A Rescue Dog to Heal Them
Autor
Marion Lennox
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16,6K
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13
CHAPTER ONE
‘MY BROTHER’S AN autocratic, over-indulged idiot. Yes, he’s a skilled surgeon, but his people skills leave a lot to be desired. Now he’s injured, from a stupid act of bravado caused by his failure to wait for the proper emergency services. He’s accepted the care of his niece—our niece—but in his condition he’s the last person fit for the task.’
That statement had been made two days ago. The woman had arrived at Dr Kiara Brail’s veterinary-clinic-cum-animal-refuge unannounced. She’d introduced herself as Lady Beatrice Stonehouse, striding imperiously in without an appointment, almost a caricature of English aristocracy: a stocky, strident woman, ridiculously dressed for the Australian springtime in a tweed suit and stout shoes. Her clipped British accent had obviously been accustomed to delivering decrees, not asking for advice.
‘I need to return to England,’ she’d announced. ‘I only came over to take care of the child until my brother was released from hospital. I won’t trust my husband with my horses and dogs any longer, but I can’t leave this pair without something to hold onto. In my opinion, a dog or a horse are the only solutions—aren’t they the answer to everything? With that stupid designer house my brother insists on living in, horses are out of the question, so it needs to be a dog. I’ve done my research. Your establishment has the best reputation for matching dogs with difficult owners, and my brother’s certainly difficult. Both of them are. I can’t get a word out of the child. But if you can find the right dog for them and get it settled, I’m prepared to be more than generous.’
And she’d named a figure that had taken Kiara’s breath away. And made her think.
Kiara had far too many clients for the dogs she had available. She didn’t need to find another home for one of her dogs, but the builder’s advice she’d received the day before had been terrifying. Termites. Foundations no longer fit for purpose.
Money she didn’t have.
Which explained why Kiara was now standing outside the gates of what looked to be almost a mansion. She was in Clovelly, one of the most beautiful coastal suburbs of Sydney. It was also one of the most expensive. The gates she was standing in front of managed to be both discreet and imposing. No massive lions guarded this entrance, there was just exquisite ironwork set back from the boundary, with a gorgeous garden in front. The owner was obviously prepared to sacrifice a few metres of land to give the public a gorgeous vista to walk past, and make his entrance more...
Daunting was the word that came to mind.
She could see glimpses of the house through the wrought iron. The house was set low, built of pale stone, seemingly almost part of the cliffs. She could see a wide parking area, paved with the same soft stone. Enough parking for half a dozen cars? She bet there was garaging as well. She could see the glimmer of a swimming pool behind the trees. And the garden...
She thought of her own tangle of garden back at Birralong in the Blue Mountains. That was a glorious muddle, a mixture of English cottage planted by her grandmother, mixed with the ever-encroaching bushland.
She wouldn’t part from her rambling, dilapidated home and her beloved Two Tails animal refuge for the world, but for a moment she indulged in just a tad of envy. What could she do if she had a tenth of the money this house was worth?
Get rid of termites?
And that was why she was here, she told herself sharply. All she had to do was to find a home for one of her needy dogs, and to part Bryn Dalton—whoever he was—with some of his hard earned.
Or hard inherited. Lady Stonehouse had been blunt. ‘My half-brother is very wealthy. We all are. Our parents were unsatisfactory to say the least, but they’ve left us all...’ She’d corrected herself then. ‘They’ve left us both well provided for.’
Well, I’m not here to be intimidated by wealth, Kiara told herself firmly, and took a deep breath and pressed the central button on the very intimidating intercom.
And waited.
The silence seemed to go on for ever. Kiara had taken the train from her home in the Blue Mountains—much more sensible than trying to drive in city traffic—and had walked along the cliff path to this house. The street was silent, apart from the squawk of lorikeets in the flowering gums, and the wattle birds in the frangipani trees forming an avenue for the wealthy homes.
‘He’ll be home,’ Lady Stonehouse had told her. ‘He’s injured his leg—badly. A crushed knee—he needed a complete replacement. He’s now doing rehab at home. He’d like me to stay longer to help with the child, but I can’t help any more than I have. If he thinks I’m hanging over his shoulder he’s even less likely to agree to this proposal. Stupid man.’
