Second Hand: A Tucker Springs Novel 2

itched for a cigarette
but had to settle for drumming irritably against his thigh.
“This one isn’t an ass to the kids, which is a nice change.” “Maybe it will work out this time.”
El couldn’t decide if Denver was deliberately trying to rile
him up or if he truly was that secretly romantic. With Denver,
one never really knew. Threading his hands behind his neck,
El regarded Denver. “So what about you? When you moved
to town four months ago, you said you were passing through.
You look like you’re settling in.”
Denver shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe. Jase’s still
paying me, and I got plenty of ass on tap. What more is
there?”
They’d had this conversation before, and El always got
some version of that answer. Except it wasn’t entirely unlike
watching Paul and thinking there was something more there,
something that hadn’t woken up yet. Denver wasn’t exactly
Sleeping Beauty. El did think, though, that he was looking for
something, waiting for something.
Which was pretty normal. Everybody was, and nobody
was ever going to find it.
“What there is, Mr. Rogers, is ten more minutes on my
spin cycle, and I’m going to spend them smoking a cigarette.
Care to join me?”
“Nah. I’ll just sit here and hope Mr. Right stumbles into
my arms.”
El patted him on the shoulder as he rose. “Good luck with
that.”

chapter 7
    I
    went to a couple of local nurseries on Sunday in search of plants. After returning the necklace, I had a bit of cash, and I bought a few canisters of lilies and hostas. It seemed like a lot of plants until I got home and lined them up in front of my house. I had hoped to hide the cement foundation of the house, but the plants I had were barely enough to fill the gap next to the front porch.
    Of course my next dilemma was how to plant them. The only shovel I owned was made for shoveling snow, not digging holes. I wondered if El had shovels at his shop and whether or not he was open on Sundays. Next door, Bill was using some kind of tool that looked like a spur on a stick to trim the edges of his lawn where the grass met the sidewalk. I considered asking him for a shovel, but it seemed a bit wrong to ask the competition for help. In the end, I drove to the hardware store and spent my last bit of cash on a shovel.
    By the time I went to bed on Sunday, I was sunburned and sore, but the flowers were happily settled into the corner by the porch. They looked better than I’d expected them to.
    Monday turned out to be a good day at the office. Nick’s veterinary technician, Brooke, called in sick, and on the third patient of the day, Nick asked me to help him examine a nervous shepherd mix named Samson.
    “He’s a stray,” Nick said. “Going up for adoption soon, hopefully.” Nick did free exams for the local Humane Society, and we had several animals a week who had to be cleared physically before they could enter the adoption program. “He seems friendly enough, but he’s obviously scared to death, so I’d rather have some help. Do you know how to hold him?”
    “Of course.” I remembered that much from veterinary school, at least. I wrapped one arm around him to hold his legs, and used my other arm to pull him tight against me, with my hand around his muzzle in case he tried to bite. I talked quietly to him while Nick checked him. “Such a good boy. You’re a good boy. Such a pretty dog, going to find a forever home soon, aren’t you? Because you’re so good, not fighting while the nice doctor checks you out.” Nick rolled his eyes at me, and I couldn’t exactly blame him, but Samson settled in against me, and his trembling eased a bit. I kept up my inane drone of words while Nick did the exam. “Good, good boy. We have treats for good dogs, too. Then you’ll go find a home, won’t you?”
    Samson passed the exam with flying colors, and I hoped he really would find a home soon.
I helped with several examinations that morning: a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, a surly gray rabbit, and two cats.
“You’re good at this,” Nick said at lunchtime. “You have a real knack with the animals.”
“I always have,” I admitted. “That’s why I went to vet school.” Too bad I hadn’t been able to finish.
After lunch, one of Nick’s regular clients came in with an entire litter of puppies to be checked. Nick didn’t necessarily need help with puppies, but there were six of them, and wrangling them gave me a perfectly good excuse to pet them all, and nuzzle them, and