Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,1
through him, and once again he furrowed his brow. Come to think of it, the playful pup was uncharacteristically quiet.
“Do you know where he is?” He kept his tone casual.
Her gaze slid toward the back door.
Uh-oh.
“Molly, sweetie”—he dropped back to the balls of his feet—“did you let him out?”
She dipped her chin and wiggled her toes. “He wanted to go.”
Great.
With his luck, the dog would come back covered in mud and dragging another gangly plant, as he’d done yesterday.
“We talked about this, remember? Toby has to stay in the house unless we’re with him. He could get hurt if he runs around by himself.”
The finger went back in her mouth.
His stomach clenched.
Again.
He was so not cut out to be a single parent.
“I’ll tell you what. After you get your shoes, we’ll look for him together, okay?”
Unless the dog responded to his summons, eliminating the need for a search party.
Like that would happen.
“’Kay.” The soft word found its way around the finger that didn’t budge.
She retreated down the hall, trailing the bedraggled blanket behind her.
As she disappeared, Logan moved to the back door and called Toby.
No response.
Of course not.
That would be too easy.
Shaking his head, he shut the door, dampened a fistful of paper towels, and dropped to his hands and knees to scrub at the stubborn egg whites clinging to the tile.
They were stuck as fast as the glue he’d used in the ER to close minor lacerations.
In fact, stuck pretty much described the situation he’d found himself in four months ago.
But he’d made a promise—and he’d honor it.
Whatever it took.
Aha.
She’d found her culprit.
Yanking off her garden gloves, Jeannette Mason kept tabs on the dog intent on digging up yet another one of her flourishing lavender plants.
The plants she’d nurtured from tiny starts, potting and watering them with TLC until they were sturdy enough to be tucked into the beds she’d painstakingly prepared.
Based on the pup’s location, the lavender now under siege was a Super French.
Lips clamped together, she tossed her gloves on the workbench in the drying and equipment shed and stormed toward the door.
Enough was enough.
If that dog kept uprooting her stock, Bayview Lavender Farm would be out of business less than three years after she’d opened her doors.
And that was not happening.
She’d invested too much effort in this place to let anyone—or anything—jeopardize it.
Snatching a long-handled trowel from the tool rack as she passed, she charged out into the light rain falling from the leaden sky. She should have grabbed her coat too. Now that the sun had disappeared, it was cooler than usual for mid-April.
But coastal Oregon weather could be capricious in any season—a lesson she should have learned long ago.
Brandishing the gardening implement, she sprinted toward the tri-colored dog, weaving through the symmetrical beds.
“Hey!” She waved the trowel in the air. “Get out of there!”
The pup lifted his dirt-covered snout. Started to wag his tail. Reconsidered the scowling woman racing toward him with weapon in hand and skedaddled toward the tall hedge that separated her farm from the adjacent property.
Within seconds, the white tip of his tail disappeared as he wriggled through the dense greenery.
Huffing out a breath, Jeannette gave up the chase. The dog was gone—for now. Her time would be better spent repairing whatever destruction her unwanted visitor had wrought.
She continued to the bed, muttering as she surveyed the damage. Two of the plants had been uprooted, and the pesky beagle had started in on a third.
This was as bad as the last attack—except he hadn’t absconded with one of her plants this go-round.
Gritting her teeth, she stalked back to the shed to retrieve a shovel. The ripped-up plants had to be her top priority.
But once they were back into their beds and watered, she was going to march next door and have a little chat with her new neighbors.
Shovel in hand, she retraced her steps to the pillaged bed, casting a dark look toward the hedge that hid the small house on the adjacent property.
She should have inquired about buying that lot too, when she’d purchased this one.
But the three acres she’d bought were already more than her plants and tearoom required. An acre or two would have sufficed.
However . . . none of the other parcels of land she’d viewed had had a path at the rear of the property that led to the dunes, which provided access to the vast beach and deep cobalt sea of Driftwood Bay. Plus, the microclimate in this particular sheltered spot was perfect for lavender.