Dammit, I don’t have time for a dog, let alone a fighting dog.
The mud-covered fur appeared to be long—a mix of reddish brown and black. Bleeding from a couple of bites, the dog whined at Bull, appearing more bewildered than vicious. Hell.
Bull went down on one knee and held his hand out, speaking slow and low. “I don’t know much about the Bernese part, but shepherds are good working dogs. You want to come interview for a job at the Hermitage? We’ve got chickens and a kid you can guard. You’d have to set up a truce with the cat.”
At Bull’s quiet words, the dog’s ears perked up, and its bedraggled tail moved back and forth tentatively.
“Then again, the shape you’re in, the cat might win a fight,” Bull murmured as the dog rose and took a few steps forward. The black fur over his back and sides didn’t hide sunken flanks. Bull spotted a dick. No balls.
The dumbass owner had thought to fight a neutered dog?
“You’ll be better off with us,” he said. “Guess a name for you might help.”
The dog inched closer.
“My niece, she’s into those Harry Potter stories. Named her cat Sirius.” Bull reached out slowly. The dog’s thick fur was patterned like a shepherd. Black over his back and tail, dark muzzle and ears, russet around the eyes, cheeks, ruff, and legs. A white blotch of fur marked the center of his chest.
After a second, the dog wagged his tail, bowing his head so Bull could ruffle the soft flopped-over ears. “How about we name you something Potterish to get Regan on our side. Maybe Gryffindor—and call you Gryff for short. If Regan pushes for you to stay, Caz and JJ won’t argue—not that Caz would anyway. Audrey has a soft heart, so Gabe will be in.”
It was amazing how the Hermitage had gone from being just Mako’s sons to adding in women and even a kid.
“Now Hawk, he might be a trickier sell on the surface, but if you whine and show him your injuries, he’ll go belly-up. He knows what it’s like to get beat up.”
A black nose lifted to sniff Bull’s neck. A quick lick told him he had himself a dog. Not what he needed in the least.
Ah, well. At least he got to punch some assholes.
Standing in the slush-filled parking lot on Friday, Frankie unhappily studied the restaurant-bar in front of her. It was a massive building made of logs with a sign on the front: Bull’s Moose Roadhouse. Thankfully, there was a HELP WANTED sign in a front window.
This was her last chance to get a job.
Over the last day, she’d worked on the items on her to-do list: Gather information, secure a place to stay, and find work.
The information gathering would be an ongoing and long process. With her first attempt, the postmistress and other store owners had been easy to lead into gossiping about the Patriot Zealots, commonly called PZs. It seemed that the men from the compound showed up in Rescue often enough. The women didn’t get out much except for shopping at the grocery store—with male escorts. The women weren’t allowed to drive, and the children didn’t attend public school.
Anger burned in Frankie’s stomach at the thought of little Aric being subjected to the fanatics. Damned if she’d let that continue.
List item two was easily achieved. Dante, the grocery store owner, had several lakeside cabins he rented to fishermen, but the season hadn’t started yet. She questioned her sanity about living in a rustic log cabin, but Dante’d assured her that the Chicago woman he’d rented to last year had loved the place.
Frankie shook her head. Whenever one of the locals looked at her, she knew they were thinking city girl.
At least she’d managed to avoid a thick New York accent. Growing up with a Norwegian mother and Italian father, being around models from everywhere had helped. If anything, she sounded Italian, thanks to spending summers in Italy with her grandmother—and imitating Nonna. Having discarded her own Norwegian language like last year’s apparel, Mama didn’t approve.
Papà had laughed and taught her new swear words.
Her mother would be even more appalled about Frankie applying for a job in a bar. However, waitressing was something Frankie knew how to do. Thank you, Kit. When Kit first arrived at college and started work in a restaurant, the quiet, shy eighteen-year-old had been overwhelmed. So, Frankie’d gotten a job at the same place, thinking she’d work there long enough for Kit to relax. Even after Kit grew comfortable with the restaurant, Frankie remained—because she’d loved it. Loved everything from washing dishes, bussing tables, waitressing and hostessing, to working in the kitchen on the line. She’d even graduated to being one of the chefs, now and then. A restaurant was a totally different atmosphere than her mama’s image-happy modeling company.
Frankie shook her head, wistfully longing for a return to those years and the wonder of learning and exploring new ideas. The drunken nights where they’d sit in the dorm hallways and debate politics. The camaraderie of working in a restaurant. The joy of having friends who liked the same things she did, who saw who she really was—and liked her that way.
Those years were long past.
She eyed the roadhouse and was quite sure that working in a restaurant now wouldn’t be nearly as fun as when she was a college student.
But she wasn’t here for fun now, was she? This place would serve her purpose, since the postmistress said the PZs were often at the bar.
Time to hit the runway and walk the walk. Pulling in a fortifying breath, she crossed the lot, pulled open the door, and stepped inside.
The place was nicer than it appeared from outside, and she was glad she’d worn nice black slacks and her favorite royal blue sweater.
The restaurant and bar were spotless, and the air held the tempting aroma of grilled meat. With golden-stained log walls and wagon wheel chandeliers, the rooms held an Alaskan hunting-lodge ambiance. The nightclub took up about half of the right side of the building with a glossy, wooden bar along the back and distressed-wood tables and chairs in the center. Mounted on the log walls were huge antlers interspersed with wild animal photos.
Although only mid-afternoon, there were a couple of guys at the bar, and a few people seated in the restaurant.
Frankie stopped at the hostess station and waited for someone to notice her arrival.
“Oh, hey.” A slim, young man in a pink button-up shirt walked over. His nametag said Felix. “Bar or restaurant?”
“Actually, I saw the help wanted sign in the window.”
His face lit up. “Awesomeness. We’re already short-handed. The ski season might be ending, but the summer tourist season will be kicking in soon. Help we need.”
She smiled. “Perfect. Do you have an application or—”
“Wylie can talk with you now.” Felix motioned her into the room. “He’s a good guy. Maybe a bit grumpy today. Night owls hate working lunch shifts. Given the choice, I don’t think he’d get up until mid-afternoon.”
Great. An interview with a grumpy guy. Ah, well, this Wylie couldn’t be worse than diva models, screaming photographers, and irritable event organizers.
A few minutes later, she sat across from the middle-aged chef being interviewed. Thankfully, she’d already worked out her evasions about why she was in Rescue and could answer the question he’d asked.
“It’s one of those things. I’ve only lived in cities”—true enough except for her summers in rural Italy—“and I want to try something different for a while.” If she was here for reasons other than rescuing Kit, she would’ve been delighted to visit Alaska. And meeting new people was always wonderful.