To Sketch a Thief by Sharon Pape Read Free Book Online Page B

she’d learned to pick her battles, and that one simply wasn’t worth fighting.
    “Yesterday must have been awful for him,” she said instead. “I wish there was some way to explain it all so that he could understand.”
    “Animals get death better than you think,” Zeke said. “Whys and hows don’t matter to them ‘cause they can’t change what is. People are the ones who need to dress it all up with rules and ceremonies.”
    “Look who’s the pet psychologist,” Rory said, leaning back against the counter.
    “That there’s just one of those newfangled words you like so much. Say what you like, but I’ve owned my share of dogs and horses and I know what I know,” Zeke said. “Animals adapt fine to just about anything.”
    Hobo chose that moment to come racing down the stairs, his nails clicking like an old typewriter on the hardwood. Zeke’s experience notwithstanding, Rory was pretty sure the dog had panicked when he awoke and didn’t see her there. It was perfectly reasonable to assume that he was afraid of losing a second master and caretaker in less than twenty-four hours.
    A moment later Hobo careened into the kitchen, lost traction on the ceramic tile and wound up running in place like a cartoon character. Coffee sloshed out of Rory’s cup and onto her bathrobe as she flattened herself against the counter to get out of his way. Zeke burst into a hearty laugh that spooked Hobo into losing his balance and executing a belly flop. All four legs splayed, he slid across the room and crashed into the back door.
    Rory set her mug on the counter and went over to try to help him to his feet. But at ninety pounds he was pretty much on his own. After a few abortive attempts, he managed to pull himself upright. He gave Rory’s face an appreciative lick, while keeping a wary eye on his nemesis at the table.
    When the marshal made no threatening moves in his direction, Hobo risked turning his back on him. He looked pointedly at the door and woofed. He couldn’t have been any clearer if he’d actually spoken his request, and it occurred to Rory that it was easier to communicate with the dog than with the marshal. She unlocked the door and let Hobo outside, glad that Mac had had the backyard fenced for the Labrador retriever he’d intended to buy before death changed all of his plans.
    She watched Hobo make a spirited but clumsy dash for a squirrel, who scampered up an oak tree to safety. Pleased to have secured the yard from trespassers, he went on about the business of spreading his scent and asserting his claim to the property.
    “You can’t be serious about keepin’ that dog,” Zeke grumbled, the amusement gone from his voice.
    Rory turned away from the door. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said. When she was growing up her mother would tell her to sleep on a difficult decision, as if the right answer would be magically apparent by morning. But somehow Rory had never developed the knack. Last night had been no different. She’d fallen asleep as soon as she’d crawled into bed and if she had reached a decision while she slept, it had vanished along with her dreams when the phone rang.
    She went to the sink, wet a paper towel and wiped ineffectively at the coffee stains on her robe while she thought about what to say next.
    “I think a trial period, maybe a month or so, would be the fair thing to do,” she said finally and with as much authority as she could muster, given that the idea had just occurred to her. She wasn’t even sure if it qualified as a decision or just procrastination. She balled up the paper towel and tossed it into the garbage can under the sink.
    “Fair to who?” Zeke asked sourly. “Did you ever think that maybe being around me is traumatic to old Hobo there? Maybe you’re not being fair to him .”
    Rory didn’t have an immediate answer for that. She’d been so focused on Zeke’s objections that she hadn’t thought much about what Hobo’s objections might