How to Wrangle a Cowboy (41 page)

The light, she discovered, was coming from a single basement window that wasn’t covered with yellowing newspapers. Lindsey couldn’t help remembering an old H. P. Lovecraft story where some unspeakable beast had hurtled out of a darkened room, but she swallowed her fear, sending it down to the pit of her stomach, where it mingled with all the angry words she’d gulped down. All the repression made her slightly nauseous, but she might not get this opportunity again. Kneeling, she peered through the window.

She’d been right. Ed was running a puppy mill. And the sight of it made the angry words in her belly burst into flames that licked at her insides, urging her to action.

Row upon row of cages lined the walls. The bars were rusting and coated with filth, the cage bottoms layered four or five inches deep with damp bedding and feces.

With their sensitive hearing, the dogs had picked up on her presence. Every frightened eye was focused on her, begging for release from what appeared to be the seventh circle of doggie hell.

But there was no barking. Not a sound. And somehow, that was the worst part.

The rustle of leaves behind her startled Lindsey out of her horrified catatonia. Spinning, she staggered back against the house.

She’d been so absorbed in her horror that Brockman had managed to creep up behind her, cradling a double-barreled shotgun casually in his arms. He wasn’t leering at her anymore. No, he was scowling, as if he’d like to use the rusty old gun. Apparently, the man didn’t even take care of his firearms.

“What are you up to, Miss Ward?”

Lindsey spotted a piece of paper on the ground and snatched it up. “There it is!” She waved it in the air and shoved it in her pocket. “Blew out of my truck.” She flashed him a smile that was maniacal in its desperation. “Don’t be a litterbug, right?”

“Go home,” Ed said. “You’ve seen all you’re going to see of my property.” He hefted the gun, letting the barrels swing her way for a brief instant as if by accident, then lowering his aim to the ground right at her feet. “You might have noticed this land is posted.” He pointed to a ragged, torn “No Trespassing” sign that was stapled to a nearby fence post. “I see you here again, you might not get so lucky.”

“Right,” she said. “We Westerners like our privacy, don’t we?”

“Don’t we.” His tone was grim.

Shaking nearly as hard as Maybelle, Lindsey sprinted toward her grandfather’s truck. Just as she reached it, she stubbed her toe on a rock and nearly fell flat on her face. Catching herself allowed her to turn to see if Ed was still watching her.

He wasn’t. He was gone.

But he hadn’t seen the last of her. She’d be back. Either that, or she’d send the nearest Animal Control officer in her stead.

Ed’s little breeding operation was going to be shut down, shotgun or no shotgun.

* * *

Shane was as happy as he’d been in a long time. He hadn’t been too crazy about little Stormy, but the expression on his son’s face when they’d found the little guy was worth all the aggravation the pup dished out. All his memories of chewed shoes, spots on the rug, and incorrigible begging had disappeared in the face of his son’s happiness.

The reunion between boy and dog had been magical. For once, the yapping was music to Shane’s ears. Really high-pitched, skull-piercing music—but still music.

And for once, Shane had forgotten to worry about how much his son loved his dog and simply savored the knowledge that his son had something in his life that gave him joy. At Cody’s suggestion, they were having a welcome-home celebration for Stormy, complete with Kool-Aid and Hostess CupCakes, at the kid-sized picnic table he and Cody had made together. Cody had been delighted to discover that the picnic table worked like a seesaw; if Shane put all his weight on his bench, Cody’s would rise high into the air and the entire picnic would slide into Shane’s lap, Kool-Aid and all. Now that he’d cleaned up and restored order, Shane was giving his thigh muscles a workout by holding himself just above the seat.

The growl of an engine and the grating of gears heralded Lindsey’s arrival. Stormy, fully recovered from his adventure, raced around the corner of the house to welcome her, yapping with excitement just like always.

After much slamming of doors and mumbling, Lindsey appeared, doing her best to avoid tripping over the ecstatic Stormy. She couldn’t see the dog, who was leaping happily around her legs, because she was carrying a large, whimpering cardboard box.

Whimpering?

“Hey, little dog,” she said, craning her neck so she could see Stormy around the corner of the box. “I sure am glad to see you. Where did you find him, Cody?”

