A Dog Named Nate Read online

  A rescue dog unleashes romance in this classic uplifting novella from RITA® Award–winning author Inglath Cooper.

  When Tanner Morgan’s car breaks down in a small town, she’s in no hurry to get back to her real life. At 39, divorced and staggering under a case of career burnout, Tanner’s ready for a change. She’s always wanted to make a difference, so she enlists the help of Gabe Traynor, a handsome chivalrous doctor, to save an injured stray dog. Can their empathy and honesty lead to romance?

  Originally published in 2006.

  A Dog Named Nate

  Inglath Cooper

  CONTENTS

  Intro

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  INTRO

  At 39, divorced and staggering under a case of career burnout, Tanner Morgan has no idea her life is about to change forever thanks to a handsome stranger and a stray dog.…

  CHAPTER 1

  I’ve never been one to believe in coincidence. That type of thinking has never worked for me. Maybe it goes hand in hand with my Type-A-must-always-be-in-control personality. It’s my nature to believe there’s a reason for everything, that each piece of the cosmic puzzle is put in place for a specific purpose.

  Three months down the road and looking back, I understand things now about myself I was otherwise blind to at the beginning of this story I’m about to tell. I think most of us can be accused of looking at ourselves through rose-colored glasses, and I am certainly no exception. I wonder, really, if anyone ever gets around to taking off those glasses and standing in front of a full-length mirror, clothes optional, all excuses and justifications checked at the front door?

  At 39, divorced and staggering under a case of career burnout, I’d built myself four solid walls of both. As a prosecuting attorney for the District of Columbia, I lived waist deep in a cesspool of drug dealers, addicts and the never-ending circle of lives that collapse in their wake. For anyone who asked, I carried with me a portfolio of rationalizations as to why I charged from one drug case to the next—refusing to let up with my water hose of good intentions until I was sure I had quelled every spark, only to have a larger fire break out down the block in the form of a newly appointed dope lord.

  Until one day I just hit a wall.

  I was in Florida when it happened, meeting with a group of attorneys hovering around a scumbag I knew to be directly responsible for the demolition of hundreds of teenage lives in D.C. These lawyers were the best of the best, Ivy League grads pulling in annual incomes that made mine, by comparison, a paltry joke.

  Maybe it was the look in the defendant’s eyes that did it. I’d seen it countless times before, the glint of confidence that comes with knowing you have what it takes to shake the system in your favor, no matter how many piss-ant prosecutors are glued to your tail.

  And that was me. That was the person I saw reflected in the eyes of that lowlife. A piss-ant prosecutor whose fire hose had weakened to a drip. I realized that day that even if I spent the rest of my life running from one blaze to the next, eventually, it was all going to burn anyway. That whatever good I managed to put back into the world would just be smashed to pieces by someone else’s much larger stick of evil.

  And there was always a larger stick.

  I left that office without finishing what I’d gone there to do. I took a taxi to the airport, but instead of waiting for the flight I’d booked a seat on later that afternoon, I rented a car and started driving North.

  * * *

  I didn’t bother with a map, covering several hundred miles of interstate under the deluge of a not unimpressive pity-party for one. How was it possible to forge an existence from a set of beliefs so much a part of you that you never questioned their validity? How was it possible to just wake up one day in front of a wall you’d never imagined hitting and absolutely unable, or maybe unwilling, to look for a way around it?

  The road in front of me seemed to have no end to it, as if maybe there would eventually be a ledge somewhere far ahead that blurred into oblivion.

  It’s scary now to think where I might have ended up that day if it hadn’t been for a busted water hose and a dog named Nate.

  CHAPTER 2

  Steam seeps from the hood’s edges and forms a quick cloud above the car. An angry hissing sound is next, and it seems a crowning cherry for this day that I should end up with a brand-new rental only to have it break down in the middle of what looks like nowhere.

  I’d opted for a smaller road than the I-95 route that runs a bullet path from Florida to D.C. A meandering waltz back home seemed fitting in light of the fact that I’d just walked away from a career that once meant everything to me.

  My gray power suit has wilted beneath the heat of a summer day, and to say I’m unprepared for car trouble is an understatement. I walk around to the trunk, dial 411 for info and locate a garage. They’ll have someone out in thirty minutes or less. Meanwhile, I have to find a ladies room.

  Cars whiz by the gravel road on which I’ve managed to pull over. Drivers crane their necks in my direction, but so far none have stopped. I’m glad. I’d rather wait for the tow truck than risk some perv thinking he’s found himself a sitting duck.

  I’m considering my options when a dark blue Navigator pulls off the highway in front of my car. The vehicle’s emergency lights begin to flash. A tall man jumps out of the driver’s side and walks toward me, his stride long and purposeful, as if he has someplace else to be and really doesn’t have time to stop.

