Best Friends by Samantha Glen Page B

her prey. “Oh no,” Faith groaned, puffing after her up the slope.
    The lean stranger made a slight gesture with his hand, and his dogs bunched behind him. He squatted to eye level with the oncoming hound . . . and waited. Brunhilda stiff-legged to a dusty halt within inches of the man’s face, all the pendulous folds of her disfigured head shuddering with the effort.
    Faith stopped. This had to be Tyson. He was murmuring to Brunhilda words that only the dog could hear. The man stretched out his right hand and gently pulled the hound’s one floppy ear, caressing the thin skin between thumb and forefinger, calming the big animal to the ground. With his left, he carefully eased his little companion mutt forward, all the time talking . . . talking.
    The two canines cautiously sniffed each other from the safety of the man’s body. The feisty terrier mutt craned her head closer to Brunhilda’s crumpled face, and Faith watched the hound’s curious acceptance. Tyson slowly retracted his right hand and Brunhilda rose, shook herself, and lumbered back to Faith.
    â€œTold you he had a way with dogs,” Diana said as the man came to meet them. “Tyson Horn, this is Faith Maloney.” She paused and grinned. “Chief Dog.”
    â€œMa’am,” Tyson said and lifted his hat.
    â€œCall me Faith.” She smiled. “You know dogs.”
    â€œSeems that way,” Tyson said.
    Faith could detect no bravado in his words. If anything he was shy. Faith also knew that the dogs who ambled with him so companionably were among the most difficult she’d had to contend with at the Arizona ranch. Yet the animals seemed docile around the man. “How long are you staying?”
    Tyson didn’t answer straightaway. He gazed into some imaginary distance, weighing his reply. “I work in a bank installing computers, ma’am,” he began, his Texas drawl wrapping the words like molasses.
    â€œFaith.”
    â€œFaith,” he acknowledged. “But it doesn’t . . .” Tyson shrugged as if this woman would know what he meant. She did.
    â€œI like what you people are doing,” he paused. “I’d like to stay on awhile if you’ve a mind. Help out some more. You need help,” he finished, nodding to confirm his observations.
    â€œYou have no idea,” Faith sighed, thinking of Dogtown.
    â€œWe’re on our way to The Village,” Diana said.
    â€œI’ll take care of your dogs, if you’d like,” Tyson offered.
    â€œThank you, Tyson,” Faith said. “I’d like that very much.”
    Faith was amazed at the progress that had come about during the past six months. The Village had taken the shape of a southwestern structure to rival any in Santa Fe. The whorled, whitewashed walls snaked respectfully around old-growth junipers, Paul’s design allowing the ancient trees to dictate the flow of a building whose clean, spare lines rose in perfect juxtaposition to its sweeping, high-desert surroundings.
    Hellos were called as they unloaded Faith’s bags, but no one made a fuss except John. He held a ladder for Steven and yelled he’d catch her later. In contrast, the dogs, led by Goldilocks, flung themselves on their Big Mama as if she’d been away forever.
    Faith’s quarters were on the far end of the building from where the men were working. Diana had placed a vase of wildflowers on the table beside the bed in welcome. She left Faith alone to unpack in the sun-splashed quarters that would be her new home.
    By the time Faith walked back to the bunkhouse for dinner, the air had taken on the coolness of an early spring evening. Mariko and Steven were cooking a delicious Japanese repast to which Faith wouldn’t even try to put a name. After everyone had eaten their fill, the conversation turned naturally to the direction the sanctuary might take. John appointed himself the group’s