“He’s not your dog,” Boone shot at her. “Misty’s right. This is a bid for attention, just like old Bailey whining so that I’ll pet him. But it won’t work. I’m taking Misty to the concert.”
Keely was so infuriated that she wouldn’t even look at him. Bailey was dying.
“Let’s go,” Boone told Misty.
He didn’t speak to Keely again, or to Winnie. He and his date walked back to the garage. Minutes later, his car roared out down the driveway.
“What are we going to do?” Winnie asked, because she believed her best friend.
“We can let him die or take him to the vet,” Keely said curtly.
“Who’s driving?” was all the other woman asked.
* * *
The oldest of the three vets, Bentley Rydel, and the owner of the clinic, was on call. He was the best surgeon of the group. At thirty-two, he was the only unmarried one. People said it was because he was so antagonistic that no woman could get near him. It was probably the truth.
He helped Keely get Bailey into the X-ray room and onto the table. She held him while the X-rays were taken, petting him and talking soothingly to him. For a man who resembled nothing more than a human pit viper with other members of his own species, he was the soul of compassion with animals.
He and Winnie were back in ten minutes with the X-rays. He looked somber as he showed them the proof that Bailey’s stomach had turned over. “It’s a complicated and expensive procedure, and I can’t promise you that it will succeed. If I don’t operate, the necrosis will spread and he’ll die. He may die anyway. You have to make a decision.”
“He’s my brother’s dog,” Winnie said uneasily, petting the whimpering old animal.
“Your brother will have to give consent.”
“He won’t,” Keely said miserably. “He doesn’t think it’s bloat.”
Bentley’s eyebrows arched. “And what veterinary school did he graduate from?”
Winnie’s phone playing the theme fromStar Warsinterrupted the conversation. She answered it nervously. She’d recognized Boone’s number on the caller ID screen.
“It’s Boone!” she whispered with her hand over the phone. She grimaced. “Hello?” she said hesitantly.
“Where the hell is my dog?” he demanded.
Winnie took a deep breath. “Boone, we brought Bailey here to the vet…”
“We?Keely’s mixed up in this, isn’t she?” he demanded, outraged.
The vet, seeing Winnie’s pained expression, held out his hand for the phone. Winnie gave it to him gladly.
“This animal,” the vet began firmly, “has a severe case of bloat. I can show you on the X-rays where necrosis of tissue has already begun. If I don’t operate, he will be dead in an hour. The decision is yours, but I urge you to make it quickly.”
Boone hesitated. “Will he live?”
“I can’t promise you that,” Bentley said curtly. “He should have been brought in when the symptoms first presented. The delay has complicated the procedure. This conversation,” he added acidly, “is another delay.”
The curse was audible two feet from the cell phone. “Do it,” Boone said. “I’ll give you permission. My sister can be your witness. Do what you can. Please.”
“Certainly I will.” He handed the phone to Winnie. “Keely, we need to prep him for surgery.”
“Yes, sir.” Keely was smiling. Her boss was a great negotiator. Now, at least Bailey had a chance, no thanks to the heartless woman who’d have sacrificed his life for a concert ticket.
* * *
The operation took two hours. Keely stood gowned beside the vet, administering anesthetic to the dog and checking his vital signs constantly. There was only a small amount of dead tissue, luckily, and she watched Bentley’s skillful hands cut it away efficiently.
“What was the delay?” he asked her.