Guarded: A Tidewater Novel - Softcover

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Mary Behre, author of Spirited, is the lone female in a house full of males and the undisputed queen of her domain. She even has the glittery tiara to prove it. She loves stories with humor, ghosts, mysteries, and above all else, a good romance. When not writing, she enjoys reading, gluten-free baking, and spending time at the ocean with her family.

Daily, she can be found in her office. With her Pomeranian at her feet and her hands on the keyboard, she spends her time plotting new ways to torture her characters before they find their happily ever afters.

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CHAPTER 1

“SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH Mr. Fuzzbutt.” Beau’s angelic voice rang out seconds before the backside of his long-haired black guinea pig bounced before Dr. Shelley Morgan’s eyes. At almost the same moment, a cry went up from the back room of the small veterinary clinic.

“Shelley, I need you!” Feet pounded quickly down the short hall before Jacob, the veterinary clinic’s too-excitable intern, burst into the room yelling, “Lucy is trying to turn Hercules into her Thanksgiving dinner. And this time I think she might just chew his balls off.”

“Language! And Thanksgiving’s four weeks away. At most, she wants a light snack,” Shelley said, pushing to her feet and sweeping the fur ball known as Mr. Fuzzbutt into her hands.

But Jacob hadn’t heard her attempt to lighten the moment. The intern/groomer/assistant had already spun around and disappeared into the back room. His cries of, “Stop that, Lucy. Get up, Herc,” were nearly drowned out by the cacophony of dogs barking.

Ah, it was a Wednesday. Most people hated Mondays because they believed the first day of the workweek was full of insanity, but Shelley knew otherwise. In her twenty-four years of life, every major catastrophe occurred on the day most folks referred to as “hump day.” Today was shaping up to be as invariably crazy as every other weekday that started with the letter W.

“Doc, can you help him?” Beau’s voice, still high-pitched from youth, wobbled as he spoke.

She turned to the worried ten-year-old who was small for his age. His large luminous brown eyes were framed by thick black glasses. His clothes, although threadbare and clearly hand-me-downs, were clean as were his faded blue sneakers.

“Don’t worry, Beau. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Just have a seat in the waiting area and I’ll be back shortly. I’ll bring Mr. . . .” she couldn’t bring herself to say the word Fuzzbutt to the child, and settled with “your little buddy back after I’ve examined him.”

“Okay, Doc. I trust you.” Beau nodded. His words so mature for one so young. “But I can’t just sit and wait. How about I bring in the bags of dog food from outside?”

“That would be a big help, Beau. You remember where the storeroom is? Just stack the ones you can carry in there. And don’t try to lift the big ones.”

Not that the little guy would be able to do much. The last time the clinic received donations, the dog food had come in fifty-pound bags. Beau likely didn’t weigh more than sixty-five pounds himself. Plus, it had rained late last night and the town handyman she’d hired hadn’t had a chance to fix the hole in the shed’s roof. So chances were good several of the bags were sodden and useless.

Still, he beamed as if she’d just handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “You know it! I’ll have the bags all put away before you can bring Mr. Fuzzbutt back. Just you wait and see.”

Then Beau was out the front door. The length of bells hanging from the handle jangled and banged against the glass as he took off around the corner to the storage shed.

Gotta love small towns. Shelley couldn’t suppress the grin, even as good ole Mr. F made a soft whoop, whoop noise in her hands. She glanced into his little black eyes and asked, “So are you really sick?”

The eye contact formed an instant telepathic connection. Shelley’s world swirled to gray. Still vaguely aware of her surroundings, she focused her attention inward on the movielike scenes sent from the little boar in her hands.

An image of Beau’s anxious face peering between the bars of the cage, filling and refilling the bowl with pellets sprang into her mind. At first she thought the guinea pig was repeating the same image over and over, but quickly she realized what was happening.

“Oh, so you’ve been eating,” she said. “But Beau doesn’t realize it because he’s been topping off the food bowl.”

Mr. F. whooped again.

She chuckled. “Well, you’re a pretty wise pig not to eat everything you’ve been given. Many others wouldn’t have such restraint. I’m not sure I would. You sure you don’t feel sick?”

The little pig winged an image of Beau snuggling him close and occasionally kissing him on the head as they watched Scooby-Doo. The image was so sweet she let herself get lost in the moment and almost forgot she was at the clinic.

“Shell-ley,” Jacob wailed.

She jumped and turned in time to see Jacob burst through the swinging door separating the back hallway from the reception area of the clinic. “Jeez! Jacob. You’ll freak out the animals.”

“Come on. I can’t stop her and he’s just lying there!” Jacob gestured wildly with both hands.

Right. Lucy attacking Hercules. Although Lucy was all of three pounds and a ferret, to Hercules, a ninety-pound dog. How much damage could she do?

“It’s Wednesday,” Shelley said on a sigh. “Although, at least if it started out like this, it can’t get any crazier.”

Mr. Fuzzbutt whooped again. I swear, the little pig’s laughing at me.

“Jacob, take Mr. F and put him in examination room one.” She hurried through the swinging white door, which led to the back, stopping briefly to hand Beau’s pet to her intern. “There’s a small cage in the cabinet under the sink. Pull it out and put him in it, then meet me in the doggie spa.”

Without waiting for a response, she hustled to the back room. She usually avoided this area. She’d spent a weekend painting murals of fields, dog bones, blue skies, and fire hydrants on the walls to give dogs and their owners the impression of luxury accommodations. According to Jacob and their boss, Dr. Kessler, her hard work paid off. Unless she was in the room with the canines.

Today, six dogs were there for the Thanksgiving Special, a deluxe grooming, complete with a complimentary toy turkey. Metal cages lined one wall, each with a plush foam bed. The occupants waited in doggy paradise for their turn at the day’s scheduled deluxe treatment by Jacob. Soft strains of Bach filtered through the air, barely audible over the ruckus of barks, yips, and howls as the canines commented on the show in the middle of the floor.

That was, until one of them caught her scent. Mrs. Hoffstedder’s beagle noticed her first. He let out a single high-pitched yowl, then lowered his head and covered his eyes with his paws. One by one, the other five dogs did the same.

Shelley didn’t bother to wonder why they feared her. She’d given up asking that question years ago. It’s not as if she’d ever beaten an animal. Jeez, she didn’t even raise her voice. But almost every dog she’d come into contact with for the past seven years either hid from her or tried to attack her.

Thank God, Jacob had remembered to lock their cages before he called for her, or it would have been dog-maggedon as the pooches ran for freedom.

She had to be the world’s weirdest vet. Telepathic, she could talk to any animal alive, including snakes, hedgehogs, and naked mole rats. Any animal, that is, except for the canine variety. She hadn’t spoken to a single dog since Barty, her Bay retriever, died in the car crash with her parents all those years ago. Just the thought of them made her chest tight. She shoved away the memories and focused on the clinic’s current crisis.

Dr. Kessler’s extremely valuable St. Bernard,...