Identity

“What kind of dog are you?”

Howl’s grumbles and mutters equaled a canine shrug.

Miles got the ball himself, stuck it back in the garden shed.

By two, laundry dry, folded, put away, sun tea chilling, all chores stood complete. Now the day stretched ahead, tempted him to check his phone. He wouldn’t, a matter of discipline, but it tempted him.

He could sit on the front porch and read a book. He could put on his boots and go for a hike. He’d have to take the dog because it seemed wrong not to.

A hike, then the book made sense, but if he reversed it, he could swing into town, pick up something for dinner, spare himself the cooking.

Whatever he did, it had to be outside, as he considered it a crime to waste a perfect summer Sunday afternoon lazing around indoors.

Besides, despite Morgan’s ESPN comment, he didn’t watch much TV, sports or otherwise.

Thinking of the offhand comment made him think of her, which he’d studiously avoided doing all morning.

He really had no business thinking of her, at least not beyond the bar manager. But he found her so damn interesting. No question she excelled at her work—and as Nell had concluded during the last family meeting, they were lucky to have someone who mixed creative and organized in equal parts.

He didn’t like worrying about her but couldn’t seem to stop. The way she’d gone from raging fury to helpless panic when she’d grabbed that guest stayed imprinted on his mind.

He’d admired the fury; sympathized with the panic.

She’d lost everything but had dug down deep to start again.

He admired that, too. And more, respected it.

She had dreams, goals, hopes, he thought as he picked up the book he’d barely started. How many of those had Rozwell taken?

Someone wanted to kill her, and wouldn’t let her forget it. Yet she got up every day. She went to work, did her job, lived her life.

Or the one she’d started to make.

The combination of vulnerable and tough just fascinated him.

He could tell himself that fascination had nothing to do with her looks, but he didn’t like to lie to himself. Those looks, he thought, the way she lit up when she laughed, the way she moved behind the bar—like it was a freaking dance floor. And those eyes, simmering green and somehow always alert.

And now, Jesus, he’d stop thinking about her. Metaphorically put her with his phone on the charger and go read his book.

When he started toward the front door, Howl howled. He could come out, of course, and Miles would leave the door open so he could come and go. But since he didn’t carry the leash, the dog knew damn well he couldn’t go beyond the front porch.

The road was a ways off, but still.

“Deal with it,” Miles said, and opened the door.

And there she stood, like he’d conjured her up just by thinking about her for only a few minutes.

She wore a red T-shirt and faded denim shorts, and those long, long legs damn near killed him. In her hands she held some sort of container, and even with her sunglasses, he could see the awe in them as she looked up.

“You have turrets,” she said, and the awe spread.

“The house does.”

“Two turrets,” she said again, then Howl walked onto the porch. “And a dog!”

Howl muttered, grumbled, let out a high trio of whines as he wagged from head to toe.

“Turrets and a talking dog!”

Miles felt the dog dancing in place beside him. He started to tell the dog to sit, then Howl broke a primary rule.

He raced off the porch and straight at Morgan.

Rather than alarm, she showed only delight, shifting the container under one arm so she could crouch down and greet him.

He licked, he rubbed, he rolled over on his back for a belly rub, making a constant series of happy noises.

Not even for his father, Miles thought, did the dog make such an ass of himself. But then, Morgan laughed, rubbed, cooed, nuzzled.

“Oh, what a good boy. What a very good boy! Aren’t you handsome? What’s your name? What’s his name?”

“Howl. He—”

To illustrate why, Howl howled and made Morgan laugh.

“He’s not supposed to go off the porch without a leash.”

“Oh, but— Oh, the road. Good policy. Come on, Howl, we don’t want you to get in trouble. Sorry, my fault.”

She straightened on those damn flamingo legs, and the dog pranced—he never pranced—beside her on the way to the porch.

“And sorry,” she continued. “I got distracted, because turrets. I was just going to leave these on the porch, then text you. I didn’t mean to interrupt your day off.”

“Leave what?”

“I baked you cookies.” She held the container out to him.

“You…” If he’d been thrown off before, now he was completely floored. “Baked me cookies.”

“To thank you for Friday night. I’ll admit it was my mother’s idea, and they’re good cookies mostly because she supervised every step. But the thank-you’s sincere.”

He took the container, opened it, then sampled a cookie while she turned the dog into a puddle by kissing his nose.

“They are good cookies.” When Howl spared him a glance, Miles shook his head. “Not yours.”

“No chocolate chips for you.” Morgan stroked Howl’s ears. “They’re not good for you. What is he?”

“A dog.”

“I meant what kind of dog.”

“Nobody knows. Best guess is a sheepdog got busy with a beagle.”

“Well, that’s a combo. I’m trying to be sorry I ended up interrupting your day off, but otherwise I wouldn’t have met Howl. And…”

Now she glanced up, and he already knew he’d have a harder time saying no to those eyes than Howl’s.

“Do you have five minutes?”

“Probably.”

“If I could just … could I see inside the one turret? Just a peek inside one of them.”

“Probably,” he repeated. “Why?”

“I’ve never been inside a turret. I have a thing for houses, and yours is a beautiful Victorian. The turrets just punch it up another level.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, thanks. Five minutes, I swear, then I’m out of your hair. And you have cookies.”

He gestured her in.

“Oh, it really is beautiful. Just … You kept the interior walls curved at the base of the turret for the sitting room or reading room or morning room. Whatever-you-want-it-to-be room. The woodwork! You have ceiling medallions. Oh, the floors—are they original?”

“Yeah.”

He thought she looked at the sitting room off the foyer as if he’d just opened Aladdin’s cave for her.

“Gorgeous, they’re just gorgeous. And the windows! And, sorry, I’m eating up my first minute. I love houses. Old houses especially. New construction’s just so, well, new. You can really feel the history in here. I mean, look at the staircase!”

She walked over, the dog trailing her adoringly, to stroke the newel post.

“You get to use it if you want a look inside the rest of the turret.”

“And I really do. It’s so elegant, but not formal or fussy. Feels like a home,” she said as she climbed the stairs with her fingers brushing the rail. “Which it is. It’s yours.”