Mother by Fate. Tara Quinn Taylor
With the object of his six-year-old daughter’s attention held out in front of him, rescue kennel owner Michael Edison strode through the large converted barn, to a wall of empty cages in the back.
“You know the rules.” Setting the fat cat gently onto the cold metal bottom of the first cage, he withdrew his hand quickly—obtaining a scratch on the arm in the process—and closed the door.
“Yes.” The skinny little brown-eyed minx looked up at him, her long dark curls still tangled from her night’s sleep.
“So?”
“I can’t touch him until Aunt Diane has a chance to examine him.”
Examine. Michael enjoyed an inner grin at the sound of the very adult word coming from the baby voice with the little lisp. Shelley would be proud of him. And maybe, if people did become angels looking down from above when they died, she was. “That’s right” was all he said.
Mari didn’t remember her mother. But their little house in front of the kennel was filled with photos of her.
“Trouble is you said she can’t come till later...”
“That’s right, too.” His twenty-nine-year-old sister had recently graduated from veterinary school and, having just joined a practice, had to work the less-popular weekend hours.
“But can I hold him right afterward?”
Always looking on the bright side of things. Mari took after her youngest aunt, Peanut, that way. Made his life a hell of a lot easier.
“Yep. First thing.”
“You want him in isolation?” Twenty-five-year-old Ashleigh, the third sister in a line of four, asked, pulling a disposable cage liner and water bottle out of a cupboard on the opposite side of the room from the cages.
“Yeah,” he told her, raising his voice enough to be heard over the whining and barking coming from the canine end of the kennel.
While it didn’t look as if the newcomer had fleas, until he knew for certain that the cat wasn’t carrying anything the other animals in his care could catch, he couldn’t move him into the dorm area.
Mari put her hand in the treat bin and pulled out some all-natural dog treats they used for training, as he poured a little milk into a cup. Just enough to calm the cat who’d been dumped on Michael’s front porch that morning—in a box barely large enough to fit him and secured with duct tape.
While he dealt with the new cat, Mari walked with purpose to the first door in the occupied section of the kennel. “Shh, Whitehorse. Your breakfast will be here soon,” she said, tossing in a treat that quieted the white-and-gray Great Dane mix they’d rescued from an illegal dog-racing track a month ago.
The name was Mari’s. The malnourished female had come to them with the name Three. She’d been housed in the third cage in the facility she’d been born to.
Ashleigh, his only full-time kennel employee and main child-care provider, prepared a more permanent kennel for the new resident in a partitioned-off room in the back corner of the barn. She took the cup of milk from Michael as he retrieved the smaller cage he’d dropped the cat in moments before.
While Mari visited each of the eleven dogs in their care, he and Ashleigh got their newest resident settled.
“His name is Gus,” Mari announced, coming up behind them with a label for the kennel and the black marker Michael used to mark down the name of each rescue animal and the date when he or she came into their care.
“Gus?” Ashleigh looked from the little girl to the fat gray cat.
“Yes, Gus. He looks like Gus down the street, doesn’t he?” She giggled.
Ashleigh rolled her eyes.
“I see the resemblance,” Michael said with mock seriousness, moving on to start the morning’s chores with Mari right beside him.
“The reds first today,” Mari said, standing with him as he opened the main gate that would allow the dogs, once they were released from their individual runs, out into the three-acre mowed and fenced play park behind the barn. He watched as Mari opened the cages one by one, waiting for each dog to reach the park before releasing the next, just as she’d been taught.
The reds were on the right side of the kennel area, so designated because of the red paint Mari had chosen for the cement surrounding the kennels.
The five reds played outside as six blues got fed. And since Michael was there to help that morning, Ashleigh tended to the cats at the same time.
Which meant that if all went well, they’d be done in time to get to Peanut’s yard sale at the dance studio where she worked. They were raising money for the senior girls’ dance company to go to a competition.
“Don’t forget Maya’s medicine, Daddy,” Mari said as she looked at the card on the poodle’s cage and measured her food according to the color code Michael had designed to help her know what size cup to use. She’d named Maya after a dancer mentor of Peanut’s. The poodle was on antibiotics.
“Thanks for the reminder, squirt,” he said, taking the pill bottle out of his pocket as she bent to the feed bowl. He’d remembered. He always remembered. But didn’t mind a bit that his daughter had a penchant for bossing him around.
Truth was, he was proud of her ability to take control. Her desire to give rather than take. And he loved that he was still on the list of those she cared about the most.
It would change. He knew that. At least in part. He savored every single second that he had with her.
“Can we go to the beach after we stop by to see Peanut?” Mari slid her hand into his as they headed out to whistle for the reds to come in to eat so they could let the blues out.
“We’ll...” His “see” didn’t make it out. Michael’s phone vibrated and the hopeful expression faded from his daughter’s eyes as she dropped his hand and watched him while he talked.
She knew the ropes, that wise little girl of his. He was her daddy. A kennel owner. Until the phone rang and he became Michael Edison, bounty hunter.
And then, for however long it took, she had to let him go.
* * *
IT WASN’T OFTEN that Sara Havens had a moment to spend in the sun. Fact was, in the more than two years of living in the quiet, upscale condominium complex on California’s coast, that August Saturday afternoon was the first time she’d actually been to the pool during daylight hours.
Most of her days were spent counseling women and children who were victims of domestic violence. And when she had a day off, she always managed to fill it with taking care of personal business. Shopping, mostly. For food. Shampoo. Things a woman liked to buy for herself. And cleaning.
She swam late at night—when the balmy Santa Raquel air permitted her to do so without freezing. And, occasionally, she would sit in the hot tub with a glass of wine—also late at night.
The niggling pain pulling at the right side of the back of her neck that morning had driven her out to the pool. Working late, as she had the night before, wasn’t new to her. Or unwelcome. The detour from normal had come in her inability to find peace once she’d come home.
Sara wasn’t a workaholic; she’d simply answered her calling and loved what she did. And she’d found a place where she was needed.
Who didn’t want to be needed?
She had a calming effect on people. An ability to assess their internal struggles and help sort them out.
Last night’s domestic-abuse victim, Nicole Kramer, had been...different. Her genuine desperation had drawn Sara in more than most. The woman was alive only so that she could see her son to safety. Her own life didn’t seem to hold all that much value to her.
Sara valued that life.