Old Rusty’s eyes lit up, his tail cleaning the cement floor as Jensen greeted him. He opened the cage and let the collie lick his chin, rubbing the animal vigorously behind the ears. “I can’t believe no one has adopted you yet,” he said. “I’d take you home, buddy, but I’m outta here in six weeks, and then what will we do?”
“Take him with you.” Annalise Decker stood at the door, a fellow volunteer—although her hours were truly voluntary. She held Arthur, a Persian cat who appeared freshly brushed. “He needs a good home, and you know he loves you.”
“I can’t. I don’t know where I’m headed after I leave Deep Haven.”
“Really?” She placed the cat in his cage while Jensen clipped a lead on Rusty. He’d take the dog out for a short run, then clean his cage and return him. He planned to do the same with the pretty half Labrador, half Doberman they’d found running in the woods, collarless. So far, no one had claimed her, and he had half a mind to take her home too. He was a sucker for those sweet brown eyes.
“Yeah. I just need to leave, and once I get free of the county, I’ll figure out where to go. Maybe California.” He grinned at Annalise as he walked toward the door. “Hawaii. I’ll be a beach bum.”
“You’ll miss this!” Annalise said as the door bumped closed behind him.
Not likely. Apparently she’d forgotten that his time didn’t belong to him, that he wasn’t walking old Rusty for his health.
But he did like having the collie at his side, especially the way strangers smiled at him, sometimes gave Rusty a pat.
Everyone liked a man with a dog.
He did a mental count of his total hours after today. If he could keep getting days like this over the next six weeks, he’d make his cutoff.
No jail time.
Although, spending three years in a town that hated you felt a little like jail. He didn’t blame them—not really. And after three years, they seemed to have built a sort of tolerance for him. Still, he should have seen the future, rejected the plea agreement, and simply endured the four years in prison.
But he was innocent. And innocent men shouldn’t go to jail. At least that’s what he told himself—told God when Jensen thought He might be willing to listen. But God had clearly already made up His mind about Jensen, just like the rest of Deep Haven.
The smells of fresh battered trout cakes from the fish house tempted him to stop in, and he’d heard that Licks and Stuff was running a special this week—a maple-nut custard cone. But he didn’t have time for lunch. Not if he wanted to finish his hours and get home to remove that log, mow, and paint the Millers’ place. He should have gotten to it earlier in the week, but by the time he’d finished mowing the high school athletic fields and cleaning the six-mile stretch of highway north of town, he’d arrived home after dark. At least it added to his hours.
He returned Rusty, cleaned his cage, and brushed him down. Then he doted on the Lab-Doberman mix—he’d call her Nellie—and cleaned her cage. She leaned into his hand so hard as he rubbed behind her ear that it nearly made him weep.
How he hated neglect, hated people not realizing what they had until they lost it.
Jensen hosed down the runs behind the shelter, then wound up the rope and had Annalise sign his volunteer card.
Hat in hand, he stopped by the local Meals On Wheels office.
“I’m sorry, Jensen, but we had enough help today. Stop by tomorrow—or maybe next week we’ll have an opening.” Donna smiled at him when he left, and for a second, he believed her.
He sat in his truck and counted his hours again. Tomorrow he would swing by the social services office and see if they had any shut-ins who needed their lawn mowed or house cleaned. Maybe just needed a friend.
He liked sitting with them, listening to their stories. It made him forget his own.
Back at Pine Acres, he grabbed a ham sandwich, then loaded the mower into the back of the truck and tackled the various lawns that needed attention. He sprayed the decimated currant bush, trimmed it, then found the chain saw in the maintenance shed and went to work on the downed tree.
There had been a time when he detested this kind of work, back when he thought his years in law school might mean something, that he should be respected and admired for his academic prowess. When mowing lawns seemed miles beneath him. But now he found the work refreshing, the sweat honest, and it seemed the one thing he could do to earn his room and board, maybe ease the frown from his father’s face.
If that were even possible. He couldn’t quite get on his father’s good side after the accident. Too many dreams had died that night on the highway.