Another dog, she was certain.

She was equally certain that she couldn’t ignore it any more than she’d been able to with Woodrow. She ran to her room and threw on clothes.

“I know you’re gonna hate this,” she said to Woodrow, “but you’re staying. There’s another dog out there in trouble.”

She ran to her car, following the cry that tugged at every heart string she owned. Three minutes later, she slammed on the brakes when her headlights caught the dark huddled form on the side of the road near where she’d found Woodrow. “No,” she whispered, running out of the car, heart in her throat. “Oh, no.”

It was another dog, this one much more injured than Woodrow. It hadn’t been hit by a car, but in a vicious fight, and was bleeding from so many deep wounds she didn’t know where to start. She flew back to her car, grabbed a blanket from the backseat, and carefully scooped up the dog, who whimpered in pain.

“I know,” she whispered, heart in her throat. “Hold on, baby, just hold on.”

She broke a few speed limits heading toward the clinic, and also the no cell phone law when she hit Wyatt’s number.

He answered with a low-pitched, sleepy, “I hope this is a break-up sex booty call.”

She let out a half laugh, half sob, and he came immediately alert. “Emily?”

She pictured him putting on his glasses to check the screen. “You okay?” he demanded.

She swiped her nose on her sleeve and swallowed hard. “I’m heading to the center.”

“What’s wrong? What do you need?”

“I forgot my keys and don’t have time to turn around.”

She heard some rustling and knew he was getting out of bed. Normally she’d wonder if he was na**d, and maybe even indulge in picturing it, but right now she just wanted him to hold her, as much as that set feminism back fifty years. “Is there a set of keys hidden anywhere on the property?” she asked.

“No, but I’ll be here waiting for you. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to get you out of bed—”

“Emily,” he said, “I’m already halfway there. Talk to me.”

She felt her eyes fill again and quickly blinked away the tears. What was it going to be like in L.A. without him in her life?

Your own doing . . .

“Emily?”

“I’ve got another injured dog.”

“ETA?”

“Ten minutes.”

“I’ll have a room ready,” he said calmly. “Drive safe, sweetness.”

Because she didn’t trust her voice, she nodded, for all the good that was going to do him. Then she ended the call and tossed her cell to the passenger’s seat and drove.

Wyatt did indeed get to Belle Haven before Emily. He hadn’t expected to hear from her, and for a moment, when her number had come up on his cell phone, his heart had squeezed, hard.

She’d changed her mind.

He’d been unprepared to hear her tear-ravaged voice, and fear had gripped him.

When her car pulled into the lot, he strode out into the night to meet her, opening the driver’s side as she turned off the engine.

“The dog’s in the backseat—” she started.

He pulled her from the car and gave her a quick once-over.

“I’m fine,” she said, opening the back passenger’s door. Wyatt gently pushed her aside and eyed the dog. Ah, shit.

“It’s bad,” she whispered.

Yeah. Real bad. He scooped the injured animal up while Emily ran ahead of him to get the front door.

“Where was he?” he asked her.

“About a quarter of a mile from my house, between my place and my neighbor. Right near where I found Woodrow. I heard him crying.”

And she’d gone out alone. He hated that. He shouldered himself and the dog through the door, striding directly to the back. “You went out at this time of night by yourself.”

“I had no choice,” she said. “You’d have done the same thing.”

The dog hadn’t moved, but was breathing heavily, a distressed pant. He’d gone into shock and was badly damaged. Torn to shreds really, bleeding through the blanket from too many places to count. Wyatt gently set him down on the exam table and turned to Emily, who’d immediately shifted closer to stroke the dog’s face and murmur softly to him.

She stood there, bent over the dog, tears shimmering in her eyes, balancing on her lower lashes. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered.

Wyatt’s heart tightened painfully. He knew that devastated look, he’d felt it all too many times himself.

It was one of the things that few people realized about being a vet, how much death and devastation they really faced every single day.

It took its toll on even the most distant and cool, levelheaded of people. And Emily was one tough cookie—he loved that about her—but she was never distant and only sometimes cool and levelheaded. Everyone had their breaking point and she looked to be at hers. “Emily.”

“I . . .” Lifting her gaze from the table, she stared at him. She was covered in blood. The dog’s, he told himself as she shook her head helplessly. “I—” Without another word, she whirled to grab some supplies and started assessing the dog as he would. “Shock,” she choked out. “He’s in shock.”

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. Waiting. It didn’t take but another two seconds. “He can’t take a surgery,” she realized. “He can’t—” She shook her head as it sank into her that the dog wasn’t going to survive, that the humane thing to do was put it down. “I have to . . .”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“No.” She shook her head again. “This is on me. He’s my responsibility—”

“Did you attack this dog?”

“Of course not!”

“Then it’s not on you. Let me,” he said.

“But—”

“I know, you want to handle it all on your own, and you do. You handle everything on your own better than anyone I know. But let someone help, just this once.”

She was breathing a little heavily, telling him that the dog wasn’t the only shocky one. He had no idea what it was about this dog that had gotten to her so deeply, but it happened. It was the job. And sometimes, the job sucked. “Can you get me a warming blanket?” he asked.

He wasn’t going to need it. The dog wasn’t going to need it. And if she’d been thinking clearly, she’d have known it.

But she went, leaving him alone to do what had to be done.

Emily was at the closet where they kept the warming blankets before her brain kicked in and she realized what Wyatt had done for her.

