Best Friends by Samantha Glen Page A

directions to find a place to relieve themselves.
    Diana’s face puckered into a mock grimace. “Let’s get these mewling monsters settled before they lose their voices,” she said, grabbing a cat carrier.
    The bunkhouse’s official greeter was waiting when the women stepped into his domain. As soon as the pirate cat spotted Faith, he leaped onto the kitchen counter, butted his head against the cabinet door, and let out a series of meows that put all his fellow felines to shame.
    â€œHe knows we keep the Fancy Feast on the top shelf,” Diana said fondly. “Sinjin’s become an expert at inveigling at least one can out of everyone who walks through here.”
    Faith hadn’t seen the badly burned cat since Thanksgiving. Now all she could do was stare at a king-sized, expectant creature whose fur had grown in amazingly black and glossy with only a few patches of scarred, crinkled skin—grim reminders of his ordeal. Sinjin in turn fixed this new person with his one unblinking green eye.
    â€œHe’s become head kitty around here,” Diana said. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She walked over to the purring machine and scratched behind his ears. Sinjin immediately pushed his head into her hand. “He’s coerced three Fancy Feasts out of us already today. I think he can last until dinner. Let me show you what Steven got together for us.” Diana proudly led Faith to a new, shaded enclosure, ready with litter boxes, water, feeding bowls, and cushioned orange crates for the travel-weary felines.
    â€œThey’re going to love it here,” Faith enthused.
    The late afternoon sun was shadowing the ridge top before the cats were settled to Diana’s satisfaction. By now Faith was tired herself, and more than ready to see her own quarters. She and Diana were leaving the bunkhouse when a flash of sunlight reflecting off a window caught her eye. “What’s that? Have I seen it before?” she said pointing to a huge boat of a car parked next to a tiny travel trailer almost hidden by tall scrub.
    â€œThat’s Tyson Horn’s.”
    â€œI haven’t met him.”
    â€œHe knows John from Dallas. Came to help out on his vacation a couple of weeks ago. You’ll like him, Faith, he’s great with dogs.” Diana shrugged. “Seems . . . I don’t know how to put it exactly, but seems like one of them, if you know what I mean. And I didn’t tell you. John’s here, too!”
    Faith’s smile became a grin. She and John Christopher Fripp went back to the London days. He’d regaled her with stories of his two-year stint in the British army. “Almost reenlisted,” he confided, his sailor blue eyes rolling at the thought. “They stationed me in Egypt, and I did love that desert.”
    At the age of twenty-three John Christopher had gone back to school and majored in history. “What a bloody, boring waste!” he said of it. He was good with numbers and figured accountants always made a decent pound or two, so he said good-bye to Napoleon and Henry VIII and took up a more modern vocation. John was the solid elder statesman of the group, the bookkeeper who kept them tightly within their budget, crossing all the t ’s and dotting all the i ’s on their charitable foundation’s returns. Faith hadn’t seen John in ages. She was glad he was in the canyon.
    The dogs were suddenly alert, bodies tensed, eyes fixated uphill. Brunhilda assumed big-dog stance at the front of the pack, her bloodhound ears brushing the earth. Strolling toward them was a tall, lanky man. Faith couldn’t see his eyes because they were shaded with dark sunglasses and hidden by a wide-brimmed Australian breeze hat. But she did note the passel of dogs that panted at his heels, among them one small terrier.
    â€œBrunhilda!” she yelled, lunging for the bloodhound, but the hound was already on the scent and tearing toward