  My heart starts pounding too hard, and I catch a glimpse of dark hair beneath a baseball cap and what looks like a couple days worth of five o’clock shadow. He’s wearing blue jeans and a slightly rumpled short-sleeve shirt. He looks like someone who just pulled an all-nighter, his expression one of a resigned willingness to offer help, as if he wishes he’d pulled a horse of another color from the barn today.

  “You need some help?” he asks, stopping near the front bumper of my car.

  His voice is what strikes me next. It’s deep and to the point. No time for frilly conversation here. “I’ve called a tow truck. It should be here soon.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe a hose.”

  “Would you like for me to wait with you?”

  * * *

  I’m a little shocked by his chivalry. Okay, more than a little. A lot. I can’t even remember the last time I ran into a man for whom such a show of manners didn’t have another purpose behind it. But then who’s to say this man is any different? “I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, thanks.” I notice his blue eyes then, the dark lashes fringing them. Despite his in-a-hurry demeanor, there’s compassion there, as if it’s a part of himself he has no control over. I think of the times I’ve stared at myself in the mirror lately, only to glance away from what I no longer see there. A woman once driven by empathy for families who had suffered what my own had suffered.

  Somewhere along the way, empathy became something much more like greed, fueled by a need to take down as many of the bad guys as I could. With a flash of insight, it’s suddenly clear that at some point it became about me and not about them.

  CHAPTER 3

  A beeper sounds, and the man pulls the blinking rectang
le from the side of his jeans, glancing at the number. “I’ve got to take this,” he says.

  “Oh, sure,” I say, waving him on. “I’m fine, really. Thanks for stopping.”

  He starts to say something, then shakes his head, backs up a step and gets in the truck. He raises a hand and waves once.

  I watch him drive away, wondering why it feels like an opportunity lost.

  I glance around and only now notice a small square sign just off the shoulder. Armand County, GA Animal Shelter. 1/4 mile. M-F 8-5.

  I glance at my watch. Four forty-five. It’s either hurry, or make use of the woods just up the hill. I decide to try for the actual restroom, hit the remote lock on the car and take off as fast as my two-inch pumps will allow.

  By the time I reach the long building at the end of the gravel road, I’m getting a blister on one heel, and my white cotton blouse is sticking to the center of my back.

  The place is sad-looking to say the least. There are no windows, and the concrete block exterior has never been painted. I can hear dogs barking from inside, and I’m suddenly not sure I want to go in there.

  But I’m less sure I can make it to the woods now, so I walk to the door and turn the knob only to find it locked. I knock once, then a little harder.

  The door opens, and a man in a uniform of brown pants and a tan shirt stares out at me. He’s so tall I have to tip my head back to look up at him.

  “We’re closing up, ma’am,” he says.

  “My car broke down by the main road, and I’m waiting on a tow truck,” I say, trying to find a smile. “May I please use your restroom? I’ll just be a minute.”

  * * *

  He considers this as if I’ve just asked him to start his day all over again and the possibility is beyond bearing. With a sigh heavy enough to conjure guilt, he finally steps back and waves me in. “The one up here is broke. You’ll have to use the one in the back. Follow me.”

  We walk through a metal door into the shelter’s kennel. Chain-link cages line the walls on either side, some empty, the others containing single dogs. At the sight of us, they all begin to bark, tails wagging in instant happiness, as if convinced I’ve arrived to spring them.

  CHAPTER 4

  I am reminded of the countless times I’ve walked through jails and prisons, some of the faces staring back at me flat with acceptance, others hardened with defiance.

  These faces are different, though. Some lit with joyful confidence. Some with the kind of hesitant hope that splits a crack down the center of my heart. And there’s another difference, too. Most of these dogs probably never did anything to warrant ending up in such a place.

  I force myself to look straight ahead, wishing now that I had opted for the woods. I follow my reluctant tour guide to the end of the aisle where he waves a hand at a door marked TOIL, the last two letters having fallen off at some point.

  I thank him, go inside and close the door. Both sink and toilet look as if they’d last been cleaned prior to the turn of the current century, and the room smells distinctly of stale urine. I hurry, wash my hands under icy water without the benefit of soap and step back into the aisle.

  Directly across from the bathroom, a large black dog lies on the concrete floor of a kennel.

  He raises his head, looks at me, then makes a sound that is something between a sigh and a moan. I walk over to the cage door and stand for a moment, finally seeing the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. “Hey,” I say. “Are you all right?”

  For a few seconds, he doesn’t respond, but then lifts his head again and gets to his feet. This time, he makes an awful whimpering sound, and he holds his left front leg off the floor. The light here is dim, but I can see that a bone juts out midway down at an odd angle.

  I squat on my heels, one hand on the wire door. He hops closer, sniffs my fingers, then sits, still holding the leg out. He’s an old dog, his muzzle gray against his black coat. His eyes have the limpid look of age. And he’s thin. Actually, emaciated is more accurate. His coat is long, but now that my eyes have adjusted to the dimness, I can see his sunken sides behind his rib cage. His whimpering is soft now. I wonder how long he’s been like this, why no one has treated him.

