Page 1 of A Furever Home (Gaynor Beach Animal Rescue #8)

ARTHUR

I sat behind the counter at Safe Haven animal rescue, listening to my shelter manager calling me from across the ocean. “Did you see the video?” The happiness in Shane’s voice made me smile. “Was that cool or what?”

“Hang on.” I swiped my phone over to where I had a waiting text from Shane’s boyfriend, Theo.

Sure enough, there was a video attached.

When I hit play, I saw Shane with his little white cat Mimsy doing their routine of Mimsy-tricks with the iconic architecture of Paris behind them.

In this short clip, Mimsy jumped from the ground up to Shane’s shoulder, then balanced on his head and raised one paw in a salute.

I said, “Did you just busk in front of Notre Dame?”

Shane had lived off his wits and Mimsy’s skills for a long time, but Theo was rich enough he no longer needed to.

“Not busking,” Shane told me. “I didn’t put the hat out. Wouldn’t risk breaking the law here. But Mimsy was riding on my shoulder and these two kids asked if she was a real cat, speaking English with the cutest French accents, and I couldn’t resist letting her show off a bit.”

Of course he couldn’t. Shane would deny it till he was blue in the face, but he was a sucker for kids, and for that little cat. Letting her shine while making kids laugh was his favorite thing. Aside from being with Theo, of course.

The newfound brightness of Shane’s voice warmed me, even as I pushed aside an unworthy pang of jealousy.

Shane had lived a much harder life than I had—forced to leave his family as a teenager, going homeless, sometimes going hungry, so independent it’d taken Theo months to persuade him love didn’t have to come with strings.

My own family might’ve lost interest in me long ago, but I’d never gone without a meal. Now Shane and Theo had a relationship so solid even Shane was willing to trust it. I should be happy for my friend and stop thinking about how I was ten years older and far more alone. “Sounds like fun.”

“France is something else.” Shane laughed.

“The history’s just everywhere, the food’s amazing, and the cafés all let me bring Mimsy inside.

” His tone became less animated. “Are you sure you’re okay without my help?

We’ll be out of touch for a week, once we hit Africa and get out in the bush. I feel guilty?—”

“Don’t,” I cut in. “The shelter’s doing well.

I have Neil on the office side and plenty of volunteers to help with animal care.

Safe Haven will get along just fine without you for a month.

Not that you aren’t super valuable,” I hurried to add, because it was the truth.

“But we’ll survive. I’m counting on some pictures of the charismatic megafauna when you get to Kenya. ”

Theo had a photo safari planned for them, and Shane had researched every wild critter they were likely to see and a few they weren’t. His latching onto the scornful term charismatic megafauna for the big popular critters hadn’t masked how eager he was to see them all.

Unless we were hit by a tornado here in SoCal or a plague wiped out all our volunteers, I wasn’t going to ask Shane to cut their trip short.

Shane added, “And how’s Foxy doing?”

“Hah. The ulterior motive,” I teased. “You really only called me to talk about your dog. Nina’s doing great with her, you know that.

” I’d offered to dog-sit, but Foxy didn’t really like the hustle and bustle of the shelter.

She was happier with one of the volunteers, and I’d visited her at Nina’s where she was getting thoroughly spoiled.

“You are checking up on her, right?”

“Yes, Shane—” The chime of an incoming call interrupted us.

Kevin.

“I’ve got to go,” I told Shane. “Our favorite thirteen-year-old is on the other line.”

Shane chuckled. “A voice call from Kevin? Yeah, better find out what limping otter or mangy raccoon he wants you to help now.”

“I’ll send you Foxy pics.” I ended that call and switched over. Shane wasn’t pulling examples out of thin air. Last time, Kevin had wanted me to figure out how to get thirty-dollar flea-and-tick chews into a wild fox with mange… “Hey, Kev. What’s up?”

Kevin’s breathless tones came sharp over the phone. “There’s a dog and I think it’s hurt and this guy’s going to shoot it!”

“Whoa. Wait.” I jumped to my feet, waving at Vicky, today’s volunteer who was straightening up the store, to gesture that I was heading outside. “If someone has a gun, you get yourself out of there now , kid.”

“He’s not pointing it at me. He’s pointing it at the dog.”

“I don’t care. Get well away from him, you hear me?”

Kevin’s voice sounded distant and muffled, as if he was speaking away from the phone. “She’s just scared, sir. She’s not going to hurt you. I swear. Don’t shoot her.”

“Kevin! Leave the man with the gun alone.” I jogged to my elderly pickup in the shelter parking lot, digging in my pocket for the keys. “Where are you?”

