Creed's Honor Read Online Free PDF Page A

may—”
    “How’s eleven-thirty?” Becky broke in, brightening. “For the appointment, I mean?”
    Tricia guessed that would be fine, and said so.
    She hung up and hurried into the storage room for a mop, and the dog cowered as she approached.
    Tricia’s heart, already pulverized by Rusty’s passing, did a pinchy, skittery thing. “Nobody’s mad at you, buddy,” she said softly. “It’s all ok.”
    She swabbed up the spilled water and made a mental note to stop off at the discount store for kibble and bowls and maybe a pet bed, preferably on sale, since the trip to the vet was bound to cost a lot of money. The dog—he needed a name, but since giving him one implied a commitment she wasn’t willing to make, the dog would have to do—could live right here at the office until other arrangements could be made.
    Taking him home, like naming him, would only make things harder later on. Besides, Winston would probably take a dim view of such a move, and then there was the matter of seeing another dog in all the places where Rusty used to be.
    She did wish she hadn’t been in such a hurry to give Rusty’s gear away, though. She could have used that stuff right about now.
    The dog looked up at her with an expression so hopeful that the sight of him wrenched at something deep inside Tricia. Then he meandered, moving more steadily now that he’d eaten, over to the vending machine. Pressed his wet nose to the glass.
    Tricia chuckled in spite of herself. “Sorry,” she said. “No more stale sandwiches for you.”
    He really seemed to understand what she was saying, which was crazy. The similarities between finding Rusty and finding—well, the dog —were getting to her, that was all, and it was her own fault; she was letting it happen.
    She brought him more water, and this time, he didn’t tip the coffee can over.
    Gradually, they became friends, a three steps forward, two steps back kind of thing, and while Tricia doubted he’d tolerate being scrubbed down under one of the public showers, he did let her remove the twigs and thistles from his coat.
    At 11:15, she hoisted him into the backseat of her secondhand blue Pathfinder without being bitten in the process. A good omen, she decided. Things were looking up.
    Maybe.
    Doc Benchley’s clinic was housed in a converted Quonset hut left over from the last big war, with an add-on built of cinder blocks. As buildings went, it was plug-ugly, maybe even a blight on the landscape, but nobody seemed to mind. Folks around Lonesome Bend appreciated Doc because he’d come right away if a cowfell sick, or a horse, whether it was high noon or the middle of the night. He’d saved dozens, if not hundreds, of dogs and cats, too, along with a few parrots and exotic lizards.
    He drove his ancient green pickup truck through snowstorms that would daunt a lesser man and a much better vehicle, and once or twice, in a pinch, he’d treated a human being.
    Distracted, Tricia didn’t notice the other rigs in the clinic’s unpaved parking lot; she wanted to borrow a leash and a collar before she brought the dog inside, in case something spooked him and he took off. And she was totally focused on that.
    She fairly collided with Conner Creed in the big double doorway; his arms were full of small boxes and he was wearing a battered brown hat that cast shadows over his facial features.
    “Sorry,” she said, after gulping her heart back down into its normal place. Nearly, anyway.
    He said something in reply—maybe “Excuse me”—but Tricia had already started to go around him, unaccountably anxious to get away.
    Becky stood behind the counter, wearing colorful scrubs with pink cartoon kittens frolicking all over the fabric, holding out the leash and collar without being asked. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at Tricia, then past her, to Conner.
    “Thanks,” Tricia said.
    She turned around, and Conner had disappeared. Her relief was exceeded only by her disappointment.
    All for the