That was one of the things Shane liked about Lindsey. She talked to Cody like he was a grown-up, with respect, rather than deferring to Shane all the time.

“He went a
loooooong
way!” Cody wriggled with excitement. Shane figured he’d be telling the story of Stormy’s adventure, complete with embellishments, for years to follow. “He was lost in the
forest.
Waaaay over there!” He pointed toward the far fence line, nearly knocking over his Kool-Aid glass.

“Amazing.” Lindsey shook her head in wonder, shifting the box to one hip. “That’s Stormy for you. He’s a tough little guy, isn’t he?”

“Tough as nails!” Cody agreed, nodding so hard Shane was afraid he’d nod his head loose.

“Well, look what I got.”

Lindsey set the box on the ground and gazed ruefully down at the sorriest selection of canines Shane had ever seen. A seething mass of brown-and-black puppies rolled and tumbled at one end of the box, while a slightly larger dog hunkered in the far corner, shivering.

“Oh, wow!” Cody’s eyes were huge. “Lookit all the puppies! And is that their mom?”

Shane wasn’t quite as excited, and did his best not to make any expression at all. Letting out the slightest hint of negativity tended to open the door to more, and there was no point. Lindsey would do what she wanted. She’d made that clear.

“It sure is.” She turned to Shane. “That place was just as bad as I expected.” She turned to Cody, who was picking up Stormy. “Don’t put him in with them, and don’t take them out,” she said. “They might be sick, and we don’t want Stormy to catch anything.”

Wide-eyed, Cody peered at the puppies, who had rheumy eyes and matted fur. “They don’t look so good.”

“That’s why we have to quarantine them.” Lindsey picked up the box. “Want to help?”

“Sure!” The boy paused. “What’s quartermining? It’s not bad, is it?”

“No, it’s not bad. It just means we separate them until we know they’re healthy. Tell you what.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You go fix up one of the new kennels for them, okay? Remember how I showed you the way to put straw in for bedding, and fresh water?”

“Okay!”

With Stormy at his heels, Cody ran off to the barn. Lindsey turned to Shane, and her expression had gone grim. “He’s got them in the basement. Rows and rows of cages.” She lifted out the older dog, the one who was trembling. “This one’s been bred half to death.” She turned the dog around, and Shane couldn’t help wincing at the animal’s dirty, matted rear end. “They cut off her tail to make things easier.” Though her voice trembled with rage, Lindsey set the mother dog back in the box gently, as if the little animal might break.

“I had no idea,” Shane muttered.

Someone needed to help these critters, but it sounded like there were far too many for even Lindsey to handle. And then there was Brockman himself. Shane doubted anyone could get past him, now that Lindsey had put him on notice.

Besides, he’d probably clean up now that he knew his secret was out. Lindsey would call in the authorities and look like a fool when there was nothing wrong.

“Could you help me?” She asked the question so hesitantly it broke his heart. “Please?”

Remembering his vow to listen, to help, and to understand, he nodded. “What do you need?”

“Could you call Animal Control? I doubt Wynott has one, but just find the nearest town, even if we have to call all the way to Cheyenne. I’ll go help Cody and get the pups settled in for the night.”

Shane was so relieved, he thought he might fall off the picnic bench. Maybe Lindsey realized what an impossible task she was taking on. From what she’d described, Brockman had a lot of dogs. Maybe the sight of them, sad as it must have been, had made her realize she couldn’t save them all on her own.

Heading inside, he called the Wynott sheriff’s office. Sheriff Jim was the next best thing to useless when it came to law enforcement, but he could probably manage to transport a box of puppies to Cheyenne and report the puppy mill. Not that that would do much good. Wyoming law favored the property owner, and a man could do what he liked on his own place.

He glanced over at the barn, where the lights in the new kennel area glowed a warm and welcoming gold. Silhouettes crossed the lighted windows—first Lindsey, then Cody—and the sight made him smile.

He felt bad for those poor little pups. He really did. He hoped they were able to find good homes in Cheyenne. But at least here, for one night, they’d be loved and cherished by a heart big enough to hold them all.

Because if love was all any living thing needed, Lindsey had enough to save all the dogs in the world. And maybe once she was done with the dogs, she’d have a little left over to save him.

