Making It Right (Most Likely To #3)

Luke was next. “I’m Zoe’s fiancé.”


Gill shook hands with both of them. “Jo and I are hookin’ up.”

Jo cringed with both eyes closed and prayed to God that Gill’s voice didn’t carry as much as she thought it did.

Luke stood with his handshake and held on a little long.

“You’re a little big to take down, but Jo’s like a sister.”

The men paused, and for the first time in Jo couldn’t remember how long, Luke’s sentiment had her heart pinging against her chest.

“Point taken,” Gill said before suggesting that Jo sit.

Jo lifted a hand in the air. “I’m good, actually. Just send a bagel my way.”

Gill tried to stand.

“No, no, sit. They have a great country fried steak and eggs here. Zoe’s gravy recipe.” She pointed at Wyatt. “You should show Gill around.” She turned to Luke. “Introduce him to . . . introduce him.”

“I’m being pawned off.” The man was perceptive.

“You,” she tapped his chest, “showed up unexpected.”

She didn’t sit, only waved at Brenda, who made goo-goo eyes at Gill.

“I’ll see you at lunch. Miss Gina’s, here . . . wherever.”

“Who is Miss Gina?” Gill asked.

Jo glanced at Luke.

“I’ve got it!” Luke exclaimed. “Go.” He waved Jo off. “Be the town cop. I’ve got this.”

Gill looked her in the eye, his face softened. For a brief second his lips puckered, almost like he was blowing her a kiss.

And Jo walked away.



Jo made the house call she’d put off since getting back to town.

She knocked on Cherie Miller’s door and was greeted with a chorus of dogs barking. Jo took a step back so when Cherie looked through her peephole she’d see Jo’s whole body in the small viewfinder. Chances were the woman wasn’t opening her door to very many people since the pound had been called.

The door cracked open, followed by Cherie yelling at her dogs all at once. “Hush up. Sampson, stay back!”

The woman looked a little haggard, like she hadn’t slept much but still managed to shove a shower in and then promptly forgot to blow dry her hair. Luke’s aunt had never married. And unlike the normal spinster stereotype, she collected dogs . . . not cats.

“Look who finally showed up,” Cherie scolded once she cleared the door and closed it behind her to keep the dogs inside.

Instead of defending herself, Jo smiled and acted as if the other woman had said something pleasant. “Hello, Cherie. How are you doing today?”

“I’m doin’ fine, just fine, considering I have to find new homes for my babies.”

“How is that going?”

“Going? I’ll tell you how it’s going . . . it’s not. Do you know how many dog lovers we have in this town?”

The question was rhetorical.

“Zero.”

“Cherie, that’s not true.”

“I don’t hear my phone ringing with people lining up to help me out while I raise these tiny little pups.” As if to prove her point, Cherie opened the door, leaned down to grab the collars of three of her dogs, a trick in itself with only two hands, and motioned Jo inside.

The dogs barked, but didn’t do more than sniff once she made it into the house and closed the door. Cherie started yelling out names of her dogs like a mother does for her children.

Everything in the small home centered around the animals. Beds lay on the floor, covering the carpet underneath. A hair-covered afghan sat in a heap on one end of the sofa, multiple bowls for dog food took up space in the three-step hall from the living room to the kitchen.

Cherie let her dogs loose once she cleared the kitchen and reached the covered porch through the sliding glass doors.

Jo didn’t pretend to know the names of the dogs that swarmed her. The wagging tails and panting let her know there wasn’t a threat.

The screen to the back porch closed the adult dogs on one side, the puppies and their mother on the other.

The distinct smell of puppy overwhelmed her as they stepped into the back room.

“This is Jezebel,” Cherie introduced the mother.

Momma regarded Jo for a moment, then licked Cherie’s hand in acceptance when the woman knelt to pet one of the half dozen pups curled around Jezebel’s legs.

Jo’s heart twisted. The tiny fur balls moved around on unsteady legs, their heads too big for their bodies, their little barks as precious as any newborn’s should be.

“Tell me these aren’t the most adorable things on the planet?” Cherie asked, picking one of the pups up and cradling it in her hands.

“They’re precious,” Jo told her.

Cherie forced the puppy into Jo’s arms. Damn thing mewed, almost like a kitten, then released a bitty bark that made her smile.

“Every one of my dogs were once this tiny little thing, Jo. How do I pick which ones to keep and which ones to let go?”

Jo glanced behind her, saw the bigger versions of fur and bark. She leaned down, put the puppy back in with the rest, and thanked the mom by petting the back of her neck. “I know they’re your babies. I understand that. Even parents of children eventually move their kids along.”

Cherie opened her mouth to protest, Jo cut her off.

“I’m not happy about how all this came about. But . . .” She took a deep breath. “There is a limit of how many adult dogs one home can house before it becomes unmanageable.”

“I’m managing just fine,” she protested. “My dogs are fed, clean. My home isn’t some cast-off episode of Hoarders.”

“Dogs bark.”

“That’s their job. Especially when the pound shows up looking for trouble. And don’t even get me started with that deputy of yours. That man hates me.”

“Karl doesn’t hate you.”

Scratching at the back door of the porch caught Cherie’s attention.

She opened the access without breaking the conversation. In came two more dogs. “The man’s missing diplomacy. Marched in here acting like he owned it, telling me this is out of control.”

Jo glanced at all the eyes that were watching her. “Do they ever fight?”

Cherie looked at her like she was stupid. “Of course. They’re dogs. Sampson is the alpha, he puts everyone in their place.”

“Were they fighting when Karl came by?”

“Not fighting, just not happy. They sense danger, and Deputy Emery is that. And those people from Waterville were worse.”

Jo blew out a breath, did a quick head count of dogs. “I thought you had eight adults.” Jo counted six.

“My old-timers are in my room,” Cherie explained. “I can’t pawn them off, Jo. It’s not fair to push out the old when the babies come in.”

“When do you expect the pound to return?”

“They said three weeks.”

“All right. Three weeks. We can find homes for four of your dogs in three weeks.”

“But—”

“Cherie. I don’t like this, I don’t. But the law is very clear on kennels, breeding, and residential neighborhoods.”

“I’m not a kennel.”

Jo made a point of petting the head of the closest dog. “The law would disagree.”