“Not much, I’m afraid. She came here four years ago and bought the old Bergner place. Paid cash on the barrelhead. She fixed up a couple of the outbuildings, built a raft of pens and fences, and began taking in stray animals. Came with one or two of her own too, I think. Good thing the area is zoned for farming with all that barking and screeching going on. Still, on a quiet day, I’ll bet you can hear the ruckus from your place.”
Ian paused, distracted by the sound of Peggy’s laughter. From the corner of his eye he saw her chatting with a dark-haired man at the coffee bar. He turned back to Annie. “I do know she can’t keep good help. She has a mouth on her that could make a porcupine blush.”
“Hmm,” Annie said, her brows knitting together. “People who act like they hate the world usually have some deep hurt in their lives.”
It was the kind of comment he’d come to expect from her and he recalled his earlier thought about Annie’s tendency to embrace the world. “Everyone deserves a second chance,” she’d said when Harry Stevens had gotten into trouble over his grandfather’s medals. Ian leaned back against the booth. “She’s poured a lot of money into those strays of hers. Someone dumps Fido or Calico on her doorstep in the night, and she takes it in. She’s gathered quite a menagerie.”
“No wonder she needs a bit of help, Ian. You know, the Hook and Needle Club is going to donate proceeds from its next festival for the shelter.”
“Don’t expect a hearty thank-you from Carla Callous,” Ian said.
“That’s what Stella said.” Annie pursed her lips; her eyes softened. “But you’ve got to admit, we owe her something for what she’s doing for the community. Even if it’s not the community she really cares about. And of course, we don’t know what’s in her mind, do we? We don’t know what she cares about.”
“We don’t,” Ian admitted. He paused briefly. “I should add she’s not running a full-fledged city shelter. She doesn’t have a license or anything yet, though she’s working on it. I hear, however, that she’s a qualified veterinarian.”
“Have you taken Tartan there?”
“Uh—no,” Ian said flatly. He’d become more than fond of his patient, sweet-tempered schnauzer with his distinctively bearded snout. “No need to terrify the poor old guy!”
He liked the musical sound of her quick and spontaneous laughter. “Seriously, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,” Annie said. “I think I’ll drive Tara out there to meet Carla. Can’t hurt.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Ian said with mock seriousness. Then with true seriousness, he said, “Good luck with your mystery tourist, but if you need anything—moral support or anything else, call me.”
“I can always depend on you,” she said, still with a touch of humor, and he hoped, warmth.
“Promise?”
“Promise,” she affirmed.
Ian glanced over to see that Peggy was still engaged in conversation with the guy at the bar. He was a tall, well-built man with hair that hedged his shirt collar. A shiny black lock of hair crept over one eyebrow in the rugged, romantic sort of way he imagined women liked. What little he saw of the face revealed the profile of a man in his late thirties. Ian didn’t recognize the man.
As though the stranger had known he was being studied, he abruptly rose, and without turning to reveal his identity, left the diner, but not before placing a generous tip on the counter and exposing a slow-eyed wink in Peggy’s direction.
“So, are you going to say goodbye?”
Annie’s question jarred Ian. How could he have let one bold stranger distract his attention from her? Not a fair trade at all. “What?” he said distractedly. She had hooked her purse over one delicate shoulder, preparing to leave. “Oh I’m sorry, Annie. I guess I was thinking about something else.” He snatched his check and hers, and stood up.
“Oh, you don’t need to …” she began, reaching for her check.
“Want to,” he said firmly but with a smile he felt down to his feet. “Let me know how your mystery girl gets on with Carla …”
“Calloway,” Annie finished for him, giving him a level look, quickly followed by the laugh he had grown to like so much.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said in a tone meant to prove he had been effectively chastised.
9
“Ouch!” Carla snatched her hand away from the owl’s sharp little beak, dropping the fistful of grasshoppers she had brought as breakfast. She hadn’t been foolish enough to open the cage door with her bare hands, but Gomer had pierced the flesh on her wrist between the glove and her flannel shirt.