Page 16 of To Bed the Bride
There was only one problem. She had to feed him. It was Ann who gave her that idea.
“Oats, miss. That’s what we always fed our dogs.”
“Oats?”
Ann nodded. “At least when they’re first weaned. This little mite doesn’t look to be much older than that. We always gave them a little meat and a few carrots, too, but that can wait until tomorrow.”
Eleanor summoned oats from the kitchen, along with a bowl of water for the puppy. After he made swift work of his food, she took the puppy back out to the yard, advice Ann had given her.
“We’ve had dogs all my life, miss,” the girl said.
“While I never have.”
Ann looked at her strangely, but Eleanor didn’t elaborate. She couldn’t tell the story without sounding as if she were asking for pity.
“If you’d like, miss, I could take the puppy and keep him in my room.”
“I doubt Mrs. Willett would approve,” Eleanor said. “No, I’ll keep him here. At least until I can give him back.”
Once again she got a quick look from the maid, but didn’t explain.
Seated in her reading chair by the window, she watched as the puppy twirled in circles before finally settling down in one spot on the hay. Despite the admonition she’d given herself to feel absolutely nothing for the animal, she got up, went to the bottom drawer of her dresser, and pulled out an old cotton nightgown she’d worn as a young girl. She arranged that in a little mound, then put the sleeping puppy on it. Within seconds he’d settled in again, the deep sigh he gave reassuring her that the nightgown was a bit more comfortable than the hay.
“I have to think of something to call you,” she said. “At least until you go back. I can’t keep calling you Puppy. Or Dog. Perhaps something to remind me of your owner. Rude. Mr. Disdainful. Handsome Irritant.” The puppy sighed again. “Very well, that’s not fair, is it? After all, you haven’t done anything. Maximillian. That’s a very grand sounding name, isn’t it? Max for short.”
The puppy opened one eye and seemed to shake his head before descending into sleep again.
“No? Not Max?”
How silly she was to think that he disapproved of the name.
She tried it out. “Max.”
The puppy put one pudgy paw over his eyes.
“All right. Not Max. It should be a Scottish name, though, because you’re a Scottish dog. If I’m not mistaken, you’re part border collie, and they’re supposed to mind Scottish sheep.”
The puppy didn’t respond.
“Bruce.”
The puppy yawned.
“Bruce is a very Scottish name with a great heritage. I think I should call you Bruce.”
The puppy yawned again.
“Bruce it is, but only until I find your owner.”
Where had the man disappeared to? After the weather cleared she’d return to the glen and have another conversation with the shepherd. Surely he knew who had minded his sheep the day before. Would he refuse to tell her and, if so, why?
With those decisions made, she sat in the reading chair and watched the puppy for a while, telling herself the whole time that all baby animals were charming. No doubt she’d feel the same about lambs and she was sure she didn’t like sheep all that much. There was no reason whatsoever to smile about a puppy’s antics or feel protective of him.
The shepherd had a great deal to answer for and she would make sure he knew exactly what she thought.
As soon as she found him.
Irritating man.
