‘But…’

‘Just do it.’ And he turned his back on her and started directing tow trucks.

He’d just given Abigail Callahan a dog and she looked totally flummoxed.

She looked adorable.

Yeah, well, it was high time he stopped thinking Abby was adorable. As a teenager, Abby had seemed a piece of him-a part of his whole-but she’d watched him with condemnation for ten years now. She’d changed from the laughing kid she used to be-from his adoring shadow-to someone he no longer liked very much.

He’d killed her brother.

Raff had finally come to terms with that long-ago tragedy-or he’d accepted it as much as he ever could-but he’d killed a part of her. How did a man get past that?

It was time he accepted that he never could.

What sort of name was Kleppy for a dog?

He shouldn’t have told her its name.

Only she would have figured it. The dog had a blue plastic collar, obviously standard Animal Welfare issue, but whoever had attached it had reattached his tag, as if they were leaving him a bit of personality to the end.

Kleppy.

The name had been scratched by hand on the back of what looked like a medal. Abby set the dog on her passenger seat-he wagged his tail again and turned round twice and settled-and she couldn’t help turning over his tag.

It was a medal. She recognised it and stared.

Old Man Abrahams had done something pretty impressive in the war. She’d heard rumours but she’d never had confirmation.

This was more than confirmation. A medal of honour, an amazing medal of honour-hanging on the collar of a scruffy, homeless mutt called Kleppy.

Uh-oh. He was looking up at her again now. His brown eyes were huge.

Six weeks in the Animal Shelter. She’d gone there once on some sort of school excursion. Concrete cells with a tiny exercise yard. Too many dogs, gazing up at her with hope she couldn’t possibly match.