He’d quit the GO-Teams, then what. All the guys’ lives depended on each man being able to do his job. He wouldn’t jeopardize any of them because of his ego, because he couldn’t let go. He could probably still be involved, maybe in training, maybe logistics, but if he wasn’t a hundred percent he wouldn’t go back out on a job.
Tricks got her tennis ball and came to stand in front of him. She put a paw on his knee, then looked at the door.
“Time for a pee break, huh? Okay, let’s go.”
She pranced to the door. She never just walked anywhere, like normal dogs. It was as if she knew how pretty she was, and that the world as Bo Maran had structured it revolved around her. “Spoiled brat,” he muttered, but then he smiled because yeah, he remembered her riding in the back of the pickup with a green bow stuck on her head, woofing like a homecoming queen—if homecoming queens woofed, that is.
They stepped outside and she dropped the ball at his feet, then took off running. Morgan bent to pick up the ball, and the muscle spasm knifed him in the back again. He cussed and groaned and gradually managed to get upright again, though sweat was running down his temples. Fuck, that hurt! It wasn’t the all-consuming pain of being shot and the following surgery, but it was sharp and paralyzing in its intensity. He wasn’t sure he could even walk right now. He took a few deep breaths, willing the pain away.
Tricks trotted back to him, an accusing expression on her face.
Bo had insisted that the dog understood most of what people said. What the hell; it was bullshit, of course, but—“Tricks, I hurt my back and I can’t bend down. If you want me to throw your ball, you’ll have to put it in my hand.”
She pounced on the ball like a cat, picked it up, and nosed it into his palm before taking off at a run again.
He stood there, stunned. No. Fucking. Way. It was a coincidence. She stopped when the ball didn’t bounce in front of her the way she liked and looked back at him. He didn’t dare try twisting his torso to throw overhand but he gave it a good underhand toss so it bounced in front of her, and she caught it on the first bounce. She stopped, posed, and he rolled his eyes even as he said, “Good girl.”
She brought the ball back and put it in his hand. He tossed it, she brought it back and put it in his hand. She did it a fourth time.
He was so astonished he forgot about his back and strolled toward the woods with her. As long as he kept his pace slow and even, as long as he didn’t twist, he was fine. He tossed the ball, and Tricks brought it back. That wasn’t coincidence; he’d never seen her do it before, she’d always dropped the ball at the feet of the person she’d chosen to honor. But she put the ball in his hand every single time after he told her what he wanted.
Eventually she got tired, stopped to pee. He was tired too, and his back was aching so he said, “Let’s go, girl,” and they headed back inside. A glance at the clock told him it was almost time for her lunch, as if her standing beside her bowls and staring at him wasn’t clue enough. In case he didn’t get the hint, she looked at the bowls, then back at him.
“Not yet. Your mom keeps you on a strict schedule.”
With a sigh, she lay down beside the bowls to wait.
Was it possible she really understood him? Bo thought so and talked to the dog as if she were indeed a four-year-old child. He wasn’t convinced, but damn, he was wavering.
He waited until Tricks’s exact lunch time before squatting to dip the proper amount of food from the container into her bowl. Squatting didn’t hurt his back, though he had a bit of difficulty in standing up again; he had to hold on to the counter top and pull himself up.
Tricks showed her appreciation with a wag of her tail and paused in her eating to bestow a lick on his knee. That was normal, he thought; dogs liked being fed.
He needed to eat, too; the council meeting was obviously running longer than Bo had thought it would, but he’d lived most of his life feeding himself. He was better; he didn’t have to have food brought to him. He slapped together a sandwich and ate it standing up. He even drank milk because it was better for him than beer. He didn’t want to drink her remaining Naked Pig beer when he didn’t know how long it would be before the next delivery.
He sat at the table to read for a while because the chair had a straighter back, and that eased the ache in his own back. After letting Tricks rest and nap, he said, “Hey Tricks, want to go outside?” Let’s see if she’d do that again, or if it had been a fluke.
Tricks retrieved her ball and went to the door, tail wagging in enthusiasm, feet dancing. They stepped out into the sunshine. She dropped the ball at his feet and took off running.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he muttered. Raising his voice he said, “Tricks!”
She stopped and looked back at him, surprised and displeased that he hadn’t thrown the ball, but she trotted back to him. Come to think of it, she had the most expressive face he’d ever seen on a dog; reading her was as easy as if she could speak.
“You have to put it in my hand,” he said because, hell, if she understood that much, she should remember what he’d said about his back—assuming she knew what a back was.
She picked up the ball, put it in his hand, and took off.
Morgan looked down at the fuzzy, dirty, much-used yellow ball. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly, and tossed it over her head so she could catch it on the first bounce and pose, waiting for his admiration.
When Bo entered the room in City Hall where the town council meetings were held, she was surprised to see that both Miss Doris and Emily were there, as well as Jesse. Then she realized she shouldn’t have been surprised because the meeting revolved around the Goodings and what meanness they might unleash on the town, which meant Emily, Jesse, and she herself were at the heart of it. She and Jesse took seats at the back of the room but didn’t have time to chat.