Magnolia by Diana Palmer Page A

Claire said.
    â€œAnd what a future it has,” John replied. “We make long-term as well as short-term loans to businesses, and we’re showing huge profits.” Well, on paper, at least, he added to himself, putting aside some nagging worries about the bank’s finances that he wasn’t going to share with Claire.
    â€œOh, John, look!” She grabbed his arm unconsciously, wincing as she saw a carriage just ahead of them collide with a dog and knock it to the roadside. It kept going. “The animal! How could they leave it! John, do stop,” she pleaded.
    â€œOf course we’ll stop,” he said, equally incensed. He banged on the top of the coach with his cane, tossed his hat aside, and unbuttoned his jacket and discarded it before he followed Claire out of the carriage. He rolled up his sleeves on the way.
    The animal was yelping in pain. John knelt beside it and his hands gently felt for breaks in its ribs and legs while it tried feebly to snap at him.
    â€œIt’s his leg,” John said after a minute. “I’ll need a splint and some gauze.”
    â€œIt’s in pain.”
    â€œYes, I know. But there’s very little I can do about that,” he said apologetically.
    â€œBeauregard!” a sobbing, elderly voice called. A tiny little old woman with white hair came down the path from an imposing brick home. She leaned heavily on a cane. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” she said, wiping away tears. She looked at John helplessly. “Will he die?” she asked resignedly.
    â€œCertainly not,” John said gently. “He has a broken leg and he’s in some pain. Have you gauze and something I can use for a splint?”
    â€œOh, are you a doctor?” the old woman asked.
    â€œNo, but I’ve patched up enough wounded men in my time. I know what to do. I’ll carry him.”
    â€œYou’ll get dirty, young man,” the old lady said worriedly.
    He chuckled. “Yes, I probably will.”
    He bent and picked up the poor animal, very careful not to jostle him any more than necessary. The animal was still whimpering, but he was no longer trying to bite.
    Claire’s eyes adored her husband. She’d always thought him a kind man, but seeing this tender side of him made her heart ache. All the way to the house, she reassured the worried owner of the dog, recalling her own pets who had survived worse mishaps. By the time they reached the elegant house, the old woman had stopped crying.
    â€œI can’t thank you both enough for stopping,” the old woman said as they walked up the steps. “Beauregard was given to me by my late husband. He’s all I have. I saw that carriage hit him and drive on. I know whose carriage it is, too. It belongs to that commercial banker, that Wolford man.”
    â€œOur competition.” John chuckled. “Yes, I know him.”
    â€œHe would not loan a starving beggar a nickel,” the lady said. She glanced curiously at John. “And to which bank do you belong, young man?”
    â€œI am vice president of the Peachtree City Bank,” he replied.
    â€œAh.” She smiled.
    John didn’t understand that smile, but he quickly became too occupied with the poor dog to analyze it. They put theanimal on the porch, and when the materials he required were fetched, he set the animal’s broken leg securely.
    â€œHe lives in the house,” the elderly lady said. “I’ll keep him warm and fed and watered—and I won’t let him move around any more than necessary. I can never thank you enough.”
    â€œThis may sound wicked,” John said, “but if you can give him a little whiskey, it might help the pain.”
    She grinned. “I have several bottles of my husband’s best. I shall take your advice.” She petted the dog gently. He was lying still, shivering a little, but not whimpering.
    â€œHere,” John said, picking the animal up