“Damn him,” she whispered, and sat right where she was, on the floor by the closest. She pulled her legs into her chest, dropped her head to her knees, and tried to keep it together.

A few minutes later, footsteps came down the hall toward her and she busied herself with the blankets in the closest, like she was actually doing something.

“Come here, sweetness.”

“I’m organizing the closet.”

He sat next to her, right there on the floor, and then two warm, strong arms encircled her, pulling her into his lap.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and lost it.

He tucked her face into the crook of his neck and pressed his jaw to the top of her head. And then he did what she couldn’t remember anyone ever doing for her before.

He let her cry.

When she’d managed to curtail it down to noisy, hiccupping sniffles, he lifted her face to his. “Why did you become a vet?” he asked.

“To help,” she managed. Her throat got tight again. “To help animals.”

“And you helped him. You did,” he said when she started to shake her head. “You rescued him from a night of pure hell and put him out of his misery, and that was your job. That’s what we do.”

She closed her eyes. “You did it.”

“You went out into the night, heedless of your own safety, putting his life ahead of yours—which, by the way, we’re going to circle back to later—and you saved him from being alone.

She gave a shuddery, exhausted sigh. “Wyatt?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the intern switch. I should have. I . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered. “More than I know how to admit.”

He blew out a breath. “Same. You came out of nowhere, knocked me on my ass.”

She set her head on his shoulder and tried not to cry again. “Will I see you? After I’m gone?”

“You marrying anyone anytime soon?”

She let out a watery laugh. “No.”

“Then yeah. I’ll see you. It’ll be okay, Em.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?” he asked, stroking a big hand up and down her back.

“Act like a grown-up.”

It was his turn to huff out a laugh. “Yeah, well, it happens sometimes. We’ve got to call this one in, sweetness.”

“The police?”

“Yeah. That wasn’t a hit-and-run. And that wasn’t a coyote attack.”

“What was it?”

“I think someone’s fighting dogs.” Still sitting on the floor holding her, he pulled out his cell, hit a number, and put the phone to his ear. “Kel? Yeah, sorry man, I know it’s late. But we’ve got something you need to see.” He shoved his phone back in his pocket.

“Who’s Kel?”

“Local sheriff. He’s on his way.”

Kel arrived ten minutes later. He was a tall, lean, good-looking guy Emily recognized as one of the cops Wyatt played football against. Given his bed-head hair and unhappy expression, he’d clearly just dragged himself out of bed. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Remember what you were telling me the other night after the game?” Wyatt asked. “About the dogs? You said you suspected you had an illegal dog fighting ring in the county.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got something to show you. Wait here a sec,” he said to Emily, and then he and Kel vanished down the hall.

A few minutes later they were back, Kel looking royally pissed off. “I don’t know what kind of sick f**k could do that to a dog.”

A half an hour later, Emily parked her car in her driveway, got out, and nearly screamed when a tall shadow materialized in front of her.

Wyatt.

“Need to be more aware of your surroundings,” he said.

“Why are you following me?”

“Making sure you got home okay.” He took her key from her and started to unlock the front door, but Sara pulled it open and gaped in horror at Emily’s bloody sweatshirt. “What—”

“It’s not her blood,” Wyatt said, and shouldered his way in, hands on Emily, nudging her ahead of him. “She’s just exhausted. I’m putting her to bed.”

“Do you need a padlock to keep her there?” Sara asked his back as he strode down the hallway like he owned the place.

“I’ve got my ways,” Wyatt called back.

“I bet,” Sara murmured.

Wyatt took Emily into the bathroom and started her shower. “Need help?”

“No.” It was an automatic response. She was good at not needing help. “I’m fine.”

Wyatt let out a breath that was as close to a sigh as she’d ever heard from him. “Don’t do that,” he said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to be Super Woman, not with me.”

She tried to laugh that off, but the sound was weak and she closed her mouth, afraid she’d go from laughing to crying again.

Leaning past her, Wyatt tested the hot water, and then he shocked her as he stripped quickly and efficiently, each movement economical and so masculine that she just stared at him.

When he was standing there na**d and perfect, he began to remove her clothes, softening enough to smile when he caught her expression. “Don’t look at me like that,” he warned.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me up.”

But God help her, she did. He was all smooth, rippled sinew and male virility, and in any other circumstance, she would’ve taken at least a nibble. “I’m not.”

He snorted, pushed her into the shower, and then followed, completely unselfconscious, even though he was quite obviously aroused. Eyes hooded, he washed her hair with firm, strong fingers, and she let herself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of. When his hands ran the soap down her body, her head fell back onto his chest. She closed her eyes so she couldn’t see the dog’s blood running off her, down the drain.

But it was embedded in her brain, and the shock of it, and her anger, hit her again, and she began to shake. She reached out for the wall but Wyatt turned her to face him and anchored her close. She rested her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as the tremors took her.

Wyatt set the soap aside and wrapped his other arm around her, too, and rested his head on top of hers, holding her until she calmed.

“I’m better,” she said.

He didn’t respond, nor did he let go of her. Instead, his hands glided up and down her back in a gesture she was sure he meant to be soothing and comforting, and it was. At first.

But then she started to tremble for another reason altogether, and that reason was directly related to being pressed up against his wet, hot, hard body. “If you want me to stop looking at you like that,” she murmured. “You’re gonna have to stop touching me.”