If I had Lady Stonehouse hanging over my shoulder I might be tempted to disagree, too, Kiara thought. It sounded as if this man was being coerced to see her. This visit might well be a waste of time.
She had to try. She pushed the intercom again, and almost jumped when a gruff voice finally answered.
‘Are you the vet?’
‘I’m Dr Kiara Brail,’ she confirmed. ‘Yes.’
There was another silence. Kiara glanced up and then quickly glanced down again. An overhead camera was angled so that, inside, Dr Bryn Dalton would be gazing straight at her.
He’d see a woman in her early thirties, dressed sensibly. Her clothes weren’t as ridiculously sensible as Lady Stonehouse’s tweeds, but she was wearing her best jeans and a soft white blouse. Her dusky skin, the shade she’d inherited from her indigenous grandmother, didn’t take easily to make-up, so she wore little. She was short, thin and if she didn’t tie back her mass of deep black curls they ran riot. Her father had described her to his friends as scrappy. ‘She’s built for work rather than decoration,’ he’d said, ‘and at least she knows how to keep out of the way.’
Right now she wanted to be six feet tall and imposing. For some reason she felt very, very small.
And she also felt like telling this family to stick their offer. She was way out of her comfort zone.
She stared at her toes as she avoided giving whoever was behind that camera the satisfaction of seeing her face, and she reminded herself of why she was here. She had a refuge full of dogs who needed care. She had buildings that needed maintenance.
She was desperate for money.
Needs must when the devil drives. Why had that saying popped into her head right now? Was it the sensation of being overwatched by someone even his sister had described as being an autocratic, over-indulged idiot?
He can’t be a complete idiot, she told herself. She’d checked him out on the Internet before she came—well, why wouldn’t she? Apparently Bryn Dalton was a neurosurgeon. The articles she’d read had declared him to be top of his field, the go-to surgeon for the type of tricky brain surgery others wouldn’t risk. His résumé was impressive, to say the least. So he wasn’t an idiot—at least, not an idiot career-wise. In her thirty-two years Kiara had discovered there were many ways of being an idiot.
Like her being here, being checked out, while the man doing the checking took his own sweet time figuring whether he’d admit her or not.
Enough. ‘I’m billing your sister for this call,’ she said, brusquely. ‘I’ve been standing here for almost ten minutes and I work on billable hours. Billable minutes rounded up. You want to waste more of your sister’s money by not letting me in?’
There was another pause. Oh, for heaven’s sake. She turned on her heel and took two steps away.
The gate clicked open behind her.
She stopped. Took a deep breath. She was pretty angry now. No, make that very angry. These people in their huge houses, their privileged positions... They thought they held all the power.
‘I’m sorry,’ the voice said, and his voice did hold a note of apology. ‘Please come in.’
Deep breath. Calm down, she told herself. She did have a temper, but she was good at supressing it, and now certainly wasn’t the time to let it out.
There was serious money in this establishment. If she had to grovel a little to get some of it for her dogs, then so be it.
But she did vent a little by stomping up the beautifully paved driveway, then along the landscaped artistry of the perfect garden path to finally arrive at the front door.
She almost expected to have to knock again, but it opened seamlessly in front of her. No one was behind it. She stepped through and stood, solitary, in a version of interior decorator heaven.
The entrance hall was the size of her kitchen. She saw gleaming marble floors, vaulted ceilings, exquisite designer furniture—a hall table that had to be antique and French, and two perfectly useless chairs that no one would be stupid enough to sit on. There was a flower arrangement that if, as she guessed, it had been delivered by one of Sydney’s top florists, must be worth more than a week’s feed for her dogs.
Which was why she was here, she reminded herself, trying desperately not to be intimidated. Dog food.
But wow, she felt small. Like Oliver in Charles Dickens...cap in hand, please, sir, can I have—?
‘Don’t just stand there, come through.’ The voice barked through the intercom above the door, and she almost jumped. Okay, she did jump. If ever there was a set-up designed to put the peasants in their place...
