There was sniffing, happy grumbling, body bumping, then the race and chase. While she retrieved her pack, the three dogs charged away, zipping in circles and zigzags before charging back to her.
Always ready to play, she mused as three pairs of eyes stared up at her with hopeful gleams.
“Soon,” she promised. “I need a shower, dry clothes, food. Let’s go in. What do you say, wanna go in?”
In answer, all three bulleted for the door.
Newman, a yellow Lab and the oldest, at six, and the most dignified, led the pack. But then Bogart, the black Lab and the baby, at three, had to stop long enough to grab up his rope.
Surely someone wanted to play tug.
They bounded in behind her, feet tapping on the wide-planked floor. Time, she thought with a glance at her watch. But not a lot of it.
She left her pack out as she had to replace the space blanket before she tucked it away. While the dogs rolled on the floor, she stirred up the fire she’d banked before leaving, added another log. She peeled off her wet jacket as she watched the flames catch.
Dogs on the floor, a fire in the hearth, she thought, made the room cozy. It tempted her to just curl up on the love seat and catch her own power nap.
No time, she reminded herself, and debated which she wanted more: dry clothes or food. After a struggle, she decided to be an adult and get dry first. Even as she turned for the stairs, all three dogs went on alert. Seconds later, she heard the rattle of her bridge.
“Who could that be?”
She walked to the window trailed by her pack.
The blue truck wasn’t familiar, and on an island the size of Orcas there weren’t many strangers. Tourist was her first thought, a wrong turn, a need for directions.
Resigned, she walked outside, gave her dogs the signal to hold on the porch.
She watched the man get out. Tall, a lot of dark hair, scarred boots, worn jeans on long legs. Good face, she decided, sharp planes, sharp angles blurred by the shadow of stubble that said he’d been too busy or too lazy to shave that morning. The good face held an expression of frustration or annoyance—maybe a combo of both—as he shoved a hand through the mass of hair.