Rainshadow Road (Friday Harbor #2)(53)

“Call me back later. I haven’t finished talking yet.”

“Okay. Gotta go.” Hanging up quickly, Lucy called Sam’s number, straining for any glimpse of Renfield. The dog sounded like he was being butchered. She heard Sam’s voice on the phone. “Lucy.”

“Something’s going on with Renfield. He’s howling. I think he’s in the kitchen, but I’m not sure.”

“I’ll be right there.”

For the minute that it took Sam to hightail it to the house, Lucy was tortured by her inability to do anything. She called Renfield’s name, and the dog responded with a disembodied whine, the banging and snorting and howling coming closer, until finally he careened into the living room.

Somehow the dog had gotten his head stuck in a rusty cylinder that defied his efforts to shake it free. He was so frantic and miserable that Lucy pushed aside her ice packs and began to calculate how she could reach him without putting any weight on her splinted leg.

“Don’t even think about moving off that sofa,” Sam said as he strode into the living room. Amused exasperation filled his voice. “Renfield, how the hell did you get into that?”

“What is it?” Lucy asked anxiously.

“A smudge pot liner.” Sam knelt on the floor and grabbed for the dog, who jerked and whimpered. “Easy, boy. Sit. Sit.” He pinned the stocky, wriggling body to the floor and began to pry the metallic tube off his head.

“What’s a smudge pot?”

“They used to burn kerosene in them to keep orchards warm when a frost was settling in.”

Renfield’s head was covered with black soot and grime that accentuated the folds and wrinkles of his face. The dog lunged at Sam in a frenzy of gratitude.

“Easy, boy. Calm down.” Sam petted and stroked the dog, trying to soothe him. “He must have gotten out the back door somehow. There’s a junk pile we haven’t gotten around to hauling off yet. All kinds of trouble for him to get into.”

Lucy nodded, mesmerized by the sight of a shirtless Sam, his sun-burnished muscles gleaming with perspiration.

“I’ll wash him outside,” Sam said, scowling at the soot-covered bulldog. “If I’d had any say, I’d have gotten a nice golden or a Lab … a useful dog that would’ve chased pests out of the vineyard.”

“You didn’t choose Renfield for yourself?”

“Hell, no. He was a rescue case that Maggie was trying to pawn off on someone. And Mark had fallen so hard for her, he volunteered to take him.”

“I think that’s sweet.”

Sam lifted his gaze heavenward. “Mark was a patsy for taking him. This dog doesn’t do tricks. He can’t keep up during a brisk walk. His vet bills rival the national debt, and he lies around the house in the places most guaranteed to pose a tripping hazard.” But as he spoke, his hands were gentle on the dog’s fur, smoothing his back, scratching his neck. Renfield closed his eyes and wheezed happily. “Come on, idiot. Let’s go out the back way.” Sam picked up the smudge pot liner and rose to his feet. He glanced at Lucy. “You’ll be okay while I wash him?”

With an effort, Lucy tore her gaze from his half-clad form and switched on her electronic tablet. “Yes, I have everything I need.”

“What are you reading?”

“A biography of Thomas Jefferson.”

“I like Jefferson. He was a big patron of viticulture.”

“Did he have a vineyard?”

“Yes, at Monticello. But he was more of an experimenter than a serious grape grower. He was trying to grow European vines—vinifera—which produced amazing wine in places like France or Italy. But the vinifera couldn’t handle the weather, disease, and pests in the New World.”

Clearly he was a man who loved what he did. To understand him fully, Lucy thought, you would have to learn about his work, why it meant so much to him, what the challenges were. “I wish I could walk through the vineyard with you,” she said wistfully. “It looks beautiful from here.”

“Tomorrow I’ll take you outside to see something special.”

“What is it?”

“A mysterious vine.”

Lucy regarded him with a perplexed smile. “What makes it mysterious?”

“I found it on the property a couple of years ago, growing on an easement that was about to be plowed up for a road project. Transplanting a vine that size and age was a tricky proposition. So I asked Kevin to help me with it. We used tree spades to get as much of the root-ball as possible, and we moved it to the vineyard. It survived the transplant, but I’m still working to get it healthy.”

“What kind of grapes does it produce?”

“That’s the interesting part. I’ve got a guy at the WSU land grant working on identifying it, and so far he hasn’t been able to come up with anything. We’ve sent samples and pictures to a couple of ampelography experts in Washington and California—it’s not on record. Most likely it’s a wild hybrid that happened from natural cross-pollination.”

“Is that rare?”

“Very.”

“Do you think it will make a good wine?”

“Probably not,” he said, and laughed.

“Then why have you gone to so much trouble?”