Deep breath. The door to the left of the hall was the only one open. The others were firmly closed.
Another deep breath and she walked through.
A study. Really? She thought of her own cubbyhole of a study and almost snorted. A library, then? A vast room lined with impressive books. Leather furniture. An enormous mahogany desk set into a bay window at the end of the room.
A man in a wheelchair, spinning from his desk to face her.
Her first impression was dark, both the room and its occupant. The room was all books, dark polished floor, deep brown leather, a mahogany desk. The window he’d been sitting at was surrounded by ferns outside, which made the room look designer perfect, but it didn’t light the room more than absolutely necessary. He’d obviously been using a desk lamp, but it didn’t show his face.
So all she could see was a dark figure, lean, bearded? Maybe just unshaved. His leg was on some sort of support in front of the wheelchair.
He wheeled from the desk to face her but made no move to come closer. Nor did she make any move to come further into the room. There was a moment’s silence while he seemed to assess her, his shadowed eyes raking her from the toes up.
Oh, for heaven’s sake...
‘I’m Kiara Brail, and I’m pleased to meet you, Dr Dalton,’ she said, trying very hard to sound brisk and professional. ‘Your sister tells me you’d like a dog.’
‘She’s my half-sister and I personally want no such thing,’ he snapped. ‘This is Beatrice’s half-cocked idea. A dog...’ He took a deep breath, as if summoning patience. ‘However... I agree, the child needs something, and I’m prepared to try. But I want nothing to do with the thing. As soon as I can get back to work, I’ll barely be home. Beatrice has told me she’s paying. It’ll make her feel better and she can finally leave us, which is what we all want. So bring the dog, but the deal is that you stay here for a week to make sure the thing’s settled, house-trained, not likely to disrupt my routine. If at the end of the week my niece wants it to stay and it’s no fuss, then it’s sorted. Otherwise, the dog goes, but you’ll be paid regardless.’
Whoa.
In the middle of that extraordinary statement two words stood out.
‘The thing.’
Two Tails wasn’t a standard refuge. It was geared for finding the perfect companion for people whose need was great.
If a family wanted a perky puppy, if a tradesman wanted a boisterous mate, if someone wanted a dog for companionship and fun, then there were a myriad breeders and rescue organisations that provided any number of dogs. Two Tails, however, was a specific refuge for specific needs. Its role was to find the right dogs for the right people, with Kiara taking all the trouble in the world to make that match work.
Two Tails’ specialty was taking in elderly animals where the owner was no longer able to care for them, often pets that would face euthanasia at most refuges, because how many people wanted to adopt an elderly pet with a very limited life span? And how many refuges were prepared to rehouse animals with elderly or disabled owners?
Two Tails was named for two reasons—one, for the saying ‘happy as a dog with two tails’, because that was Kiara’s aim for all her charges, and two, because there was the truth that Kiara’s dogs were mostly facing two tales: a before and after.
The local vets knew Kiara and knew her work.
If someone’s pet died and they thought they were too old or too worried about the future to get another, vets would often refer them to Two Tails. Conversely, if someone came tearfully in and said they were moving into a retirement village and couldn’t take their beloved dog, and maybe it should be put down, Kiara would be called to assess the dog. If it fitted the criteria, she’d take it in and work with it, including retraining if necessary. No matter that it be a greying, aged retriever with maybe only a limited time left, if it was the right dog, she’d find it a new home.
It was a niche service. A great service. It worked because Kiara personally vetted each animal and each potential owner.
‘So you don’t want a dog,’ she said now, trying to keep her instinctive revulsion to herself.
‘I have enough on my plate.’ There was a moment’s silence, and she sensed he was trying to suppress anger. ‘As you see, I’ve been injured. I need to concentrate on rehab, plus I’m up to my neck with work that’s been put aside because of my injury. However, I’ve agreed to take on the care of my niece, and my sister says she needs a dog. Thus—’
‘Why are you caring for your niece?’
That brought another silence. By this time she was expecting to be told to mind her own business, but instead he stared at her some more and then told it like it was.
