I walked back to my office. Scooter had a whole shelf devoted to samples of food, toys, and whatever else the salespeople were hoping to sell to us. A dozen small cans of Millford Organic dog food were stacked on the top shelf. I scanned the labels: beef and corn, pork and rice, chicken and rice. No chicken cutlets. Would Muffy mind chicken and rice instead? I grabbed two cans of each kind and returned to the lobby.

  Muffy was curled up in a circle of sunlight on one of the chairs. My mother had insisted that dogs weren't allowed up on the chairs, but that was a detail I didn't really sweat. It was a vet office, not a museum. What did I care if there were some pet hairs here and there?

  Tiffany stood by the door holding our Help Wanted sign, which had been carefully displayed in the front window by Scooter. She stared down at it, as if the words were written in a foreign language. Her brow knit, and she had her bottom lip sucked inside her mouth. The Scotch tape used to hang it in the window had stuck to the sign and flapped in the breeze from the air-conditioner duct up above her head.

  "Do you think Muffy is a silly name?" Tiffany looked up from the sign to focus, not on me, but on a poster of a basket of kittens.

  "I think it's a perfectly fine name. In fact, it suits her."

  She turned toward me. "That's what I thought."

  "Why do you ask?" I had the feeling it wasn't a question she would welcome, but my curiosity about this lovely, mysterious woman took precedence.

  "I heard some children mocking her name. The other day." She gestured toward the window. “At the park.” She sat next to Muffy, still holding the sign between her hands. "I don’t know why, but it bothered me.”

  “Kids can be obnoxious. Don’t think anything of it. If it makes you feel any better, classmates were always making fun of my name when I was a kid.”

  “I didn’t go to regular school. Was that a common thing?”

  Didn’t go to school? That was interesting. “Were you homeschooled?”

  “Kind of, yeah.” She swiped the tip of her thin nose with the back of one hand. "What kind of help do you need?" Her voice rose higher in tone. She wouldn't look directly at me.

  "We need a new receptionist,” I said. “Do you know someone?"

  "Me. I could use the work. Since the fires, the weddings at the lodge have decreased. I'm not making enough to stay…" She placed a hand on top of Muffy's head. "Afloat."

  My mind raced ahead, trying to decide if this was a good thing or bad. She wanted a job here? My heartbeat seemed to speed up at the idea of her in my reception area every day. However, did she have experience? The position was deceptively easy-seeming: answering phones and scheduling patients. However, it was also dealing with frantic pet owners, both on the phone and in the waiting room. The tasks required a certain calmness and ability to assure even the most distraught pet owner that everything was going to be fine. Then, perhaps harder than anything, she would have to be strong as she ushered loved ones in and out of the clinic after putting a pet down. Sadly, this was essential to my practice. The natural inclination toward empathy and sympathy were necessary. Knowing the right words to say. She ran a wedding planning business, though. Who could be more difficult than a bride-to-be? Or their mothers?

  "Do you have any experience in office work?" I asked.

  "What kind of experience?" She asked this with a wide-open expression. Did she really not know what I meant?

  "Phones. Computers. Managing, you know, office things." I grinned, unsure actually what Scooter expected. She and my mother had decided on the division of duties between the receptionist and the veterinarian assistants before I took over the practice. Until we lost Lori, I'd taken for granted that everything around the office was done well and without any input from me. Besides Scooter, we had two assistants to the vet, plus the receptionist. We were a small-town operation, after all. My work at the shelter was separate from what we did here. We had a volunteer who ran most of that—a wealthy widow with time and money to spare.

  "I know how to talk on the phone." She hiccuped and seemed mortified, covering her mouth with her hand. A spot of red showed on each of her cheeks. "Excuse me. I get the hiccups when I'm nervous. I've been getting them a lot lately."

  What was she nervous about? Me? Her financial worries? It would be nice if it were me but probably not. “Don’t be nervous,” I said.

