She felt sick.

This wasn’t her responsibility. Kleppy belonged to an old guy who’d died six weeks ago. His daughter didn’t want him. No one else had claimed him, so the sensible, humane thing to do was have him put down.

But what if…? What if…?

Oh, help, what she thinking?

She was getting married on Saturday week. To Philip.

Nine days.

Her tiny house was full of wedding presents. Her wedding gown was hanging in the hall, a vision of beaded ivory satin. She’d made it herself, every stitch. She loved that dress.

This dog would walk past it and she’d have dog hair on ivory silk…

Well, that was a dumb thing to think. For this dog to walk past it, he’d have to be in her house, and this dog was headed to the vet’s. To be put down.

He looked up at her and whimpered. His paw came out and touched her knee.

Her heart turned over. Nooooo.

It took five minutes to drive to the vet’s. Kleppy’s paw rested against her knee the whole time.

She pulled up. Kleppy wasn’t shaking. She was.

Fred came out to meet her. The elderly vet looked grim. He went straight to the passenger door. Tugged it open.

‘Raff rang to say you were coming,’ he said, lifting Kleppy out. ‘Thanks for bringing him. Do you know when the rest are coming?’

‘I… Henrietta was trying to catch them. How many?’

‘More than I want to think about,’ Fred said grimly. ‘Three months from Christmas, puppies stop being cute. Not your call, though. I’ll deal with him from here.’

Kleppy lay limp in Fred’s arms. He looked back at her.

The paw on her knee…

Help. Help, help, help.

‘It’ll be quick?’

Fred glanced at her, brows snapping. Abby had gone to school with Fred’s daughter. He knew her well. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

‘Don’t what?’