‘I have... I had two sisters,’ he said, and suddenly he sounded weary. ‘Half-sisters. We have three different mothers. Our father was indifferent to all of us, so we’ve had practically nothing to do with each other. Beatrice’s the oldest—she lives in the UK. I’m the youngest and, as you can see, my home is here. Skye...well, until three months ago Skye lived in California where she, probably encouraged by her mother, seems to have made some very bad life choices. One of them was having a daughter. Alice is ten years old and until three months ago I’d never met her. Then out of the blue, Skye arrived here, insisting she and her daughter needed to stay. I let her—I’m barely home and there seemed no harm. I should have...’
He caught himself then, his face twisting as if in pain, and then forced himself to continue. ‘No matter. There was nothing anyone could do. It seems Skye had come here with a plan. Dump Alice and...’ He shook his head as if trying to shake off a nightmare. ‘We don’t need to go there, but two weeks after she arrived, Skye took her own life.’
And there was a stomach lurch.
Two minutes ago, Kiara’s instinct had been to get out of this house, fast. Now...
Ten years old. A child brought to stay with a half-uncle she didn’t know and was ‘barely home’.
Her mother’s death.
‘I can’t leave this pair without something to hold onto.’
Lady Beatrice’s words echoed hollowly in her head. She stared at the man before her, and he stared back. As if he’d thrown her a challenge.
‘Your leg?’ she said, and it was a question. Once more she half expected to be told to butt out, but his face seemed to close even more. Her eyes were starting to adjust to the dim light now. She’d thought he was bearded but he wasn’t, just shadowed from maybe two or three days without shaving. With his dark hair, ruffled and unruly, and his deep-set eyes, he looked...
Haunted? It was a crazy adjective, but it was the one that came to mind.
And when he spoke again, his voice was clipped, distant, and she decided haunted was maybe appropriate. For she heard pain.
‘My sister chose to throw herself off the cliffs down from the house. You’ve seen the cliffs around here? They don’t leave any room for doubt. Unfortunately, she left a note, and Alice found it too soon. She followed her mother, saw her fall and tried to climb down. By the time I reached them Skye was gone but Alice was trapped far down, just below the high-tide mark. I rang emergency services but climbed down after her—there seemed no choice. Stupid—I fell as well, smashing my leg. But at least I ended up on the same ledge as Alice. The rescue chopper took us off an hour later.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘As you say,’ he said, and he had his formal voice working again. ‘So now there’s no one for her. Beatrice says the child should go to boarding school, but she’s silent and withdrawn and she’s terrified of the prospect. So I’m letting her be until school starts again next term. But now Beatrice is demanding that she have a dog.’
To say her heart was twisted was an understatement. A ten-year-old kid...
But one thing Kiara had grown accustomed to in the world she lived in was her heart being twisted. People coming to her, asking for her to care for a beloved pet, tears streaming down their faces as they left. People coming to her in need—I just need a pet to love...
Pets of all sorts, neglected, abandoned, bereft. Somehow she had to sort them, make hard decisions. Which ones could she help?
And here was another ask. Could she help?
Here, however, there was a bottom line. ‘But you don’t want a dog?’
‘All I want is my life back.’ It was a savage snap. And then he seemed to catch himself, regroup. She could almost see him brace, finding the professional, businesslike side of himself.
‘I’m a neurosurgeon,’ he told her. ‘A busy one. I practise surgery at Sydney Central. I’m also a professor at our local university, so I teach. I’m on any number of medical and hospital boards. I’ve had to put everything on hold because of this...’
‘Because of Alice?’ She couldn’t help herself.
‘The thing. Because of this...’
‘Because of my leg,’ he said, smoothly again though, explaining professional needs. ‘I smashed my kneecap and broke both tibia and fibula. Compound fractures. I’ve had to have a complete reconstruction. It’ll be another month before I’m fit to stand for long periods, so I’ve accepted the role of carer until then. After that, Alice will have to go to boarding school.’
He must have seen the look on her face because his tone changed a little, became defensive.
