Page 2 of Eyes Like a Hurricane

He starts to fumble for words to counter my rant, but I can tell it’s sinking in that I’m leaving. It will be my last time standing in his entryway. My car will never pull into his driveway again. And I am okay with that reality.

Attempting to lighten his mood and help him see that I’m doing this for both of us, I say, “Being born and raised in East Seattle, you have roots here, just like my roots are still solidly in Montana. Your parents still live in your childhood home. Your brother and his wife and kids are all here. You’d miss your nephews. You have your membership to the Seattle Tennis Club with a standing court time, your membership to the Sandpoint Country Club with your standing tee time, and all your college friends from UW Law School practice in the area. Plus, you wouldn’t last ten minutes in dust and small-town life. You like the trendy restaurants and charity functions where you can wear your tux.”

The only acknowledgment I receive is a slight grunt. I take that as my cue to get out. I adjust my crossbody purse and quickly take three steps forward, giving him an awkward andunreturned hug. I crouch down to give his dog, Kodiak, one last pet. I think I will miss the dog more than Cody. Without another glance, I turn and stride out the screen door. Looks like I’ll need to place an order for a new Paperwhite Kindle later today.

Walking down the porch steps, he calls out, “You know, I find it interesting you never told me where exactly you were moving. I don’t think you actually want me to follow you.”

I pause, looking over my shoulder. With a shrug, I reply, “I really have no desire to see you again. I thought I made it clear. We’re over, Cody. Move on. I know I am. Please don’t try to reach out to me in the future, okay?”

I unlock my Jeep and hop into the driver’s seat. My hairband snaps, causing my waist-length hair to fall out of its messy bun, like a chocolate waterfall. I quickly braid it to get it out of my face. Reaching for the center console, I grab my favorite trucker hat and purple aviators. Before putting them on, I glance behind me to confirm my necessary items are packed securely in the back seat.

The moving truck I spent yesterday loading will follow tomorrow. Today, a moving company is loading the few larger pieces of furniture I left for them. I feel sudden relief when I take a deep breath, knowing this chapter of my life will be behind me soon.

Chloe, my sweet Aussie, looks at me with her two-toned eyes from her spot in the passenger seat. I quickly check her harness and doggy seatbelt, confirming they’re securely fastened. I don’t need to explain anything to her. She always seems able to read my actions and understand what I need. We are an unbreakable team who are off for a new adventure. She needs wide open spaces to move, not the same daily run we take down exhaust-filled streets. The trails were great when we first moved here a few years ago. Now, though, the running trails arefilled with homeless camps and used needles, which I fear will injure her paws.

As I start the ignition and the engine roars to life, I peek at Cody’s front door. Through my sunglasses, I see him leaning against the door jamb. His forearm is propped above his head, casting a shadow across his face. Based on this posture, he is hurt and confused, but what unsettles me the most is the anger I feel vibrating off him from here.

His mahogany hair is no longer perfectly styled. It is sticking up in all directions. I can tell he has been running his hands through it, thinking of a way to get me to stop. He is a great attorney, but in his world, great means cutthroat. In his mind, he doesn’t lose. I have been telling him for weeks about my plans and desires. I didn’t feel we were very serious, so I wasn’t expecting the hostility in his posture. I get the feeling it’s because this break-up wasn’t on his terms.

While backing down the long gravel drive, my thoughts turn dark. I can only see Cody’s imposing figure in the door jamb of his gray craftsman house, promising me that this may not be the easy end I was thinking it would be between us. Since my windows are open, I’m positive I hear the faintest growl, “This is not our ending, Aislinn.”

Chapter 2

Lachlan

Of course, I didn’t think about rush hour traffic in Seattle on Friday. When I rolled in from Topaz Falls, Montana yesterday afternoon, their freeways were at a standstill. I could not figure out how I would get over to a part of town called Ballard before nightfall, so I pulled into the first hotel parking lot I could find.

Luckily, it was a Marriott. They had a spot big enough for my truck and a one-night vacancy available. I admit it was nice, but I didn’t need the triple-cushioned mattress or whatever the term and the thousand-count sheets. I passed out after a long day of driving the moment my head hit the pillow.

Admittedly, as I open my eyes this morning, I’m thankful for a warm shower and a hearty breakfast to start the day. Scrubbing my hands down my face, the scratch of my beard on my palms wakes me up. After eating, I pack up the small duffle I brought and check out of my room. Exiting the double doors to the parking lot, I’m struck by how gray and overcast it is for a June day. It should be light and bright as the longest day of the year approaches, but it’s not. The news at breakfast called it a marine layer over the Puget Sound area.

