“Where do they stay?”
“Foster homes. We have a wonderful network of foster parent volunteers who support our primary mission.”
“Which is?”
“To place every dog in a loving forever home.”
An old dog waddled over and put her paw on Luke’s shin. Awkwardly, he gave her a couple of head pats.
“Our secondary mission,” she continued, “is to stop the needless killing of animals. We do everything we can to keep them out of the pound. We offer a food pantry for owners struggling to afford the cost of dog food. We also organize spay and neutering clinics.” Harry and the old dog laid down near their feet. Finley straightened, rattling off statistics about how many dogs and cats were euthanized each year.
Luke crossed his arms. Expressionless, he watched her cheeks turn pink as she got riled up about her topic. She moved her hands to underscore what she was saying. Clearly, it made her furious that senior, special needs, shy, stray, and aggressive animals didn’t stand a chance at the pound.
“We rescue as many as we can off death row.”
He’d always thought bleeding-heart animal activists were eccentric, and Finley was proving him right. She was odd. Probably entitled, if her dad had handed her everything in life. Soft. Idealistic and naïve. A dreamer.
She finally paused long enough to take a deep breath. “Do you have any questions about our mission?”
“No.”
“Well, when questions occur to you, feel free to ask.” She met his eyes. “My dad really wanted you to work here while you’re getting back on your feet. It’s fulfilling to see his plan come to fruition.”
He didn’t tell her that he didn’t need this job to get back on his feet. He had both plenty of money and plenty of direction. “How much do you know about my friendship with your dad?”
“He talked about you a lot, so I know quite a bit. I know that you arrived at the penitentiary not long after he did.”
“Right.”
“How long had he been there when you got there? A year or so?”
He inclined his chin.
“Dad’s fellow inmates knew that I lived in Misty River. So they told Dad you were from here. He made a point of introducing himself to you and liked you from the start.”
“He was a good man.”
“Yes he was.” Above, the clouds shifted. The first sunbeams of the day moved across the yard, sparkling against her rings. “Last summer, he told me that you’d be coming up for parole in the fall. He knew that you’d gotten a bachelor’s degree and master’s degree in computer science while in prison. He also knew that Furry Tails was in the market for a new website. You see, we need a more sophisticated way of matching available animals with people looking for certain criteria in a dog. We want to sell merchandise from our site. We want a platform for online fundraisers. We could really use more effective SEO, newsletters, ads, and social media. In my dad’s eyes, you’re a tech genius.”
“Your dad was over eighty. I think he viewed everyone my age as a tech genius.”
“No. He was hard to impress. If he thought someone was a genius in an area, he or she probably is a genius.”
He grunted.
The small dog with three legs stopped and gave Finley begging eyes. She scooped it into her arms. “Are we agreed that you’re enough of a genius to handle Furry Tails’ tech needs?”
“We’re agreed.”
“Excellent.” Carrying the dog, she led him back inside. After she pushed open the door marked Offices with her foot, they walked into a room with three desks on one side, facing windows. An island with storage below and a worktop above was positioned at the center of the space. A printer, copier, fax machine, water cooler, coffee bar, and mini fridge filled the wall across from the desks.
“This is our central work area. And this desk will be yours.” Supporting the dog with one hand, she indicated the desk farthest from the hallway with the other. “Do you have a computer, or do you need me to supply one?”
“I brought my own desktop computer. It’s in my truck.”
“Perfect. These two desks belong to Kat and Trish. They’re working today, but not in the office. They’re out doing home visits for prospective adoptive parents.”
Home visits? Was the bar to adopt a one-eyed dog high? He couldn’t imagine how she found homes for any of these animals.
“Kat handles adoptive parent training, volunteer committees, grants, the spay and neuter clinics, and all the paperwork and financials. Trish is the liaison for veterinary care, fundraisers, and the pet food pantry.”
“And what do you do?”
“I communicate with everyone who reaches out to us, which takes quite a bit of my time. I get more than a hundred daily emails and phone calls. I speak at events. Meet with donors. Stay in contact with the county pound. We all split the care and training of the animals.”
“You said I was the fifth employee. Who’s the fourth?”
“Akira, who runs our after-school program.” The dog with three legs sneezed. “I’m anticipating that you’ll spend most of your time at the computer. The rest with the animals.”
“I’m not experienced with animals.”
“Not a problem.”
Maybe not for her.
“We’ll teach you everything you need to know,” she said. A door at the end of the work area led to a smaller room. “This is my office. Please, have a seat.”
She’d painted the walls dark turquoise. Her shag rug seemed like a weird choice for a building that included dogs who might not be house-trained. More cacti were grouped on her lucite desk next to a lamp, a mug, and an alabaster statue of a pug.
They sat.
It was hard to take her seriously while a dog was draped across her lap like a blanket.
“You make that chair look small and uncomfortable,” she said, obviously amused.
“That’s because it’s both.” Her chair was large and yellow. His was little and patterned, with shiny metal arm rests.
“It’s neither,” she countered warmly. “I think it’s just that you’re large and predisposed to discomfort.”
He held her gaze but didn’t reply.
Finley did not subscribe to stereotypes.
That didn’t mean that she failed to note the characteristics of the people she met. She did note them. She just refrained from sticking people into boxes based on those characteristics.
She’d grown up running free across her father’s acres. Barefoot. With a tangle of hair flying behind her and a pack of animals dancing at her heels. It hadn’t been a conventional childhood, and she viewed herself as open-minded.
So, despite the fact that Luke Dempsey fit neatly into a box marked Ex-Con, she steadfastly refused to place him there.
His barricaded hazel eyes were thrown into prominence by his light tan. He had a regal nose that would have suited a nineteenth-century Italian prince. His lips formed a straight, serious line. Thick scruff covered the lean angles of cheekbones and jaw. His hair was a beautiful shade of dark brown. He’d cut it in a masculine style that had grown out so much that some of the strands were almost long enough to catch in his eyelashes. He wore a gray hoodie beneath a black leather jacket. His black jeans ended at lace-up boots.