‘You know, I understand Alice. Oh, not the trauma, that’s not something I’ve been burdened with, but she was brought up a loner and that’s the way she likes it. Our family has money, so Skye was always able to pay for decent childcare. That’s how Alice seems to have been raised—by paid staff. So she understands how to cope by herself. Of course, she’s now being treated by psychologists—the best—I organised that. But she hardly saw Skye, so she can’t have been all that attached. Give her a little more time to get over this trauma and I agree with Beatrice—she’ll be better off at a good school.’
‘And then?’ Focus on what you’re here for, Kiara told herself, trying hard to keep hold of her temper. Focus on her own area of expertise. Finding a home for her animals. ‘What happens to the dog then?’ she asked.
‘It can stay here if it’s no trouble,’ he said, offhandedly. ‘The staff will see to it, and I assume Alice will come back here during school breaks. She has nowhere else. So if she wants the dog then she can keep it, but Beatrice tells me you’re willing to take it back if we no longer need it.’ He paused, looked at her face and seemed to see what she was thinking. Which was dismay. Almost hurriedly he added: ‘However, I’ll bow to your judgement. I’ve never kept an animal. If you think it’s more satisfactory, I’m prepared to pay whatever you need to board it when it’s not required. Maybe you could keep it for us, bringing it back every holiday.’
There was so much in that it almost took her breath away. She struggled with herself, fighting the urge to turn and walk straight out.
‘So the dog is to be a tool for your niece’s recovery?’ She could scarcely make herself say it.
‘Beatrice says your organisation is strapped for money, dependent on donations. I’d imagine you’d be grateful.’
‘I’m not the least bit grateful. My dogs aren’t things.’
And that caused a long silence.
Kiara was accustomed to the low light by now, and she could see him clearly. He must have been fit before his fall, she thought. He looked long and lean and muscled. He was wearing a faded T-shirt with a sports-type emblem discreetly on the chest—an expensive brand. His jeans had one leg cut off to accommodate a brace. He was looking straight at her—his hooded eyes direct and challenging—but all of a sudden she saw a wash of what looked like almost overpowering weariness.
For some reason she was hit by a vision of the many injured creatures she’d treated in her career as a veterinarian. Dogs and cats, hissing or snarling, but underneath just plain terrified.
But she wasn’t here to treat an injured man and his orphaned niece—or even to care for such. She was here to find a home for one of her needy pets. She thought—with some regret—of the donation Beatrice had mentioned, but this was no home for a creature that had already undergone trauma.
‘I’ll let myself out,’ she said, and he stared up at her in surprise.
‘You won’t help us?’
‘I can’t see that giving you a dog would help you at all,’ she told him, gently now. She’d had a moment to pull herself together, and this was the voice she used when letting prospective clients down.
No, she couldn’t let ninety-year-old Mavis have the active young Doberman she’d set her heart on. Could she maybe introduce Mavis to an elderly pug?
She’d been hit by a walking stick when she’d suggested it, she remembered, and the memory almost made her smile. They’d compromised. Mavis had gone away with a whippet with a limp, and the pair had shared four happy years.
She couldn’t see a solution here that was even remotely happy.
‘I wish you all the best,’ she said. ‘But maybe...’ This was way out of her area of expertise but she could sense pain underneath the brusqueness, and it wasn’t just pain from an injured leg. All her professional life had been devoted to alleviating pain, emotional as well as physical, and she couldn’t help herself. ‘You say you’ve organised psychological help for your niece. I’m thinking...maybe it could help you as well?’
Another silence. A long one. Then those shadowed, hawk-like eyes met hers for the last time.
‘Get out,’ he said.
‘I’m leaving,’ she retorted, and did.
The kid needed a dog. That was what Beatrice had decreed.
What the kid really needed was parents. Parents who cared.
Left to the silence, Bryn returned to his desk. His work was waiting. He’d kept his teaching role. He had queries from a couple of students he needed to answer.
Instead he put his head on his hands and, just for a moment, gave into despair. He’d almost yelled at the woman who’d just left. Bryn’s mantra in life was control, and Dr Kiara Brail had shaken it. For a couple of horrible moments she’d made him feel as if his world was slipping away.
