Last Dog in England

Jill Zeller

Description

World War II changed everything for Kitty Rose. A war widow running both a California ranch and winery, Kitty barely has time for regret and loss. When her father brings home two English mastiff puppies to raise, and Kitty learns that the war in England brought the treasured dogs to near extinction. With the help of a handsome veterinarian, she rushes headlong into her dream of helping the English restore the breed. Veterinarian Doug Marsh is changed by the war, too. An interrupted career, an impulsive English marriage, the loss of a best friend to Japanese American internment lie heavily on Doug's mind. When a chance visit to Rose Ranch to treat two English mastiff puppies upends his life, he struggles with his pledge to help Kitty Rose get dogs sent to England, along with his growing attraction to her.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Book View Cafe
• Date de parution: 08 mars 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781636320304
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE LAST DOG IN ENGLAND

Jill Zeller
Book View Café edition February 1, 2022 978-1-63632-029-8 Copyright © 2022 Jill Zeller
www.bookviewcafe.com
Table of Contents
Part I The Summer the Wars End
1945
Tuesday, May 1st
Tuesday, May 8th
Wednesday, May 9th
Thursday, May 10th
Monday, May 14th
Tuesday, May 15th
Monday, May 26th
Wednesday, May 28th
Thursday, May 29th
Wednesday, June 6th
Saturday, June 9th
Monday, June 10th
Part II Dog Days
Saturday, August 18th
Wednesday, August 22nd
Friday, August 24th
Monday, August 27
Wednesday, August 29
Saturday, September 8th
Monday, October 1st
Thursday October 11th
Part III The Last Dog in England
Monday, February 11th 1946
Tuesday, February 12th
Monday, February 18th
Tuesday, February 19th
Wednesday, February 20th
Saturday, February 23rd
Saturday, March 30th
Read a Sample from The Last Dog in England Book 2
Tuesday, April 2nd1946
Friday, April 5th
Monday, April 8th
Books by Jill Zeller
About the Author
Copyrights & Credits
About Book View Café
Part I The Summer the Wars End
1945
Tuesday, May 1 st
Through the kitchen windows the softening night promiseddawn and another hot day. Before the war, June Katherine—“Kitty” to family,friends and the entire town of Livermore, California—used to think about thefuture on mornings like this. Futures like marriage to Rusty Lukas. HelpingRusty run the winery. Children. Being something more than a rancher’s daughter.Then the war came, and she began to think about other things, like keeping theLukas winery alive and running Rose Ranch single-handedly—or nearly so. The wartook the cowhands, and her brother Danny, and Mom’s death knocked Dad off hispins, so to speak.
Expressing continual regret at having to retire from herjob, Mom mourned her job as a nurse before she married Dad. Mom had manyregrets, and probably died from the weight of them.
So Kitty was running two businesses now. Who had time tothink about anything else? These thoughts ran through Kitty's mind every earlymorning as she entered the kitchen, welcomed by the aroma of bacon and thickblack coffee.
Before Kitty could begin to count her own volume of regretsshe asked Berte, “Dad up?”
At the stove Berte supervised bacon in one pan and eggs inthe other spewing steam like two small volcanoes. Her silver hair, wrestledinto a bun at her neck, glimmered in the kitchen light suspended over thetable. Berte had come to live with them in the aftermath of the deaths ofKitty’s mom and Berte’s son. And now she was one of them, the hard-workingranchers of the Rose family. The Rozézs, she would say at the Haygood Market. “I need flour for the Rozézs. ”
“He went out. Drove down the road. Truck is not back.”Berte’s voice was always a clipped slurry with her French accent.
Kitty dipped her finger into her coffee. The sharp burnwould help her wake up. Dad would do what he did best, leave without a word andreturn with a new used pick-up, or a load of peach trees, or a wading pool forDickon the big black cattle dog to stand in during the hot days. Sighing, Kittyswirled her coffee, then, walking to the open kitchen window, she sighed again.Through the screen she smelled the mild morning as the sun sent a message todawn about holding back, and there was the deep cool smell of alfalfa balesthat needed to be moved to the west pasture, and the manure that needed to beswabbed out of the stable. Confused crickets persisted with night songs. Butthe geese were up and honking at invisible intruders. A possum, headed home,trotted across the lawn. She could hear coyotes at the creek. And cattle lowingat the gate, waiting for the day to begin.
Kitty needed to change the oil in the Farmall. She needed toget more feed for the hens. And there was the letter to her brother from theUnited States Army sitting on the table before her.
She heard Dad’s truck rattling up the road and slide to astop outside the kitchen door. Just then Berte poured a pile of scrambled eggs,three strips of bacon, a freshly baked biscuit slathered with Rose Ranch butteronto Kitty’s plate. And then a similar steaming mound on Dad’s.
Dad burst into the kitchen, carrying under each arm two ofthe biggest puppies that Kitty had ever seen. They were pale blond, but the furaround their broad faces was the color of fine mink. Dad’s face was red, as ifhe had been running.
He dumped one of the dogs into Kitty’s lap, and handed theother to Berte, who grunted at its weight.
The one in Kitty’s lap struggled against her. She wrappedher arms around it, cradling it. Its body weighing heavily on her knees, itwent limp, noisily breathing against her shoulder.
“Dad? What is going on?”
The dog smelled like wheat dry from the sun, and radiatedwarmth. It squeaked a little, then twisted its head to lick her cheek.
“ Mon Dieu , they are huge!” Berte shoved aside a chairwith her foot and plopped into it.
Both dogs appeared to be snuffling and sneezing, and thebreaths of the one in Kitty’s lap came fast, as if it was having troublebreathing.
Dickon, who felt deserving of some respect in the sizeissue, began sniffing the dogs, starting with their butts and moving alongtheir bodies to their noses. They licked the big black mutt, too. Then he satbetween them, tail wagging, looking up at Kitty as if asking her if these houseguests were going to stay.
The puppy on Kitty’s lap spread warmth, melting away herdevoted family of regrets that stood around her, as if banished by a spell castby the good witch.
“Well, Dickon, I guess you have a couple sisters now.” Kittysmoothed the fur on her pup’s head. “Oh, she feels very hot!” Feverish, ill,squirmy and whining .
Dad raised his hand, half-closed, and waved it at Kitty, hisway of saying he would explain later. Dad had mostly given up speech the dayMom died. But Kitty had learned to read his face, body, feet, even the way hishair was combed.
Kitty nodded. “You’re going to get help? Dr. Walt?”
Kitty thought he would nod assent, but his eyebrows camedown, lips thinned. Both hands came up, palm out, in his way of denial.
Shrugging, he left.
Berte muttered something that sounded like cursing inFrench. Kitty knew how she felt.
“ Monsieur Rose, what about your breakfast?” Bertecalled after him. It was a complaint, not a question.
As she listened to the pickup grumble to life and driveaway, Kitty’s mind began to spin.
“Berte, we have to keep them warm, and make certain theyhave lots of water.”
Nodding, Berte, a true French soldier like her son, wasalways ready for action. “Laundry basket. Blankets—”
“Too small for the sisters,” Kitty heard herself say. Sheknew, somehow, that the two were from the same litter and that they were bothfemale, by the clear similarity between the two dogs: fur the color of paletoast, a circle of chocolate around their buckwheat honey eyes.
“What kind of dog do you suppose they are?”
Berte rose from her chair with difficulty, still holding thepup. “ Mastéque Anglais .”
“What?”
Berte shook her head. Her face began to shrink, and Kittyknew that when Berte’s face grew tight and small it was time to just let thesubject alone for a while.
There had to be a bigger box, a snuggle-den of a place.Kitty ran through the inventory of her mind, seeking the file—and there it was,a crate in the barn—she had just seen it from her bedroom window this morning,through the open barn doors. The new rake had arrived in it, and they wouldnever get rid of the box—it could be used for firewood, or something.
And now, a nice little kennel.
“Wait,” she said, getting up. “IsDanny home at least?”
Berte nodded fiercely. Then shesat down again, cradling the pup in her lap.
Carrying her dog, Kitty ran up thestairs to pound on Danny’s door.

