Dachshund Through the Snow Read online

  Dachshund Through the Snow

  The Dogmothers

  Book Three

  Roxanne St. Claire

  Dachshund Through the Snow

  THE DOGMOTHERS BOOK THREE

  Copyright 2019 South Street Publishing

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the copyright. For permission or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author, [email protected].

  ISBN ebook: 978-1-7339121-7-4

  ISBN print: 978-1-7339121-8-1

  COVER DESIGN: Keri Knutson

  INTERIOR FORMATTING: Author E.M.S.

  Table of Contents

  DACHSHUND THROUGH THE SNOW

  Copyright

  Before The Dogmothers…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  A Dogfather/Dogmothers Family Reference Guide

  About the Author

  Before

  The Dogmothers…

  there was

  The Dogfather!

  Sit…Stay…Beg – book one

  New Leash on Life – book two

  Leader of the Pack – book three

  Santa Paws is Coming to Town – book four (a holiday novella)

  Bad to the Bone – book five

  Ruff Around the Edges – book six

  Double Dog Dare – book seven

  Bark! The Herald Angels Sing – book eight (a holiday novella)

  Old Dog New Tricks – book nine

  The Dogmothers Series

  Hot Under the Collar – book one

  Three Dog Night – book two

  Dachshund Through the Snow – book three

  And many more to come!

  Note to readers: For a complete guide to all of the characters in both The Dogfather and Dogmothers series, see the back of this book. Or visit www.roxannestclaire.com for a printable reference, book lists, buy links, and reading order of all my books. Be sure to sign up for my newsletter to find out when the next book is released! And join the private Dogfather Facebook group at https://www.facebook.com/groups/roxannestclairereaders/ for inside info on all the books and characters, sneak peeks, and a place to share the love of tails and tales!

  Chapter One

  “Agnes Santorini, my dear lass.” Finnie clapped her hands in front of her face with a gleam in her blue eyes not even her thick bifocals could hide. “I have good news, and I have bad news.”

  “I don’t want bad news on Christmas Eve, Finnie.” Agnes gave the Christopsomo dough a solid knead with her knuckles. “So skip that part and tell me what’s good.”

  “All righty, then.” Finnie peered at her phone, which Agnes knew was so magnified it barely showed four letters on the screen at a time. “It’s a text from my son, Daniel. He says, ‘Tell Yiayia that we have just gotten word that a man in town named Rad Shepherd’—”

  “Are you reading that right? What kind of dumb name is Rad?”

  Finnie looked up, a familiar chastisement in her expression. “Agnes, you’re slipping back to yer old self a wee bit frequently.”

  Agnes made a face. “Damn…er, darn. I know. Okay, okay.”

  “Don’t mean to pester, Agnes, but ye asked me for a remindin’ to smooth out the sharp edges. Now, most of the time, your wit is just a nice edge. But sometimes, it cuts.”

  “Got it.” Agnes’s cheeks warmed, knowing she was right. “And you’re not pestering.”

  “Good. And let me add that Shepherd seems like a very fine name indeed, especially on Christmas Eve.”

  “Now, what’s the good news, Finola? If it means more baking, I need to get to it.”

  “No baking. The good news is that this Rad Shepherd has a dachshund you can buy from him.”

  “A dachshund?” At the pitch of excitement in her voice and the familiar word, both dogs of that very same breed jumped up from their naps and barked, sensing something big was afoot. And it was.

  “A brown, short-hair, two-year-old doxie,” Finnie said.

  No! That was it! That very dachshund who…she shook off the thought. “Are you sure?” Agnes sidled around the counter to seize the phone from Finnie’s hands, blinking at what had to be seventy-three-point font. “How on earth do you read texts like this?”

  “Much more easily than on your phone.” Finnie gave her an elbow jab. “Be nice. Last warning.”

  “So this guy acquired the dog from his dead uncle and wants to unload it?” she asked after reading Daniel’s message.

  Finnie frowned. “I’m certain those weren’t my son’s words.”

  “But that’s what he means. Let’s go.” She shoved the phone back into Finnie’s hand. “Let’s go get the dog. Whatever he wants. Money. Cookies. Hell, I’ll sleep with the man.”

  “Agnes Santorini! You are eighty years old.”

