Frost Security(16)

It hadn't been intentional or anything. I mean, my three loves have always been art, the mountains, and the oceans. I'd gone to school for my major on the first, lived in the second, and did my minor on the third. So, I'd picked up some art pieces along the way, ones that really spoke to me, that really made me think of my third love since I was so surrounded by the first two. And, to me, nothing said the ocean like sea turtles.

I'm weird. I know.

“Guess I do,” I said, suddenly a little embarrassed by the sheer volume of the art. “But, it's not all my fault.”

He laughed. “No?”

“Well, okay, it is. But, not for the reasons you think. After I started up the art gallery-”

“The Curious Turtle.”

“-the Curious Turtle, right, everyone just started giving me turtle gifts, okay? And, besides, these aren't all turtles. A lot of them are tortoises.”

“So you don't discriminate?”

I laughed. “No, it's not me. It's people. They see things with shells and they think turtle, and then they think Jessica.”

He nodded, smiling. “Got it. I’ll keep that in mind come Christmas. Meantime, I should really check out the place. Have you been in the other rooms yet?”

“No, I replied, shaking my head, “just got home a couple minutes before you. Only had a chance to let the boys out. Feel free.”

“Thanks,” he said, his hand down at the gun at his side. He didn't draw it, just rested it there for reassurance.

I didn't bat an eye at his gun. It was his job, after all. Here in the High Rockies, you can find some really liberal people, and you can find some really conservative people. Generally, though, you don't find a lot of gun control people. When you have bears outside your back doors, or giant cats that could run off with your dogs each night, you tend to learn how to use a rifle or a shotgun. Even I knew how to shoot and kept my grandpa's old shotgun in the house.

Of course, I didn't keep it loaded or anything. I was cautious, but not paranoid.

He went through my small house, as I stayed behind in the living room. I even chewed my nail a little bit when he looked in at my messy closet, and saw all the makeup all over my sink in the bathroom.

“House is clear,” he said as he rejoined me. “One thing, though, something you may consider if you haven't already.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Some organizational supplies?” he replied, deadpan. “They have people, I hear, who'll come in and do it for you.”

I rolled my eyes at his grin. I was going to respond, but I heard my boys scratching at the backdoor, and instead turned to go let them in. Eli and Wallach came tumbling into the house in a ball of slobbery, dusty fur, both falling over each other to get past me and to Richard.

Eli bayed first, louder than normal, but Richard immediately dropped to his knees, bringing himself down to the dogs' levels. Wallach hung back for a moment, his little tail twitching in confusion, like he wasn't sure how to take this stranger, who was now looking him in the eye.

“Eli's a little timid,” I said, “but he won't bite or anything.”

“Oh, no,” Richard said, palm-up hand outstretched, “of course he won't. Will you, boy?”

Eli edged forward more quickly than I'd ever seen him move, adjusting well. He sniffed at Richard's offered hand, and his tale began to wag even faster.

My security blanket grinned widely, put out his other hand. “Eli, huh? You like me, don't you?”

The big hound mix wagged its tail harder, walked closer, licked his hand.

“Yeah, you do,” he said as Wallach came running up to him, jumping on his knee in an effort to not be left out of the pets. He scratched and pet both of them, faster at ease with the dogs than any of the previous men or friends I'd ever brought home. For Pete's sake, both of them were still timid even with Sheila and my friend Karen Ray when either of them stopped by. And they'd known my boys for a couple years at least.

“What's this one's name?” Richard asked, nodding to my little Corgi.

“Wallach.”

“Eli and Wallach?” he replied, laughing. “Really?”

I smiled and brushed my hair behind my ear. “Don't tell me you actually know who Eli Wallach is.”

“My dad raised me on old westerns, before he passed away. How couldn't I?”

I laughed, clapping my hands. “You and Grandpa are probably the only two people I know who'd appreciate it.”

He grinned up at me, rising to his feet, towering back over me again.

I gestured back to the fridge. “You want a beer or something? I know it's still early.”

“Can't,” he said. “On the clock. Tea or coffee, or a soda if you got it.”