“I massaged him, brushed him, checked his ears, clipped his nails—typical stuff. I couldn’t get him to drop the toy so I could check his teeth, but I assume Dr. Greenwood covered that.”
Mike nodded, then knelt to hold Sheridan’s head. His dog’s eyes looked more clear and focused. What had this woman done in such a short period of time to effect this kind of change? Then Mike sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“I use an essential oil during the massage—it’s good for his skin and coat.”
Aha. “A stimulant?”
Lacey crossed her arms. “Of course not. It’s natural and safe.”
But Mike was skeptical, and mentally kicked himself for letting Sheridan out of his sight. Lacey Lovejoy seemed like a nice person, but what did he really know about her? Barry and Dr. Greenwood vouched for her, but they were trusting people. The woman could be using dishonest means—feeding the animals something or drugging them—to perpetuate the idea of her being a “dog whisperer.”
He straightened, supremely irritated with himself for bringing Sheridan here in the first place, all because he couldn’t get the vision of Lacey silhouetted in the sun out of his mind. “What do I owe you?” he asked abruptly.
She shook her head. “No charge. It’s the least I can do after you rescued me.”
His thoughts were momentarily derailed by her iridescent green eyes, then he recovered. “That’s not a fair trade.” He removed his wallet—he didn’t want to be indebted to her.
“I insist,” she said, holding up her hand stop-sign fashion.
The front door opened, admitting an attractive brunette and a leashed Pomeranian.
“There’s my next appointment,” Lacey said, signaling she considered the topic closed. To the woman, she said, “Hi, Julie.” Then she bent over to pet the fluffy little dog. “Hi, Daisy.”
Daisy responded with a series of sharp yaps. To his chagrin, next to him, Sheridan flinched. And when the little dog walked over for a nose-to-nose introduction, Sheridan shrank against Mike’s leg, whining.
“Sorry,” the woman said, then scooped up her toy dog. She offered Mike a flirtatious smile. “Daisy can be a little forward. You must be new in town.”
Lacey stepped up. “Julie Whelk, meet Mike Nichols.”
Mike shook the pretty woman’s hand and exchanged a greeting, but all he wanted to do was get Sheridan out of there, and out of the reach of the touchy-feely country dog groomer.
“I need to get going,” he said.
“Too bad,” Julie said, pouting.
“Okay,” Lacey chirped at the same time.
Mike urged Sheridan toward the door.
“Goodbye, Sheridan,” Lacey called.
His dog didn’t respond because his mouth was full of the ridiculous pink toy the woman had made, but his tail wagged happily…the traitor.
* * *
Lacey watched the pair leave, vacillating between sadness and anger. The man didn’t trust her, that much was clear. And while his concern for his dog was touching, the fact he thought she’d do anything to hurt the animal—as Southerners would say—rubbed her the wrong way.
“Yum,” Julie said, staring after Mike. “I hope he plans to stick around.”
Lacey squashed a pang of jealousy—Mike Nichols was gorgeous, and so was Julie, so of course they would notice each other. It wasn’t as if she had any claim on him just because he’d changed her lightbulb. “I wouldn’t count on it,” she offered. “He’s in town to put his search and rescue dog through a course at the training facility.”
“That dog? It’s a beautiful animal, but it seemed a little skittish to me.” She pursed her mouth. “But then so did the owner.”
“He’s not well,” Lacey explained.
“The dog, or the owner?”
Lacey bit her lip. Good question.
* * *
“Are you absolutely sure?” Mike asked Dr. Greenwood.
The man sighed. “Yes.” He gestured to the test results lying on the exam table. “There’s nothing physically wrong with Sheridan that I can find.”
“Maybe you should run more tests.”
Dr. Greenwood steepled his hands. “Mike, this is good news.”
Mike glanced over to where Sheridan lay curled in the corner, facing the wall…still holding that maddening pink toy. “Of course I’m glad you haven’t found anything serious, but look at him—something is wrong.”
“Can’t argue with you there,” the doctor agreed. “But it doesn’t appear to be physiological.”
Mike arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying my dog is crazy?”
Dr. Greenwood smiled. “Not crazy, but maybe depressed or traumatized. Animals are susceptible to the same kinds of stress triggers as humans. Search and rescue dogs are exposed to more than most.”
“Yes,” Mike admitted. “But he’s trained to endure all those situations.”
“Was he injured on his last mission?”
“No. Sheridan was in top form, like always.” Now,