Killer-alias Darby-had been allowing her to bring food and water, particularly if the food included ground round, and he’d quit snarling in her presence. But coming close enough to touch him was a different proposition. He bared his teeth when she stepped off the cottage porch, and bristled into a hair-ruffed growl when she got within five feet.

She stopped there. Temporarily. “Look,” she said irritably. “You stink. You stink so bad I can smell it through the windows. I’ve had it with this whole attitude thing. If you think you can out-mean me, buster, you’ve got another think coming. Now you’re getting a bath today, and I mean to tell you, that’s that.”

Growl, snap, snarl. Growl, snap, snarl.

Camille pushed back her hair, put her hands on her hips, and growled right back. Her voice was deceptively as soothing as a whisper. “You want to tear me apart?” she demanded. “Well, where you’re making a mistake, Killer, is thinking that I care. If you were a person, my dad would be calling you a sumph. You know what that is? In Scottish, it’s the word for a half-wit. Because that’s how you’re behaving. Half-witted.”

She’d been talking to him for days, knowing he was completely ignoring her, but she didn’t turn her back on the dog. She wasn’t that stupid. Quietly she bent down, added the flea shampoo to the warmish water in the bucket, and dunked in the rag. Killer stopped snarling-until she took another step closer-and then he resumed the fierce warning growls.

“I am so sick of this. You snap at me, I’ll snap right back, you no-count worthless mutt. You think life’s treated you so terribly? Well, big frigging deal. I lost everything…” When he stopped growling, she took a quiet step toward him.

“So the owner you loved turned mean and now you don’t trust anyone.