I hop in my truck and begin to navigate my way, heading west over the I-90 bridge toward the heart of Seattle. The rows of red taillights make me realize this fifteen-mile drive will take significantly longer than fifteen minutes. Turning on the radio, I settle into my seat and let the music wash over me. I’m glad I allowed forty-five minutes to get to Ballard, but it looks like I won’t have any extra time to stop for coffee before my meeting. Instead, it appears I will be lucky to arrive on time.

At precisely 8 a.m., I arrive at the Olsons’ neighborhood in Ballard. I responded to an ad I had seen saying they had bought their daughter a male Pyrenees for Christmas the previous year, but he’d become too big and energetic for their condo. Owning a ranch in northern Montana, I was looking for a good farm dog. I didn’t want a puppy. We are too busy to care for a puppy during the summer season. With the therapy program we run in the horse stables, I didn’t need the extra stress a puppy brings.

I called the Olsons last week and agreed to come pick up Finn this weekend. I left Callum, my right hand at the ranch, in charge while I made the five-hundred-mile trek to get our new farm dog. He’s going to love the open spaces. He’ll also get to help with the small herd of sheep we have as part of the program. I know the Pyrenees breed enjoys working, so I think this will be the perfect solution.

As I pull onto the Olsons’ street, which is so narrow I’m afraid my truck will knock the side mirrors off the cars on either side, I dial Gerald Olson on my cell to let him know I’m out front. “Mr. Olson, it’s me, Lachlan Ambarsan. We spoke on the phone about Finn.”

His tenor voice plays through my Bluetooth, “Hi, Lachlan. Are you out front?”

“Yes, sir. I’m out front, but there doesn’t seem to be any parking in a three-block radius,” I sigh.

He chuckles. “I’m guessing you aren’t driving a Mini Cooper either. We will be right down. Hang tight.”

We say goodbye, and I put the truck in park while I wait for them to come down with Finn and all the supplies they have for him. Luckily, it sounds like they care deeply for the sweet dog. It seems like he was just the wrong breed for their living situation. Ipromise to give this dog a good home. I grew up with a Pyrenees at my parents’ orchard. He was the best dog and so incredibly smart and loyal.

Roughly a minute later, I see a tall, slender man in a pair of chinos and a tucked-in polo shirt step out of the door to the condominium unit. Next to him is a small girl in a vintage ruffle dress with patent leather shoes. Her big, round blue eyes are full of tears as she hugs her dad’s leg. Blonde pigtails fall across her face as she tilts her chin into her chest. Her steps are tentative as she makes her way to the sidewalk.

As I shut off my engine, I flick on the hazard lights since I’m in the middle of this small street. I unfold my large frame from the cab of my truck and hop down. My Ariats hit the concrete with a thud. Making my way around the front of the truck, I come to a stop at the base of the curb. Being 6’4” and approaching a child no more than 4’0” tall, I figure being on the lower side of the curb will put us a little closer to eye level.

“Good morning, Lachlan. My daughter wanted to meet the man who will give Finn a big farm to run around. I’ve told her that our apartment has grown too small for Finn’s long legs and that he needs more space. She understands but just wanted to tell him goodbye.” Turning toward his daughter, he rubs her back with his free hand and continues, “Honey, later this week, we will go to the Seattle Humane and look for a smaller dog to give a good life to, okay?” She nods silently. The crocodile tearscontinue to soundlessly track down her face as she blinks up at me.

Attempting to even the playing field, I bring myself to a modified squat so that she doesn’t need to crane her neck to meet my eyes. I stick out my hand and say, “Hi there, little lady. My name is Lachlan. I own a ranch in Montana. We have lots of horses and some sheep. But most importantly for Finn, we have lots of land for him to stretch his long legs. Your daddy has the address to my ranch, so anytime you are in Montana, you can stop by and see Finn, okay? Remember you are not saying goodbye to Finn forever.”

I’m ready for her to ignore my outstretched hand, but to my utter shock, she unfurls one tiny arm from her father’s leg and reaches her small hand out to grasp mine, which is easily four times the size of hers. With a firmness I wasn’t expecting, she shakes my hand and says, “Hello, Mr. Lachlan, my name is Linnea. Thank you for giving Finn the home he deserves. Mommy says he is like Clifford. I loved him so much he got huge.” Then she cups her hands and conspiratorially whispers, “I gave him lots of treats, too. I know where Mommy and Daddy keep his treats, so I sneak them to him because he is a good boy. One day, I would like to visit your farm. Do you have anyalpadas?”

With a smile that stretches across my face, I chuckle at her pronunciation and say, “Alpadas? Hrm.” I tap my finger to my chin, “I don’t have any alpadas, but I have considered possibly getting one or two alpacas. Think I should?” She nods enthusiastically as the tears slowly start to stop their trek down her cheek. Taking this as a good sign, I encouragingly say, “Also, I agree. Finn looks like an awesome dog to me. You have taken very good care of him. I promise he will get steak and treats at the ranch, too.”

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