I caught up with him just as a long-legged woman in boots, jeans and a fitted western shirt came through a screened door to meet us. She had lush brown hair, piled on top of her head, and a stethoscope dangled from her neck.

“Allison,” Tucker said, “this dog is sick as hell. I think he might have been poisoned.”

Allison.

Our gazes collided, and mine glanced off first, to land on a neatly lettered wooden sign hanging beside the door she had just stepped through.

Allison Darroch, DVM.

“Bring him inside,” she said. She gave me another glance, then let Tucker move past her, into the clinic. She entered next, and I was right behind her.

Tucker laid Russell gently on a shining steel examining table.

Allison unwrapped the dog from the blanket, clicked on a penlight plucked from her shirt pocket, lifted one of his eyelids, and peered in. “Do you know what he ingested?” she asked, just as if it weren’t perfectly obvious, from his clothes and mussed-up hair, that Tucker and I had crawled out of the same bed within the last half hour.

Tucker glanced questioningly at me.

“Chow mein, I think,” I said.

Allison popped Russell’s mouth open, stuck her nose in, and sniffed.

“I’m going to induce vomiting,” she decided. “You might want to step outside.”

Tears stung the backs of my eyes. I sniffled. “I can’t leave him.”

Allison turned to Tucker, and something passed between them. Their faces were grim and still.

Tucker turned, crossed the room to me, caught me firmly by one elbow, and ushered me outside.

I tried to get back in.

He restrained me.

“Allison is a good vet, Mojo,” he told me. “If anything can be done for the dog, she’ll do it.”

“Dad!” Two voices called, at the same time, mingling and yet clearly separate.

I turned and saw the twins barreling across the yard. The little boy, Danny, wore jeans and a T-shirt, the little girl, Daisy, had on a pink leotard, tights, and a tutu. They launched themselves at Tucker, and he crouched and caught them with the ease of long practice, one in each arm.

I bit down hard on my lower lip.

I felt like a home wrecker, watching that scene.

A home wrecker and a lousy dog-sitter, too.

“Who’s that lady?” Daisy asked, looking up at me. “And why is she crying?”

Tucker stood, slipped an arm loosely around my shoulders. “This is Mojo,” he said. “She’s a very good friend of mine, and she’s crying because her dog is real sick.”

Shyly, Daisy took my hand. “Don’t worry,” she told me. “Mom is the best vet in Arizona. She’ll make him better.”

My heart turned over. “Thanks,” I said.

“Mojo is a weird name,” Danny observed, squinting as he checked me out. “What kind of name is Mojo?”

“A weird one,” I answered.