Page 1 of Junkyard Dog

Chapter One

Ipucker my Raspberry Razzle glossed lips and blow a kiss at my rearview mirror before I slip my candy-apple green Charger into park. My strawberry-blonde hair is up in matching pigtails, I’m wearing a unicorn T-shirt under my baby blue denim overalls, and my white canvas shoes gleam like cotton balls on my feet. I’m on the hunt for a present for my dad and I’m looking adorable doing it because there’s no reason not to shine, even in a junkyard. The girls have told me about Dobermann Salvage and since I’m in town, I figure it can’t hurt to check it out and hope I get lucky.

The junkyard is deserted. I’m not surprised. People probably don’t even know it’s here. The sign on the highway is about five years overdue for being repainted, even if the hours of operation are still visible. It’s the middle of the day, so I figure it’s safe to get out and walk around. There is an empty area just beyond the open gate on the single lane driveway, which is where I parked. To the left, past a rusty shipping container, is a double row of car husks that goes on for about forty yards. I see at least three more rows of old vehicles off the main driveway, which leads around a copse of trees farther inside the property.

This place is an American automotive graveyard. It’s organized by type of vehicle, so I ignore the station wagons and walk past the trio of identical, white vans with Tubby’s Plumbing logos on the sides. When I come to the end of the row, I hear a burst of barks.

Then a bear charges at me. It’s a small bear, but bigger than a cub. The beast’s big black head comes up, and I spy two small, caramel dots above its eyes and a larger pair of caramel patches on its chest by its front shoulders. The matching brown coloring at its muzzle and lower legs make it a Rottweiler, not a bear after all. It stumbles to a stop, then jumps straight up, revealing it’s a boy. “Hello, you handsome fellow. Who are you?” I ask.

It woofs, then trots a few steps away, pausing about twenty feet from me. Then the dog looks over its shoulder at me like it’s saying, “Come on, Rhiannon, follow me.”

So, I do. What can I say – I love puppies. “I’m coming,” I tell it. “Where are we going?”

I follow the dog to the next row. He stops beside a stack of tires and starts whining. The dog steps aside and watches as I approach. I see that the top has fallen off the towering pile. A handful of tires have jammed themselves between two junkers. Closer inspection reveals a caramel paw scratching through a gap in the squished black rubber.

The dog beside me barks again. “Shit,” I say in agreement.

I climb over the first wreck and pull three tires from between the two vehicles. I drop them on the edge of the path and return for round two. I heave on the first firmly wedged tire until it budges and comes loose. The second is easier, and the third tire rolls away after I give it a powerful shove. It barely clears the space before a slightly smaller but much rounder Rottweiler huffs and puffs and launches itself from between the car frames. She daintily walks over a hood, steps onto the still-attached bumper, and strolls to the male dog, who sniffs her over happily.

I stand still as they both approach me. The bitch has less fear and nuzzles my hand. I scratch behind her ears and, all of a sudden, I have two handfuls of delightfully slobbery, happy dog. “You’re welcome, gorgeous. Yes, you are.”

“What are you doing here?” a gravelly male voice asks me.

“Your sign says you’re open and your gate is unlocked,” I counter without looking away from the puppy loving on me. “Also, your dog came up to my car and led me here. Your bitch was trapped under some tires.” I point at the tiny hollow between the wrecks. Then I look up. A tall man in an oil-stained flannel shirt and jeans is standing at the end of the next row. His dark beard covers his entire lower face, a plain black ball cap sits on his head, and he’s wearing mirrored sunglasses. I can’t see a single feature and he’s still the hottest man I’ve seen in person since I had my picture taken with Mickey Score at a comic con in New York City. I paid for that privilege; this one is free and I’m soaking it in.

Even with his face hidden, I know who he is: JD Dobermann, like the name on the sign. He looks older than I expected, but I think that has more to do with the mileage than the years.

“Mandy, come,” he says.

It was a good thing he didn’t say “Rhiannon” because I would happily comply.

The bitch trots over to him, but the dog remains hovering beside me.

I stretch my hand out for him to sniff, but JD says, “Don’t pet him.”

I snap my hand back and stand still.

The hottie in denim steps closer. “Good boy, Cajun. Sit.” The dog does. Then JD turns his attention back to me. “You’re not going to tell me that he’s friendly and you’re fine?”

“If a dog’s owner says, “Don’t touch”, you don’t touch. You know the dog. I like all my fingers. It works out for everybody.”

“You’re smarter than most.”

It’s not exactly a compliment, but I don’t think it was supposed to be. “Romy would have warned me if your dogs were a problem, JD. She did say to keep a look out when I was on the property because they ran free.”

His glasses come off with a flick of his wrist, and his intense brown eyes glare at me. “How do you know my name? And how do you know Romy?”

“Romy and I have been friends for years. We met when she was posted at Anacostia. She’s told me about everybody in Lonesome. She specifically told me all about Bishop’s family, which is how I know that you are his cousin. Hell, I can probably identify half the people in town from her descriptions. She was surprisingly detailed for somebody who has only been here for a couple of months.”

Romy Turner is one of my BFFs. She’d made the move to Lonesome, North Dakota, after her sister Violet took a new job here. They’d both ended up involved with the Dobermann brothers. I’ve heard all about them, plus their reclusive, former SEAL cousin JD. I make a note to tell Romy off; she definitely skimped on her description of the buff bod standing in front of me. She’d left out certain vital information that a girl needs to know.

“Why did she send you to a junkyard?”

“I’m looking for a steering wheel for a first generation Ford Bronco. Preferably from a 1974 but if it fits the specs, I’m interested.”

He blinks. Twice. It’s hard to tell, but I think the corner of his mouth quirked up before he fought off a smile at my highly specific request. “Can you help me?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

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