  "As far as computer skills go, I've managed a small business. I know how to keep financials, pay invoices, and write project plans. I can't imagine I wouldn't be able to learn whatever you need me to." She cast her eyes downward as a flush crept into her cheeks. Who had those kind of cheekbones, other than movie stars and models?

  I blinked. Pay attention to the task before you, I reminded myself. Daydreaming about my possible employee could only lead to disaster. Possible misdiagnosis? Fumbling one patient for the other?

  "How long would you commit to being here?" I asked. Even as I asked it, I felt like a jerk. What right did I have to ask anyone to commit their life to a job that may or may not be mind-numbingly boring? Especially to someone who had owned their own business for— How long had she been working as a wedding planner? I knew so little about her. Not for lack of trying. But she was as tightly closed as a tomb. “Or, actually, that doesn’t matter. I know you have your own business. If you wanted to stay until your business picks up, that would be fine.”

  I peered at her for a moment, watching her fidget. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, causing her to sway in the way women did when they rocked a baby.

  "I don't know how long it will be before things pick up again," Tiffany said. "But I can give you my best for at least the next six months."

  "Sure, yes." I wanted to give her the job right then and there, but I knew Scooter would have to give her approval. "Could you come back later to interview with Scooter?"

  Her brow knit, and her eyes dulled. "Scooter?"

  "She manages the office for me," I said. "Legacy from my mother's reign."

  "I know Scooter," she said, as flat as her eyes. "She doesn't like me."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I can tell. I bother her for some reason. It's like I can hear her telling me to straighten my posture and stop being such a mouse. All she has to do is send me one of her looks."

  I grimaced, knowing just what she meant. "She does the same to me. And everyone, for that matter. It's just her way. I doubt she has anything against you personally."

  Tiffany nodded and took in a deep breath. "I'm willing to try, regardless. Desperation causes a person to be more tolerant of strife."

  "I don't like to hear you say desperate. Is it that bad?"

  She glanced toward Muffy and then back to me. "I'm about out of my savings. If I can't make rent next month, I don't know what I'll do. If it's not a job here, I'll have to hope to find something else. I don't want to leave Emerson Pass."

  "Right. Of course you wouldn't. I mean, who would?" I was babbling. My mouth went dry at the thought of her leaving. If she were still in town, the hope was alive. The idea that at any moment she might look my direction wasn't that easy to let go of, as long as she still lived here. "Come back at three this afternoon to meet with Scooter."

  "Will she want me to wear a dress?"

  That question surprised me. We dressed casually here. Most days Scooter wore her scrubs. At our last Christmas celebration, she'd had a few champagnes and confessed she prefers scrubs because then she didn't have to spend her hard-earned money on clothes. "I don't think a dress will be necessary. You look fine the way you are."

  She looked down at her feet. "The sandals are no good. I'll put different shoes on and maybe add a blazer over the blouse." She tapped her knuckles against her chin. "I never know what to wear."

  "You always look nice," I said. "Whenever I see you around."

  "Nice, but am I appropriately dressed? After all this time, I still don't know." This last part seemed to be a thought conveyed out loud. I had the sensation of trespassing, as if I were reading her secret journal. What did she mean by “after all this time”?

  "I'm not sure Scooter is the type to judge you about your clothes," I said. "She wears scrubs like they’re the new black.”

  A burst of laughter erupted from her. “That’s funny.”

  “I’m here all week.” I borrowed that from my dad. He’d been gone for almost fifteen years, and I could still hear his voice in my head.

  “I make all my own clothes. Other than jeans, that is." She tugged on the fabric that bunched at the outer thigh.

  "Really? All of them?"

  She flushed bright pink. "Not everything, but most things. Blouses and skirts. Dresses, if they're not too complicated."

  "I'd have never known. Not that I'm an expert on fashion." At the moment I had on a pair of my favorite jeans and a nice-looking dark blue T-shirt that my mother had given me. She'd given me the same shirt in seven different colors. She knew my affinity for soft shirts. And she wasn’t the most imaginative person when it came to gifts. If she found something she liked, she wasn’t afraid to commit.