I heard the bass rumble of an adult male voice, the words inaudible. Then Kevin said, “Culver Street. 3027. Hurry.”

“Get yourself to safety. Call 9-1-1 and then call one of your dads.”

“Got it.” And the damned kid hung up on me.

Praying he was actually calling emergency services, I slammed the truck into gear and peeled out of the lot.

Kevin was an awesome kid for thirteen, but he had a terrifying amount of faith in people and the universe.

For a boy who’d faced his share of bullying, he still somehow believed everything would work out for the best if he just threw himself into helping.

As I took the back route around to Riverside East toward Culver Street, trying to dodge traffic, I called on fate or karma or whatever to please make it so.

Kevin had a lot of good karma saved up. It would take the fingers of both hands to count the number of stray cats and injured wildlife the kid had saved, but none of that would protect him from a bastard with a gun and the willingness to use it.

If I’d had a hands-free phone set-up, I’d have called Kevin’s dads myself, but the truck was too old to make that easy. I concentrated on driving fast.

That address was less than ten minutes away. As I cruised down the three-thousand block, I didn’t see any cop cars or crowd. Hopefully that meant nothing bad had happened. Yet.

3027 was the last house before the ravine that led down to Gaynor River where it cut the town in two. That maybe explained why Kevin was there because he liked to explore the parkland along the riverbanks.

I parked and got out, listening. Raised voices came from behind the house, and then, before I could head back there, the sound of a shot rang out. I froze.

Kevin!

A tall blond man who was approaching down the sidewalk stared at me, then as one, we turned and sprinted up the lawn at the side of the house.

I didn’t know this dude from Adam, but if he was the kind to run toward a gunshot, I wasn’t going to turn down help.

“Call 9-1-1!” I shouted at him as we ran, and his steps slowed as he fumbled out his phone.

I rounded the corner of the house with blond dude a couple of steps behind me and there was Kevin standing in an untidy yard.

Alive. Not bleeding. At least as far as I could see.

He had his arms out at his sides and his back to a rickety wooden structure the size of a kid’s playhouse raised up on legs, backed by a chicken wire enclosure.

“Arthur!” he called.

At his call, the man standing across from him whirled my way.

This guy was short and skinny, at least ten years older than me although I couldn’t tell fifty from sixty from seventy.

Bushy gray hair, a weathered face, and work-worn hands holding a gun.

A pistol of some kind. Handgun. Despite growing up in rural Minnesota in a family that loved their hunting and fishing, I’d never liked guns, so I had no clue.

I raised my hands. “Hey.” My tone automatically fell to the soft, low one I used to soothe frightened critters. “No need to get excited. The boy means no harm.”

“There’s a coyote under my henhouse and I aim to shoot it,” the man growled.

“It’s not a coyote,” Kevin said, because the kid never knew when to keep quiet. “She looks like some kind of pittie-golden mix. Definitely a dog.”

The man swung back to him, gun raised, which was what I’d been trying to avoid. “I don’t care if it’s a fucking show dog. It’s killing my chickens and I got a right to shoot it.”

“Kevin,” I said calmly. “Go stand over by Mr.—” I waved at the blond stranger who’d caught up to me, phone in hand.

“Brooklyn,” the guy said softly. “Come on over here, son.”

“No.” Kevin crossed his arms and didn’t budge. “He’ll shoot her.”

Well, dammit. I was definitely going to have words with the boy’s dads. As it was, I hoped the cops would show up soon. Any time now would be good. With my hands raised high, I edged forward toward Kevin.

The gun dude watched me but said nothing as I reached the boy.

“Go on.” I gave Kevin a nudge. “I’m here now. You go out to the road and watch for the cops.”

“Don’t need no cops,” the gun guy said. “This is my property, and a man has a right to defend his property. You’re trespassing. I could shoot you all and the dog. This is my land.”

Kevin turned a pale face up to me, then finally scurried out of range although he stopped behind the Brooklyn guy instead of heading to the street.

I faced the older man, trying to project calm and helpful and friendly . Treat him like a feral cat. I took my eyes off him, though it was hard, but a stare could be thought of as a challenge. Instead, I turned to look at the henhouse. “Did you build this coop? Looks like a solid bit of work.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’m Arthur. That’s Kevin and Brooklyn over there.” I’d read it was harder to shoot someone whose name you knew.

“Frank,” he mumbled.

“How many chickens do you have, Frank?”

“Six. Now. Was seven.” The growl in his voice made me regret the question and I scrambled for something else.