  Eighty-two, but hey, what’s a few years among friends? “I need that dog, Finnie. And not one of that breed has come through your family’s canine business.”

  “Well, there was that long-hair tan one I loved.”

  Not long hair. Not tan. It had to match her memory. “But that was not the dog of my…dreams.”

  Finnie tsked and reached down to pet Gala’s head. “She loves you, too, lass.”

  “Oh please, Galatea and Pygmalion know I worship the ground they poop on. But…” There was another one out there whom she had to have. Brown with short hair. She could close her eyes and see his face, clear as a bell, as the memory of that…that trip…would forever be in her mind. She could still feel the air, see the light, and remember the word she’d heard over and over again. Charis.

  “And boy or girl, its name will be…” Charis.

  “Didn’t you read the end of the text?” Finnie asked. “’Tis a boy, already named Rover.”

  “Rover?” She almost choked. “Is that a joke? Why not just call him Boy Dog? That has to be the most unimaginative, stupid, pathetic—”

  One of Finnie’s white brows lifted. “He’s not so busy on Christmas Eve that He can’t hear what you say and how you say it,” she said softly, clearing up her brogue so the reminder came in loud and clear.

  Agnes made a face. “Something tells me that you don’t mean Santa Claus.”

  Finnie fought a smile at the quip, but it faded quickly. “Aye, but speaking of Santa Claus, that’s the bad news.”

  “Hasn’t got the sleigh packed yet?” she joked.

  “He left town.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “George Snodgrass, the man who has been playing Santa Clause to my Mrs. Claus all week at the Winter Wonderland Festival in Bushrod Square? His kids surprised him with tickets to New York, and he’s gone.”

  “Just like a man,” Agnes grumbled. “You have one more night to do the festival, and it’s Christmas Eve, for heaven’s sake. How could he just up and leave you to find a Santa substitut
e on the night the children are going to sit on his lap and get gifts?”

  “Well, he did, and we have no lap. Not a lap to be found tonight. Every lap in Bitter Bark is spoken for.”

  “None of the other men in town can step in?”

  “Not on Christmas Eve,” Finnie said as she walked out of the kitchen. “They’re either already involved with the festival, or doing the big play tonight at First Baptist, or committed to family.”

  “Well, that’s a shame.” Agnes eyed the dough, trying to decide if she should finish this bread quickly, or just start from scratch after she had Charis.

  “But I did come up with a solution,” Finnie called from the dining room.

  “Oh, good. So, I think we should—”

  She stopped midword when Finnie returned with an armload of red velvet and white fur, lifting it high and offering a look that Agnes already knew far too well.

  “Not a chance, Finola Kilcannon.”

  “Mrs. Claus needs a husband, Agnes.”

  “Who doesn’t? But I’m not going to be yours.”

  “’Tis two hours of your evening. You’ll do nothin’ but sit next to me, be kind to children, and I’ll hand them a present from the pile.”

  “I do not look like a fat old man from the North Pole. I’ve dieted my heart out and stuck enough Botox in my face to smooth the face of a shar-pei. I will not—”

  Finnie stuck a giant white cotton ball in Agnes’s face. “Wear this beard and ho-ho-ho your heart out.” Her tone invited no arguments. “We’ll be finished early enough to head to Waterford Farm for the big celebration, the placement of the candle in the window, followed by gift giving, then Midnight Mass.”

  “The fun never stops.”

  Finnie wiggled the beard and lifted a brow that was nearly the same shade of white. “You want me to agree to a third dog in our house?”

  “Finnie! You said—”

  “Then polish up your ho-ing, and I don’t mean the dirty kind.” She gave a toothsome grin. “You know it’ll be fun, lass.”

  Agnes gave her a look. “I’m not a lass.”

  “Then you should have no problem playing Santa to my Mrs.”

  With an angry sniff, Agnes took the red costume and held up the red jacket. “And I’m not fat enough to play this part.”

  “Why God invented pillows.”

  Oh good heavens. Hadn’t she lost twenty percent of herself last year so she didn’t look like she was padded with pillows? “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “We get to bring my new dog.”

  Finnie considered that, then nodded. “I knitted a few elf hats for all the family dogs for our picture tonight,” she said. “I have an extra one that Rover can—”

  “He will not be called Rover.” He would be Charis, but she had no intention of explaining all that to Finnie.