  The tip of his tail moves back and forth in a weak question mark. “I’m sorry, fella,” I say, touching my fingers to his nose through the door.

  As if sensing my inability to do anything for him, he lies back down and doesn’t look at me again. I think of a little girl whose mother I’d sent to prison for selling cocaine, the plea in her eyes leaving me with the same feeling of inadequacy I’m feeling now.

  All over again, I’m reminded of my own failures and that this is just another example of one person not being able to change the world. Certainly, not me.

  CHAPTER 5

  I stand up too quickly, an old running injury pulling in my knee. I take a step back, then turn and walk as fast as I can down the aisle without looking at the other dogs.

  Back at the front desk, Mr. Personality glances up, his lunch box and water cooler stacked on top of a magazine, ready to go.

  “The black dog in the last run,” I say, my voice clipped and to the point. “He’s hurt, isn’t he?”

  “We picked him up this morning,” the man says.

  “What happened to him?” I ask.

  “Looks like maybe he caught the side of a boot.”

  My stomach lifts, a wave of nausea settling in its wake. I find it impossible to believe that there are living, breathing people who perpetrate this kind of cruelty with little more than a blink. But then I don’t know why I’m shocked. I’ve dealt with that kind of person hundreds of times before. Evil is evil. Regardless of the venue.

  “Has a vet seen him?”

  The man shakes his head, glancing at his watch. “Vet’s out of town. He won’t be back ’til Friday.”

  “But it’s Tuesday.”

  This gets me a weary look. “Lady, we got one vet in town. I can’t exactly snap my fingers and make one appear.”

  “Surely, there’s something —”

  “We’re closing, ma’am,” he says abruptly.

  Judging from the set of his jaw, I’ve clearly crossed his last line of patience. “Could I take him somewhere to be treated then?” The question is out before the thought has processed fully, and I instantly wonder what I am thinking.

  “The dog has to remain in quarantine until the fifteenth. You can adopt him then, if you’d like.”

  “And what is he supposed to do until then? His leg looks as if it’s broken. He must be in awful pain.”

  “We’ll get Doc out here soon as he’s back.”

  I have no idea how to respond to any of this, but a too-familiar feeling of helplessness settles in the center of my chest.

  It’s a feeling I’ve grown to hate; a feeling I’d never imagined as a young attorney fresh out of law school. I’d once been fueled with the kind of determination that won cases and put dealers behind bars for enough years that they were no threat to the current drug economy. From the beginning, my fight had been personal.

  * * *

  At seventeen, I lost a fourteen-year-old brother to a first-time experiment with cocaine. He’d been given a revved-up version of somebody’s intent to addict a string of kids from a good school, smart kids with the potential to bring in a new pool of potential addicts.

  Standing over Randy’s grave on a bone-chilling February day, I had vowed to make what happened to him count for something. He’d been a good kid, straight A’s, ambitions of going to Harvard and becoming a medical research scientist. The thing I could never accept was that a life of such bright possibility and potential to leave good in this world could be extinguished by someone’s casually meted out evil. And that, sometimes, there is absolutely nothing we can do to change it.

  Now I realize there’s a lot in this world that I can’t change. This staggering feeling of hopelessness is the same sensation that chased me out of Florida earlier today. I can’t put myself
in the middle of something I have no chance of making a difference in. That’s a road I’ve been driving for a long time. What kind of sense would it make to get back on when I just got off?

  CHAPTER 6

  I thank the man, although I’m not sure what for—perhaps the stinky bathroom or the boulder of sadness now sitting on my chest—and quickly leave the building. The walk back up the road to my car seems to take no time, maybe because I’m so anxious to put distance between myself and that place.

  The tow truck has arrived. A young man named Walt with red hair and a slew of freckles hooks up my car and drives me into town. He talks along the way, pleasant enough conversation, but I’m distracted with my own thoughts of that poor dog and how it can be that there is no one who can do anything for him.

  At the garage, I call the car rental company and explain what has happened. I ask for a new vehicle only to be told they don’t have an office anywhere near here. It will be tomorrow before they can get me something new. Walt tells me they’ll take a look at the current one and see if it’s anything they can fix. Meanwhile, he recommends I try the café across the street. He’ll come get me in a little while.

  The Willow Tree Café appears to be popular, judging from the number of cars parked at the side and along the curb in front. A couple spots back is a blue Navigator, and my pulse picks up a beat or two at the thought that I might run into the man who’d stopped to help me earlier.

  Inside, the lighting is dim, and I blink into focus a waitress with white hair and a nice smile who directs me to a table in a corner of the front room. She tells me about the specials and promises to be right back with my iced tea.

  I spot him near a door to what looks like the kitchen, chatting with a woman somewhere near my age who laughs at something he’s said and gives him a playful thwack on the arm that has flirtation written all over it. I wonder if this is a girlfriend.

  He backs up, laughs, (a very nice laugh, by the way), walks past my table, then stops and turns around. “Hey,” he says, looking surprised to see me. “You got your car running.”