Page 238 of Mountain Daddy
My poor Buddy lets out a pitiful sound to match my own.
“Sir, that’s, um, not a dog.”
I step up next to Luther and tuck my fingers into the crook of his arm. “Please help him.”
The woman looks at me, then back at Buddy.
Her eyes are full of sympathy, but I know she’s going to deny us.
“Let them in, Brenda.” A deep voice sounds behind us.
I turn, and my mouth opens when I see the hot park ranger striding through the door.
“Ethan.” Brenda’s voice is breathy. And I get it. But I need her to focus.
“Doctor Child is on her way.” Ethan steps up to the counter on the other side of Luther. “I’ll stay as a representative for wildlife control.”
Brenda slides her chair back and stands. “Okay, follow me.” We all start to move, but she holds up a hand. “Just Ethan and the fox.”
“But…” I press my lips together. I want to argue. But I also don’t want to be difficult and have her change her mind.
“It’ll be okay,” Luther tells me. Then he shifts his hold, and Ethan takes Buddy from his arms.
I cling to Luther as I watch Buddy look up at the new human holding him.
But it’s like he knows this is important because he just blinks up at Ethan.
“Be a good boy,” I whisper. Both the man and the fox turn their heads to look at me. “We’ll be right here.”
I swear Buddy nods his head.
Then Ethan turns, and they disappear down the hallway.
Luther tucks his arm against his side, trapping my hand against his body, then he leads me away from the desk to the waiting area behind us.
An older man sits in one of the dozen chairs lining the front corner of the building. The chairs are padded but don’t have arms, and they’re backed up against the large windows, showcasing the gloomy weather outside.
The man doesn’t even look up at us, unconcerned with the scene we created.
Away from the single man, Luther guides me to the stretch of empty chairs that have their backs to the parking lot.
My hand slips free from Luther’s warmth as I take the second from the end.
“I’ll be right back.” Luther smooths a hand over my wet hair, then he steps back.
I stare blankly at the small TV on the wall across from me as I hear the main door open and close.
I drop my purse onto the empty seat next to me, and a few seconds later, the door reopens, and Luther’s heavy footsteps cut across the floor.
He crouches before me, a flannel in hand. “Go to the bathroom and switch this for your wet shirt.”
I look at the soft fabric in his hands. There’s a baseball hat too, with the logo for Rocky Ridge Inn on the front.
He taps the brim with his finger. “I don’t have anything warmer in my truck, but it might help.”
I lift my gaze to meet his.
How different would the last decade have been if I’d had Luther in my life?
