Make Me Forget (Make Me, #1)(12)

“Where are we?” she wondered when she heard the snick of a lock releasing.

“The doghouse.”

He took her hand again and drew her over the threshold. Harper was aware of a scurrying sound and some barks. Latimer flipped on a light.

“Oh, shit.”

A dozen or more canines were in various stages of racing to the door to greet them. Flopping ears, bounding paws, gleaming coats of various colors, and wagging tails abounded. She recognized Charger at the forefront of the onslaught, galloping toward them with a fury. Harper’s heart lunged in a prequel to panic. She was sure she was going to be knocked over by Charger’s weight, but Latimer put out his hand, palm down, and not only Charger, but the rest of the dogs, pulled up short, jumping and prancing around them, yelping and barking. Not one of them touched her or Latimer. Her heart still pounded in surprised alarm, but then she noticed something that distracted her.

“Oh no,” she said.

A black puppy had stumbled amidst the stampede and struggled to get up. She waded through the canine sea, forgetting her momentary fear. She knelt, righting the puppy on his feet. Not four feet.

Three.

“What happened to him?” Despite the lack of one paw, the puppy seemed healthy enough, turning his head to lick at her hand shyly. Reacting instinctively, she lifted the pup to her mouth and kissed his smooth head before setting him back on the floor again.

“His foot was amputated,” Latimer said from behind and above her.

“Was he sick, or injured?” Harper wondered, petting the wiggling puppy.

“No. He was tortured.”

Harper turned her head and gaped up at Latimer, horror slinking into her awareness. “You mean . . . someone cut off his foot just to . . . do it?”

“That’s right. He and his brothers and sisters were found locked in a stifling hot barn just south of Genoa. They’d all been tortured. Two of them were dead when they were found, and the other three—including Milo there—were brought in to the shelter. Two of the puppies died in the vet’s office from the effects of open wounds and extreme dehydration. Milo was the sole survivor of all his siblings.”

Sobered and chilled, Harper turned back to the puppy. She scooped him into her arms and stood, caressing Milo all the while. For the first time, she actually looked around the large, comfortable room. Several dogs hadn’t joined Charger’s rambunctious run to greet them at the door. They lay on cushy-looking dog beds and regarded them with sharp interest and perked-up ears. Given some of the white around their maws, Harper thought they were the older dogs.

“Oh. Not a doghouse. You meant a house for the dogs,” she said, comprehension dawning. Because that’s what this was. The building was a small home. Her gaze traveled over a pair of glass doors, one of which included an opening with a flap that presumably led outside. There was a well-appointed kitchen in the distance.

“I guess so,” Latimer said. “There’s a vet’s office down the hall for doctor’s visits, and they have a caretaker-trainer during the day. But they’re on their own most of the time. They have a nice patch of woods out back, where they can roam.”

She turned to him slowly, her fingers caressing the smooth head of the puppy.

“You sponsor that animal shelter in town, don’t you?” she asked him, but somehow she already knew the answer. It just made sense to her, which was odd. She barely knew him.

He was turned in profile to her.

“Jacob?”

“That’s not public knowledge.”

“I understand. I wouldn’t say anything to anyone. But you do, don’t you?”

He continued to keep his face averted as he petted Charger and a big, brown dog. “Yes,” he finally replied.

“Have you always liked animals so much?”

A pit bull nuzzled his hand. He just nodded silently. The idea struck her that he looked perfectly natural surrounded by animals while wearing an impeccable suit. She also thought at that moment that while he seemed completely open and warm with the animals, he’d grown wary toward her questions. Shut off.

Shy? No, it couldn’t be. That characteristic just didn’t fit with the rest of the man. But neither did this house for abused and forgotten dogs. Something inexplicable quivered within her, elusive and fleeting. He was such a strange, compelling man. And he seemed so alone in that moment, standing there and carefully petting the dogs that vied for his attention. No wonder rumors and speculation clung to him like metal filings to a magnet. Harper herself experienced his haunting, powerful pull. She needed to be very careful.

He straightened and faced her.

“What about you? Do you like dogs?” he asked.

“Sure. I mean . . . as much as the next person.” She glanced down at the adorable puppy in her arms and kissed Milo’s smooth head again. “I think I like them a little bit more this size than say . . . that one,” she admitted, nodding toward the brown pit bull. She realized her vague anxiety must be on display, because his gaze on her was sharp. She tried to laugh it off. “I just get a little nervous when big or aggressive dogs come at me.”

He nodded. “Most people do. Especially if they’ve had a bad experience in the past. I should have warned you.”

“I haven’t had a bad experience with dogs.” Had she said that too sharply? She suspected she had, given his knitted brow.