Best Friends by Samantha Glen Page A

in the laughter. “There are no secrets. But would you really consider coming out to our place?”
    â€œHe’s the best vet,” Lorelei interrupted. “Just graduated from Colorado State. We love him around here.”
    â€œWhy haven’t we met before?” Francis asked, exasperated.
    â€œI hear that property of yours keeps you pretty busy, but I planned to come by sooner or later.” Dr. Christy dragged a cracked leather wallet from his jeans pocket, pulled a crumpled white card from a mess of receipts, and handed it to Francis. “Call me. I’d like to see your operation.”
    â€œCall me. Call me,” the parrot mimicked.
    Francis forgot Monica’s eye medicine. If the police had been vigilant, he would surely have gotten a ticket for driving eighty miles an hour back to Angel Canyon. He couldn’t wait to share the news. There was no way to know how soon he would be calling the good doctor.

CHAPTER TEN
Burnt Offering
    â€œH ot cider, everybody. Come and get it,” Jana de Peyer announced, stirring the contents of the big iron pot simmering on the stove. Michael bent over the bubbling amber liquid and sniffed appreciatively. “Get out of here. You’ll have your nose in it in a minute,” Jana teased as she ladled generous portions of the clove-scented cider into waiting mugs.
    Michael grinned and angled to be first in line. He took his mug and ambled through the “everything room,” as they called the open area adjoining the kitchen, and gazed out the window that afforded the endlessly enchanting, ever-changing view.
    It had hailed during the night—huge stones that pinged like bullets on the roof of the bunkhouse. He had gotten up to watch jagged flashes of fire split the sky between warring thunderheads, bathing the craggy corridors of the canyon in luminous radiance.
    Thanksgiving Day had dawned with the fenny smell of damp, dark earth steaming in the morning sunshine, glistening with freshness. Michael had watched Cyrus rush to capture the elusive magic of the scene on his canvas.
    Now dusk was filming the afternoon, and in a few minutes they would sit down to a holiday feast of nuts, grains, and vegetables; blackberry and pumpkin pies, and custard.
    Francis came over and stood beside Michael. “I think we found Montezuma’s treasure.”
    Michael nodded and thought of all the different definitions of treasure. The true riches of Angel Canyon were certainly very different from what Montezuma’s men, or the Hollywood stars who’d come after them, had considered treasure.
    Neither Michael or Francis had been listening to Diana Asher on the phone. She padded across the room toward them, her face anxious. “That was Nancy Hartwell.”
    Nancy Hartwell was one of their favorite locals. The classic image of the little old lady in tennis shoes, Nancy was so excited when she heard what they were doing. She had sniffled and dabbed her eyes with the corner of her cardigan when they introduced her to the animals. “I’ve been rescuing these critters all my life. I thought I was the only person who felt this way. I’m so glad you’ve come. God bless you. God bless you all.”
    â€œNancy hates to bother us, but some woman called about a rotten cat in her driveway. Told Nancy her kids have been trying to kick it out of the way, but it won’t move. Nancy’s beside herself. She’s in bed with the flu, otherwise . . .”
    Francis didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”
    â€œWe’ll wait dinner on you,” Faith promised as the man and woman sped out of the bunkhouse.
    Â 
    Francis parked on a scrubby grass verge outside the address Nancy had given Diana. The almost-full moon shed a silvery glow over the garden. They saw the cat immediately, an inert form curled on the weed-choked gravel driveway.
    Diana dropped to her knees beside the feline. “Oh my God.” She turned her head