Normally Captain Doug Marsh didn’t go on local calls becausehe was still in the Army and working for the military, but Mother insisted. Sheknew the rancher, apparently, because she knew, as she always did, about allthe dogs in Alameda County and their breeders, and who had which dogs and theparticular breeds they favored. There had been an outbreak of a respiratoryillness running through kennels and killing puppies. Mother was worried it hadinfected the rancher’s new young dogs.
So he took the ancient Ford with barely enough gas in it,and one of Mother’s hoarded coupons for the emergency fill-up, and drove eastthrough Crow Canyon, following a winding road through brown hills dotted withCalifornia oaks, along the creek bed just going dry as the hot Californiasummer began. He loved this part of the Bay Area, far from Berkeley with it’sintrusive fingers of fog and into hot farmland where walnut, peach and cherryorchards thrived and struggled, thirsty for the water being pumped from thecanals to the Army and naval bases for their priority uses.
It took nearly forty minutes to reach Rose Ranch. It was alarge one, Mother had told him, spreading over 2000 acres in rolling hills ofopen ranch land just east of Livermore.
The war had treated Livermore well. Doug remembered it as adusty cow town, a place of belligerent cowboys. Its two redeeming factors inDoug’s view was the yearly Rodeo and multiple vineyards. Especially thevineyards. The road took him through town—banners announcing the June Rodeowere strung across First Street. Then it was a straight shot on East Avenuepast the Livermore Naval Air Station, where row upon row of shiny Navy trainerslined the runway, and the metal roofs of the Quonset huts glinted in the newlyrisen sun.
But Doug could see, as he turned into Rose Ranch’s entrance,that the place had seen better times. One of the ‘ R ’s had lost its rightleg, and the sign arching over the entrance badly needed a new coat of paint.
But the drive was lovely, passing through oak and eucalyptushugging a creek. Quail darted across the road and turkey vultures patrolled theclear blue sky. A long bridge spanned the creek, still shuffling water along inthis early summer. Everything sme