And right now, he felt as if it was.
A half-sister he hadn’t even met had decided he’d be a suitable parent—no, make that guardian, he reminded himself—for her daughter. Even the word guardian was laughable. He knew nothing about parenting. He knew nothing about families.
Bryn’s life was his work. Emotion, commitment, took time and effort, and it left you totally exposed. Hadn’t he learned that almost before he could walk? His father had moved on to the next woman before he was out of nappies. His mother...well, the least said about his mother the better. He was raised by money, by staff. People who moved on.
He’d learned early that you never got close to anyone. His bachelor life suited him down to the ground. He put everything he knew into being the best neurosurgeon he could be—and he was a good one. He helped people with his work, but he didn’t get close, but here he was, suddenly the only available family of a child he hadn’t even known existed until this had happened. Beatrice wouldn’t take her. There was no one else.
He’d accepted responsibility. He’d faced that in the weeks he’d had to spend in hospital, and by that time he’d already learned of the personal barriers the child had drawn up to protect herself. Beatrice might be right. A dog might help get her over these first hard months, but from his own experience he knew that to face boarding school, to face life, those barriers would need to be reinforced.
And there was no choice. They both had to move on. He had his work, his life. He’d support Alice as much as he could, but the bottom line was that she’d already learned to be alone.
He thought back to that gut-wrenching night when Skye had taken her own life. He remembered standing at the top of the cliff, looking down. Seeing his niece huddled on a ledge almost to the water line. Thinking for a moment that she looked dead.
Shining his flashlight and seeing her face turn up to him. Desperate.
He’d gone down. Or tried to go down. He’d rung the emergency services first—he’d had that much sense—and then he’d tried to do the impossible. How Alice had got down there he could never afterwards work out—she surely wouldn’t tell him—but some massive internal emotion had set him inching down a crumbling cliff face to reach her.
He’d fallen—of course he’d fallen—and then there were two to be winched to safety, not one.
What use had he been? No earthly use at all. He should have used sense, not emotion. Surely Alice would have survived alone.
And there was life’s most important lesson, instilled in each member of his dysfunctional family. Alone was the only way to survive.
It was okay, he told himself, trying to shake off the way the woman had made him feel. Things would sort themselves out. Alice would recover from the shock of her mother’s death and go on to a life of independence. He’d support her as much as he could—with a good school, carers during the holidays, even a dog.
Or not a dog. What he’d heard from the woman who’d just left was scorn—‘My dogs aren’t things’—and also...pity?
He didn’t need pity. His leg was healing. He’d get his life back.
But the pity hadn’t been for his leg. Those last words... ‘You’ve organised psychological help for your niece. Maybe it could help you as well?’
Stupid. He almost had his life under control again. Who was this woman to suggest otherwise? She knew nothing about him and had no right to suggest such a thing.
His flash of anger had been stupid. He had things under control. All he needed was his leg fixed, his niece sorted...and to put out of his mind the flash of pity he’d seen in one impertinent vet’s dark eyes.
She’d intended to stomp right out of there. What a waste. She’d come all the way into Sydney on a fool’s errand. Not only had she wasted a morning, she’d also been caught emotionally, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to forget this for weeks.
She felt guilty.
Which was nonsense, she told herself. There were psychologists looking after the child’s needs. She had an aunt and an uncle. Kiara’s job was looking out for the needs of the animals in her care, and just because her heart had been wrung...
By both of them, she thought tangentially. By the story of an orphaned child, but also by her uncle. Bryn Dalton might have come across as overbearing—autocratic, his sister had called him—but Kiara spent her career dealing with people relinquishing loved pets, or people desperate for something else to love. She knew emotional stress when she saw it.
But there was no way she could help. Her responsibility was to her refuge, to Two Tails and to the animals in her care. She had to haul herself together and get out of here.
She walked out of the front door—and there was a child, sitting cross-legged on the path leading to the gate. Blocking her way.
Kiara stopped and the child raised a pale, too-thin face to hers.