  Muffy raised her head from her nap and whined.

  Tiffany startled. A look of guilt crossed her face, followed by a discouraged slump of her shoulders. "I should feed her. Do you mind if I take those and head home?"

  "Sure, here you go." I'd completely forgotten about the cans I’d set on the counter.

  "Wait, let me get a bag for you." I went behind the front desk, hoping there were sacks of some kind hidden in the drawers. We gave patients samples all the time. I found nothing but paper and ink cartridges. I straightened. "I've got nothing. I can’t find anything here.”

  "I can take them home in my purse,” Tiffany said, tugging the strap from her shoulder. “Thanks for setting up an interview with Scooter. I’ll do my best.”

  “Absolutely, we’ll see you at three this afternoon.” I fluttered my fingers toward my office. "It's time for my nap now." Why had I said that? Nap time. Like a kid. Scooter was right. Sleeping in the midday was a totally ridiculous thing for a grown man to do.

  "I love naps." Tiffany's expression brightened. "I take them whenever I can. Muffy likes them too."

  She liked naps too. Interesting. Was it a sign we were meant to be? An image of us curled up together for an afternoon rest floated before me. Was she a woman who would snuggle? She was affectionate toward Muffy. Would that extend to humans?

  “Scooter doesn't approve of the cot in my office,” I said. "But I find that I'm an unnaturally sleepy person."

  A short, unexpected laugh cheeped out of her again, reminding me of bubbles from a fish floating to the surface of a tank. “I’ve never thought about whether my desire for sleep is normal or not.” A trace of bitterness glinted in her eyes. "Where I come from, naps were not allowed. We had very exact guidelines about when to go to sleep and when to wake.”

  "Did you have a strict family?" I asked. My mother had raised me with a firm hand in regard to morality and respect for others and our environment. However, she’d been less so with curfews, sweets, and school-night rituals. She always said she never had to be overly heavy with me because I was always such an obedient and easygoing child. Her only child. Just the two of us after my dad died of cancer when I was fifteen.

  Tiffany’s glance flickered to Muffy, her expression flat and stoic. “You could say that.”

  I didn't dare ask her a follow-up question, even though the words were practically crawling up the back of my throat to get out. If she came to work here, I’d have more chances to ask questions. Maybe she’d grow to like me? I’d made her laugh twice since she walked into the lobby. This was a good sign, I decided. Always the optimist.

  3

  Tiffany

  Wearing a modest wrap dress in sage green and low-heeled sandals, I walked into the clinic with my held high, hoping it conveyed more confidence than I currently felt. Scooter sat behind the front desk, her horselike face set in a scowl. Leathery skin from too many days outside without sunscreen a stark contrast to her silver hair. What skin, though. Layers and layers of epidermis made tough by the Colorado elements. And those big teeth. She was like a farm animal, strong, scary, and ready to kick anyone who came too close. When Dr. Stokes had told me I’d have to interview with her, my stomach had dropped to the bottom of my sandals. There was no way I would get by her; I’d be lucky to make it out without lacerations, let alone with a job. Still, I must try. That was all there was to it. I was a survivor, and that’s what survivors did.

  Scooter lifted her gaze. Flinty eyes looked me up and down. A flash of irritation hardened that leather face. She didn’t like what she saw. Who knew why? I sent a silent note of gratitude to Stormi. Despite the casualness of the office and Dr. Stokes’s assurance that I come as I was, Stormi had been certain I should dress nicely for an interview. She’d had a lot of jobs, she’d said. “Trust me, it’s important to look professional, especially when they don’t expect it.”

  Without her, I might have gone with Dr. Stokes’s advice and actually shown up in the jeans and shirt I had on earlier. When I first entered the world, I’d had absolutely no idea how important clothes were to society at large. At first, obviously, it had been the least of my problems. However, as I grew acclimated enough to find a way to feed myself, I quickly realized that if I wanted to fit in, I needed to ditch the weird dresses.

