I eyed the bad-tempered Yorkie on her lap. The dog didn’t seem any more excited at the prospect of a walk than I was. But I was obviously in the way here. Anyway, our family owed Aunt Phee. She had paid for my postgraduation trip to Europe. She had opened her home to Dad. And she was doing such a generous thing for Jo and Eric, letting them have the wedding here. Letting them have Oak Hill.

Hm, I thought as I clipped the lead to Polly’s collar. I wasn’t jealous. Exactly. But if Phee was going to invest in her great-nieces, why not me?

We meandered toward the duck pond, the little dog stopping frequently to sniff. The sun sparkled on the flat water. A faint breeze rippled the surface, stirring the reeds at the water’s edge, loosening a shower of petals from the nearby apple trees. In spite of the smell of decay from the pond, all the scene needed to be perfect was Colin Firth in a wet white shirt.

Polly growled and quivered. A family of Canada geese was browsing on the bank, the adults standing at attention over five little goslings.

“Don’t even think about it,” I told her sternly. “They’ll eat you for lunch.”

Polly snorted and busied herself with a stick. Let her. I didn’t care if she made herself sick.

While Polly rootled at the ground, I contemplated the azaleas, wondering how long the blooms would last if I cut some branches to use in wedding arrangements. A burst of yapping grabbed my attention. Polly tugged against my hold on her leash. There was a squawk. A honk.

A splash.

I looked. Polly had seized one of the goslings by the neck and stood with her struggling prize on the bank, triumphant and seeming slightly bewildered by her success.

Shit. I started forward. But not before Momma and Poppa Goose lunged, necks outstretched, black beaks open and hissing.

“No!” I shouted. “Polly, stop! Drop it!”

Wild-eyed, the dog obeyed. Or maybe the gosling freed itself. Peeping in distress, the bird ran for its mother. But it was too late. As Momma Goose shepherded her baby to safety, Poppa attacked.

Polly yelped and stumbled under the rush of the bird’s wings, tumbling into the water.

“No!” I yelled again. “Shoo!”

The goose paid no attention, fixing its beady eyes menacingly on the dog.

Crap, crap, crap. I ran into the pond, my sandals sinking in the muck, and scooped up Polly. The Yorkie bit me, drawing blood. The indignity of it—after I’d rescued her, the little monster!—slapped my senses. The goose advanced on us, hissing, head moving side to side like a snake’s. I clutched Polly to my chest.

And then, apparently deciding I wasn’t worth it, the big bird folded its wings and launched past me, rejoining its family in the center of the pond.

The ripples faded in its wake. I stood there, dripping and shaking with shock. In my arms, Polly shook, too.