‘My uncle says you’re getting me a dog,’ she said, and it was a flat, defiant challenge. ‘I don’t want one.’
The kid was small for ten, a bit too thin. Her fine blonde hair was wisping to her shoulders and she was dressed in shabby shorts and T-shirt. Kiara recognised the logo on her T-shirt as an absurdly expensive children’s brand, but nothing else about her looked expensive. She looked a string bean of a kid. She had pale blue eyes, shadowed, and her hair was badly in need of a brush.
Was her face...tear-streaked?
Oh, heck. Kiara recognised a wounded creature when she saw one and leaving this kid and walking away was more than she could bear.
‘You don’t have to have one.’ It was said automatically, an instinctive response to the situation that had been made clear to her.
This was nothing to do with her. She should just walk on past.
But Kiara would have had to step on the manicured garden to get past the child.
And besides...there was something in the way she was sitting.
Her statement hadn’t been an aside, something to be tossed at her as she left. It was an invitation to discuss.
And somehow, Kiara sensed all the pain in the world behind that belligerent statement. ‘I don’t want one.’
For some reason she was suddenly thinking of her own childhood, of her at about the same age this child was now. Of her father. Of a litter of pups from one of the farm dogs, watching buyers come and taking them away. Of her holding the smallest, pleading, ‘Please can I keep him? Please can he be mine?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ her father had barked. ‘Dogs are for work. These are pedigree cattle dogs—we sell them for cash. Put the pup down.’
Why was she thinking that now? Why was her heart lurching?
Don’t get involved, she told herself harshly. Your responsibility is to your dogs.
But her heart was still twisting. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to talk to the kid for a minute.
‘You’re Alice,’ she said, and the child nodded. She was staring up at Kiara, almost as if challenging her. To do what?
‘Why don’t you want a dog?’ she said and sat down in the middle of the path with her. Cross-legged. Face to face.
The kid looked a bit taken aback. She edged back a little, but not far.
‘I’m Kiara,’ Kiara said, gently, lightly. ‘Why don’t you want a dog?’ she said again.
‘I’m not staying here. My mother says...said... I have to, but I don’t.’
‘You’ll be going to school.’
‘No.’
‘So where else will you go?’
‘I don’t know.’ And it was a wail of distress, a cry so deep and painful that Kiara flinched.
‘You’ll stay here.’ It was a low growl and it made Kiara jump. Unnoticed, Bryn had silently wheeled along the path behind her. Maybe Alice had seen him come, maybe she hadn’t, but she didn’t react. She certainly didn’t look at him.
‘You’ll stay here, for as long as you need to,’ Bryn said, still gruffly. He was ignoring Kiara, concentrating solely on his niece. ‘I’ve promised you that, Alice.’
‘You don’t want me. You never wanted me to come.’
‘We’re family. I’m your uncle.’
Wrong answer, Kiara thought tangentially. She thought, what would she have done given the same set of circumstances?
Who knew? She had no solid family herself, no well of life experience to draw on.
Except for the animals she loved—the bereft creatures that ended up in her charge.
She thought of one of the few cats she’d rehoused. Two Tails was geared to rehome dogs, but Mops had been an exception. She’d glimpsed him out in the bushland behind the refuge, trying to fend for himself. He was scrawny, his grey and white hair matted. He was also scarred, probably from encounters with the native possums.
Even if her emotions hadn’t been caught, cats decimated the wildlife, so Kiara had set a trap for him. She’d caught him on the third night. He’d been wild, terrified, spitting his fury and his fear.
She’d fed him, talked to him, and gently, gently encouraged him to trust.
He was now living with an elderly man who’d lost his wife. The last time she’d seen him—on the home visit she made to all her rehoused animals—Mops had been sitting on his new owner’s knee, purring so loudly it almost interfered with the television. Whenever the old man’s hand stopped stroking, Mops shifted and nudged until the stroking continued. Both of them had been deeply content with the new arrangement.
And that’s what this kid needs, she thought. Nights of holding, telling her she’s loved.
Not an assurance such as ‘You’ll stay here, for as long as you need to.’ That was an implied ending. Alice was expected to leave.