  In the ten years since my escape from captivity, I'd learned a lot about normal people. Normals, as I thought of them, had codes and nuances they learned by going to school. I’d had to figure it out step by step, educating myself from magazines and television. Breck Stokes wasn’t the type who had to worry about fitting in. He’d been born that way. When I thought of him, I thought of apple pie, that new-car smell, and sitting in the shade on a porch on a Sunday afternoon. He might even be the king of the Normals. He’d make another Normal very happy and then have a bunch of little Normals. A twinge of envy pierced me. I’d have liked to marry a man like Dr. Stokes. If I’d been born into this life, he might have been interested in me. But I didn’t kid myself. I knew I was a freak. Even if they didn’t know why, it was obvious. Even Stormi and Jamie, true friends, looked at me sometimes as if I were a puzzle. As much as I’d learned to blend in, there was a separateness between me and the rest of the world. Even here in Emerson Pass, where people were more accepting of differences.

  I'd brought a résumé, which I grasped between damp fingers. Although the weather was a pleasant seventy-two today, a bead of sweat dribbled down the back of my spine. The air smelled sweet on this spring day, apple and cherry trees blossoming and daffodils lifting yellow faces toward the sun. Birds woke me in the mornings. My herb box I had hanging from my apartment window was starting to sprout with new growth.

  "Good afternoon," I said, smiling as best as I could even though my knees were practically knocking against each other.

  "Come on back," Scooter said. No smile. A curt nod and an attempt to make her mouth prim by pursing her lips. Unfortunately, those big teeth got in the way and instead she looked constipated. I'd observed her at church, the bossy way she directed people to their seats even though she wasn’t the greeter. Back at Briar Rose she would have been a first wife. I couldn’t imagine her accepting it any other way.

  I followed her into a small office with a desk and two chairs. Posters of kittens and puppies were hung on the only free space on the wall.

  “How’s that dog of yours?” Scooter asked as she took the chair behind the desk. Filing cabinets took up three of the four walls. A small succulent and a computer were the only items on her desk.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Why’d you bring her in this time?” Scooter yanked open a drawer and took out a yellow notepad.

  “She wouldn’t eat.” I hated that this woman made me feel so apologetic.

  “Let her starve a few days and she’ll eat what you put out.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. Muffy might look small and cute, but she had a stubborn streak. Scooter had never seen Muffy at the park. When she wanted to stay and play longer, she put up quite a fuss. Did Muffy seem ridiculous to Scooter? Too fluffy and white? Spoiled maybe? All of which were true, but my Muffy deserved respect.

  "Dr. Stokes tells me you're looking for additional work," Scooter said. She tented two bony hands under her chin. Why would anyone choose to be so skinny when there was food everywhere? "I suppose the whole tourist industry took a hit with the fires."

  "Yes, ma’am” I said. "Until things get better I need something to keep things from falling apart."

  She continued to gaze at me. "Interesting way of putting it—things falling apart.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “There’s something odd about you. Has anyone ever told you that?” Scooter asked this as if it were a perfectly natural thing to ask in an interview.

  “Not to my face,” I said.

  “I suppose they wouldn’t.” She looked down at the computer screen and made a heaving sigh. Something in her email or me?

  "Where are you from?” Scooter asked. “I mean originally. You’re from here, obviously. I know everyone who grew up here. Born and raised myself right here in Emerson Pass. My relatives were some of the first settlers here."

  "I'm from Nebraska. Small town." I left it at that. Usually that was enough to deter people.

  "What town?" Scooter glanced down at my résumé. "You don't have any work experience listed other than Denver and here."

  "That's because I moved to Denver when I was sixteen. I didn’t work before that.” I hoped that would be enough, but she was like a dog with a bone.

  "What town did you say it was?"

  “I didn’t. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

  “Try me,” Scooter said.

  “Murphy.” When this happened, I used my backup, but only when necessary. I hated lying to people about my past. There was less sin in omission, I figured. Outright lies were another thing. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Sure. Murphy. Blight on the land, that town.”