“Oh no. Please no.”

Every possible light on her dashboard seemed to be lit up. A dozen thoughts raced through her mind, at least half of which were of the self-deprecating I-told-you-so sort.

She flipped the gearshift into neutral, attempting to use the last momentum to get over to the side. By the time she rolled to a stop, the smell pouring out of the vents was burning her nostrils.

Her shoulders dropped, and her heart sank into her toes. Not only was this likely to be a heavy hit to her bank account that she didn’t need, but she could also keep three animals from getting where they needed to go today. Pulling her phone from her purse, Olivia frowned. She was still forty-five minutes from New Madrid, but Sikeston was only ten or fifteen minutes ahead of her and a big enough town that she’d be able to find a mechanic.

Maybe, just maybe, luck would be on her side and this would be a quick fix so she’d have nothing but a bit of a delay holding her back. Holding this hope at the front of her thoughts, she pulled up the internet to search for a repair shop in Sikeston that was open past noon on a Saturday.

Chapter 2

Gabe Wentworth ignored the phone buzzing in his back pocket as he snipped through the last of the inner padding from the cast on the back left leg of a basset hound he’d performed surgery on six weeks ago. He couldn’t tell for certain, but his phone seemed to be ringing for the second or third time in a row. The calls were running together, which meant someone really wanted to talk to him. Usually his phone wasn’t on him while he was working, and he was trying his best to ignore it till he was through with the plucky dog who was healing well after a run-in with a car. Tater Tot, the newly named seven- or eight-year-old hound, had been dropped off at his office by the motorist who’d accidentally hit her after she’d stepped into the road from behind a parked car.

The hound wasn’t collared or chipped. When no owner could be located, the driver had paid for the bulk of her surgical expenses and was campaigning to get her adopted quickly from the High Grove Animal Shelter where Tater Tot had been transferred a few weeks ago.

“One more minute and you won’t have to thump around on a peg leg anymore.” He paused to readjust the scissors and scratch behind one impossibly long, silky-smooth ear. Like the most dignified of basset hounds, Tater Tot was standing with her head raised high. She’d seemed more inconvenienced than afraid of the loud Dremel tool he’d used on the outer portion of her cast and, unlike most animals when high up on the exam table, was hardly straining to escape.