs last week and broke her leg."

Cassidy carried Strudel into the exam room, and Clint followed.

"Her eyes are bright," she said. "Let me take her temperature. You know, she doesn't look bad, just a bit skinny. What made you think she was dying?"

"She threw up. Over and over. And then she cried."

She felt gently along Strudel's rib cage. "No broken bones." She listened to her heart. "Normal heartbeat. When did she start throwing up?"

"A while ago. I had fed her, and she fell asleep, and then she started throwing up."

"What did you feed her?"

"Milk."

"Milk? That might make her throw up."

"Well, I didn't know what to feed her. I don't know anything about dogs."

"Right. You said you hated them. And now you're crying because you think she's dying."

"I'm not crying. I have allergies." He sniffed loudly to illustrate.

"Uh uh. You're worried about her."

"I am not." He was obviously lying. He wouldn't even look at her.

"Why did you say you hated dogs?"

He examined the posters on the wall to avoid looking at her. "I didn't want you to think I wasn't a real man."

"Real men don't like dogs? That's news to me."

"I don't hate them."

"What then? You eat them for dinner? That's a Vietnamese thing, isn't it?"

That got him to look at her. "That's not funny! My family's been in the U.S. for three generations."

"Sorry. It's a stereotype, I know. But I spent a week after our date trying to figure you out, and that's all I could come up with."

"You couldn't come up with 'I'm so macho I don't like fluffy little animals?'"

"Nope," she said. "But I was upset. I know your family's been American longer than mine has."

"I know. We learned a lot about each other on our first date, Ms. First In Her Family To Go To College."

"Right, Mr. Mom Wanted Me To Be A Doctor But I Hate The Sight Of Blood. So what is it about dogs? Why did you say you hated dogs and then rescue Strudel like this?"

"I thought you'd think I was a wimp."

"For being nice to a dog?"

"For being scared of them."

"You're scared of dogs?"

He turned his head away again, and she again noticed his scar, an ugly, jagged old one that ran across his forehead. Suddenly, it all made sense. "You were attacked by a dog."

He glanced back at her. "It wasn't a football injury."

"I figured you were joking about that. It's obvious the injury is from a long time ago—probably early childhood."

"How is that obvious?"

"I'm a doctor. An animal doctor, sure, but I know how scar tissue forms and changes over time. How old were you?"

"Three. I accidentally stepped on a neighbor dog's tail and it picked me up by the head and shook me."

She put her hand over his. "Oh, Clint! You could have been killed."

"I was in intensive care for a long time. After that, I never went near a dog again."

"Well, of course not. I'm sorry I misjudged you." She bumped him with her shoulder. "So you were trying to impress me with your machismo? That's stupid, you know."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is. I don't want some dumb guy who thinks with his fists."

He froze. "So you didn't run into a door."

Now it was her turn to look away, embarrassed. "Nope."

"Why did you say you did?"

"I didn't want you to think I was a wimp."

"Who did it? I'll kill him."

"Trip, of course."

"What? He said he dumped you because you were needy."

"
Needy
? What I
needed
was a restraining order against him to make sure he never touched me again. And so he got one against me, just to be spiteful, keeping me from seeing him or his aunt. Just 'cause he's a jerk."

"I'm glad you didn't let him get away with it." He took a deep breath. "So you really refused to go on a second date with me because I said I didn't like dogs? I thought you just didn't find me attractive."

She laughed. "Well, I admit you have a certain rakish charm, but someone who doesn't like animals didn't seem my type."

"Rakish? I'm not sure if I like being rakish."

"Count your blessings, Clint. You're wearing sweat socks with sandals."

He looked down at his feet. "Two different colored sweat socks." He looked up at her. "In my defense, I've had the flu."

She leaned in closer across the exam table. "I'll take that under consideration." She felt his forehead. "Hmm. I don't think you have a fever."