Come Hell or High Water | mxm

2.3

2.3

Over the summer, Gord had cleared out nearly half the broken-down vehicles in the yard, selling them repaired or for scrap or storing them away in the quonset Mark had helped him erect behind the greenhouse. The remainder had been moved neatly to the side, under the shadow of the windbreak. Now, the farm equipment was scattered with curled yellow leaves, dark metal limbs thick with lacy frost.

Frost lay heavy on the ground, too, and iced the eaves of the tidy house. Freshly refinished wooden siding shone the brilliant blue and green of a sultry summer day, a memory to hold against the creeping chill of autumn. The glass roof of the greenhouse steamed in the cold, mist rising thick and white against a pale blue sky.

When Sam stepped out of his little silver car, breath pluming out ahead of him, frost crystals disintegrated beneath the soles of his scuffed sneakers. Weak sunlight glittered between facets of shattered ice fringing the trail of dark footprints he left as he made his way up to the house.

Before he could reach it, the door creaked open. With a yelp of joy that echoed in the vast quiet, a shaggy brown and grey dog barreled, ungainly, down the steps and loped in a circle around Sam.

Laughing, he squatted down to her level and held out a cautious hand. Nosing in closer, the dog snuffled at his palm before she set her rump down and stared at him curiously. With careful fingers, he scratched her under the chin, and a long pink tongue lolled out between yellowed fangs, eyes drooping in pleasure.

"Well, aren't you a beautiful girl," he told her, bemused. Looking up, he found Gord leaning in the open doorway, smiling gently at him.

In a pleased voice, Gord said, "Sam, meet Quip."

"Hello, Quip," Sam said fondly, rubbing a thumb along the soft velvet of her floppy ear. Quip's butt wiggled back and forth against the frosty grass, ice crystals fountaining as her tail thumped hard on the ground.

"She likes you, looks like," Gord observed as Sam rose again to his feet and mounted the short flight of steps to the front door, Quip tight on his heels.

"I don't know what kind of person is disliked by dogs, and I don't think I want to find out," Sam joked.

"S'pose that'd be a bit of a bad sign, wouldn't it?" Gord murmured, a small smile on his lips.

They kissed briefly, warm brush of lips made soft by Gord's moustache.

"She's a rescue?" Sam asked, as they moved back inside and eased the door shut against the chill.

"Hm," Gord agreed.

Quip nudged against their legs, panting. Obligingly, Gord reached down to rub his palm up her forehead, thumb tracing the bone above her eye.

"Two weeks ago she was shy, but she's already gettin' friendly again. Don't know what they did to 'er at her last place to make her so scared. See the damage?" He pointed out the raw patch behind her right ear, nearly a dozen narrow black stitches stark against the ragged pink edges of half-healed flesh. "Could be coyotes, but the rescue place thought it was prob'ly another dog. Was infected when I picked her up. Lookin' a little better now, least. Stitches should come out in a day or so."

"Well, at least she's found a better home now. Do you know how old she is?"

"They were guessin' she's maybe four. Breed's a guess, too. Maybe some husky in the mix."

Sam's smile was soft. "I guess you're collecting strays now, eh?"

Teeth flashed white in trim dark beard. "Only the ones as need a lovin' home." Gord leaned in for another kiss, callused palm cradling the back of Sam's neck. "Yer earlier than I was expectin'. No work today?"