It had felt that way once. But was he really worth saving? If he couldn’t support all her goals and dreams, he didn’t deserve her love—and he’d spend the rest of his life in a world that was safe but cold, well-ordered but dull.

But that support wasn’t something he could fake, and it was a long leap from pitying a box of mistreated pups to wanting to save every animal in the state. He knew, deep down, that he’d never have Lindsey’s energy or idealism.

Sighing, he gathered up the remnants of the picnic party and carried the dishes back into the house. By the time Lindsey walked Cody to the door, he had them washed and dried, everything in its place.

“You want to come in?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” she said. “Thanks. I need to take care of the dogs.”

Of course she did.

He hid his feelings for Cody’s sake, but he felt like putting his fist through a wall. Better yet, he’d
break
his fist against the sturdy logs of the cabin.

Maybe then Lindsey would take care of
him.

Chapter 52

Lindsey paused, looking into Shane’s dark eyes. She knew him well enough that she could always see the hurt in those eyes, but he looked more wounded than usual tonight.

“Maybe I will come in for a while.”

Some of the furrows in his forehead smoothed out as the pain in his eyes eased a little.

“Did you get hold of Animal Control?” she asked.

He fished two beers out of the fridge and raised one in her direction. She nodded, and he handed it to her before cracking one open for himself. They sat down at the table, Lindsey resting her elbows on the wood. Her hair gleamed in the lamplight, and the dim lighting made her eyes shine.

He imagined them sitting like this night after night, talking cattle, equal partners in a successful ranch. That was
his
dream.

The trouble was, her dreams were bigger. He wondered if she realized her dream had sat on his and squashed it.

“I called ’em,” he said. “Sheriff Jim from Wynott’ll be out in the morning. He says they’ve got a real nice facility in Cheyenne. And puppies almost always get adopted.”

Lindsey had taken a sip of her beer, but it apparently went down the wrong pipe. She coughed and spluttered until Shane pounded her back. As soon as she recovered, she swatted him away.

“Get away from me!”

Her anger was genuine, her slaps hard. Shane backed away.

“What did you tell him?” She spoke through clenched teeth.

“Who, the sheriff? I told him you’d rescued a bunch of dogs from a bad owner and needed them taken to a shelter.”

She put one hand to her forehead and stared down at the tabletop. “I should have known,” she said. “I really should have known.”

“What?” he asked. “You wanted me to call Animal Control. So I did.”

“We
are
the shelter, remember? That’s what we do now, whether you’re on board or not.”

Shane blinked. Her anger might be genuine, but his confusion was equally real. “Then why did you want me to call Animal Control?”

“I wanted them to help me bust up Brockman’s puppy mill,” she said. “I told you, there are dozens of dogs there. Maybe sixty, eighty—who knows? Every one of them is living in filth. He needs to be arrested for animal cruelty.”

“Well, that proves it,” he said. “You’re not ready for this.”

“For what?”

“For this crazy shelter idea,” he said. “You’re in Wyoming, okay?” He said it as gently as he could. “This is the land of the castle doctrine, of property rights and the Second Amendment. There’s no way Brockman’s going to let anyone in.”

“I know. He went on and on about how his property is protected by Smith & Wesson.” She shrugged. “So we’ll get a warrant.”

“You think there’s a judge in Wyoming that’ll give you one? This is a ranching state, hon. I’m sorry, but animal rights aren’t high on the agenda. Judges are elected, and trampling what folks see as their God-given right to abuse animals won’t win anybody a seat.”

“God, you’re cynical.”

He took a long pull on his beer and set it down. “I sure am. Why do you think Grace just takes in those poor horses? There’s no point in trying to prosecute. Abusers get a slap on the wrist, and go on to abuse some other poor creature. It’s sad, but it’s true.”

She swatted away his answer as if batting at a pesky fly. “Look, we don’t need the law, anyway. Brockman knows he’s in the wrong. He let me take these puppies for next to nothing, because I told him I’d report him. If it’s so hard to prosecute abusers, why would he do that?”

“Because those dogs aren’t worth anything to him. And because now that he knows what your feelings are, he’ll meet you at the door with a shotgun next time.”