‘I don’t want the dog.’ Alice jutted her jaw and met her uncle’s look full on.
‘You don’t have to have a dog. Your aunt thought—’
‘My aunt doesn’t care.’
‘She thought a dog might help. You might enjoy it. If Kiara—’
‘It’s Dr Brail,’ Kiara said abruptly. She was here on a professional visit, she reminded herself, and it wouldn’t hurt to remind them all of that. She might be sitting cross-legged on the path with a bereft child but, for her sake as well as anything else, she needed to keep this businesslike. ‘I’m a doctor of veterinary science. I did my doctorate with a study of rehoming animals in need. But it seems I’m not needed here.’
‘There’s an open invitation,’ Bryn said, still watching Alice. ‘If you think it could help, then bring us a dog. Beatrice has offered to pay you to stay for a week and see what happens. You must see that Alice needs...something.’
‘I want to go home,’ Alice said.
‘I’m sorry but you can’t,’ Bryn said, and once again, Kiara thought wrong answer. The answer should be This is your home now.
But she had things to do. Animals to care for. She’d been away from Two Tails for more than half a day and Maureen, the part-time assistant she could scarcely afford, would be aching to leave. Maureen was an old friend of her grandmother’s, a woman who’d been there for her for ever, but she had her own family needs. She could ask no more of her.
This was a mess—an emotional nightmare—but it wasn’t her nightmare. She rose, carefully closing her heart.
‘Good luck to both of you,’ she said softly. And then, even more softly, ‘I’m so, so sorry that I can’t help.’
And before her heart could be tugged a moment longer, she turned and fled.
The gate slid silently closed, leaving Bryn staring down at his little niece. Alice didn’t move, just sat on the path with her arms crossed. As if shielding herself from pain?
He needed to contact the psychologists again. He knew she was hurting, but what could he do?
‘I don’t want a dog.’ It was a muttered whisper, barely audible.
‘You don’t have to have one.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘You have an appointment with Dr Schembury tomorrow. You can talk about that then.’
Silence. Hell, he was so far out of his depth.
The words of the woman who’d just left was still replaying in his head. ‘Psychological help...maybe it could help you as well?’
It wouldn’t help at all. What good could talking do? For Alice, yes, but for him... He didn’t open up about emotions. Why should he?
Alice rose and slipped away. Who knew where? To another part of the garden? Back to her own room where she could be solitary? Safe?
Solitude helped, he thought. It worked for him.
But for some reason he was left staring at the closed gate, seeing a slip of a woman with pity in her eyes.
He didn’t need pity. His leg would heal. The psychs would sort Alice and she’d learn to be strong. He didn’t need Dr Kiara Brail and her dogs.
But Alice?
She didn’t want a dog either. She didn’t want...him.
He thought of the night he’d found her, huddled on the cliff ledge, desperate. Of holding her, trying to keep her safe. Of her despairing whisper. ‘I want Mom.’
She didn’t want him, but he was all she had.
He thought of the psychologists in their hospital consulting rooms, empathising, asking all the right questions, treating Alice by the book.
And he thought again of Kiara, sitting cross-legged on the path, acting almost like a kid herself. Who was she to succeed where the psychologists couldn’t?
No one, he thought. And anyway, she’d refused to help.
Because she didn’t like his terms?
Maybe...
‘You’re clutching at straws,’ he told himself bleakly. ‘She’s knocked back Beatrice’s offer and what would Beatrice know anyway?’
What would Dr Kiara Brail know?
‘Nothing,’ he said out loud and that was that.
But why, as he turned and wheeled back to the house, did the look in her eyes stay with him? A look that said she understood the pain Alice was feeling. A look that said, given half a chance, she might just be a friend to his damaged niece.
A friend to him?
‘Ridiculous,’ he said. He—and Alice—had enough to worry them without including a slip of a vet who also had judgement in that same gaze. She was judging him and finding him wanting?
So what?
‘Forget her,’ he told himself and wheeled inside and allowed the big front doors to close silently behind him. Closing out the thought of that judgement?
It didn’t quite happen.
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