  Finnie, ever the fine negotiator, tilted her head in concession. “Then all three doxies can come with us to the festival and be part of our act.”

  Victorious, she closed her eyes and saw the image of the dog she’d been searching for since…that day. Maybe this was the one. Maybe this was Charis.

  Just then, the back door opened, and Prudence, Finnie’s teenage great-granddaughter, stepped in, her creamy cheeks pink and her eyes bright from cold as she rubbed her hands together. “I’m here to help you bake, Yiayia,” she announced, bending over to greet the dogs when they bounded toward her.

  “Baking can wait,” Agnes said. “There’s more important work to do.”

  “More important than baking?” Pru shot Finnie a pretend look of shock. “Has she been hitting the ouzo early?”

  “No, lass, but…” Finnie’s brows furrowed as she walked closer to Pru. “I thought you were supposed to work the ornament table with the other high school volunteers at the festival.”

  “Yeah…well.” She dropped her head to snuggle Pyggie. “Hey there, handsome little man. You look like you lost a pound or two.”

  “Pru.”

  She glanced up. “Sorry, Gramma. I know he’s sensitive about his weight.” She looked around Finnie’s narrow frame to catch Agnes’s eye. “You might have thought of that when you gave him the name, Yiayia.”

  “What’s the matter?” Finnie asked, ignoring the exchange and laser-focused on Pru.

  “Nothing,” she said, with just enough hesitation to make Agnes doubt that was true.

  “You’ve been crying,” Finnie said.

  Guilt flashed over her young and pretty features. “No, I haven’t. It’s just…”

  “Cold,” Agnes suggested, feeling the inexplicable need to help the girl out.

  “Exactly. It’s going to snow some more,” she said with false brightness. “Nothing like snow on Christmas Eve. So what are we baking, Yiayia? That Christo…Greek Christmas bread?”

  She tried to slide past Finnie to get to the counter, but the tiny woman stepped to the side and put a finger up. “Lass, I know you better than yer own mirror. What’s gotcha, my child?”

  Pru opened her mouth to say something, then shut it, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to bake with my two favorite grannies in the whole world. That’s what’s fun. That’s what’s…cool.” Her voice almost cracked, but she recovered with a huge grin. “Teach me everything you know, Yiayia.”

  Agnes’s old heart shifted. “I think you’ve got some Greek in you, koukla.”

  “Aww, that’s what you call Cassie,” she said, referring to Agnes’s one and only granddaughter.

  “But we can’t bake,” Agnes said. “Not for a while.”

  “’Tis true,” Finnie added. “We have a very important errand to run. We’re off to the home of Rad Shepherd.”

  “Rad?” Pru choked a laugh. “Like, his name is Radical? That’s pretty dumb.”

  Agnes shot an I told you so look to Finnie.

  “And why are we going there?” Pru asked.

  “Because he has my Christmas present,” Agnes told her, feeling the smile pull at her face. “The very thing I’ve been waiting for and wanting for such a long time.”

  “That third dachshund you keep talking about?” Pru guessed.

  “That’s it,” Agnes confirmed, pleased that the young girl knew her that well. “The dachshund of my dreams.” Literally.

  “Come on, you two,” Finnie said, turning to the coat-tree to get her jacket. “Leash the dogs, and let’s go.”

  “Uh…how are we getting there?” Pru asked. “Yiayia’s Buick is in the shop getting new brakes, remember? My overprotective father won’t let me get a learner’s permit until spring. And, Gramma, you are not driving on Christmas Eve again. Remember last year?”

  She paled a little. “Aye. ’Twas a misadventure in the snowy mountains we dare not repeat. So, we’re going to walk.”

  “Walk?” Agnes’s and Pru’s responses came out in perfect unison. And, of course, the dogs ran in circles at the word walk.

  “’Tis a short stroll on a fine Christmas Eve day,” Finnie said, looking at her phone. “I have our good Shepherd’s address right here. We can walk directly through the square and see all the festivities about. We’ll be back here in no time, with a new dachshund and a full day of baking—and barking—ahead of us.”

  “It’s awfully chilly to walk,” Agnes said, putting a hand over the heart she was never sure would make it to the next hour, let alone the next day.

  “And do we have to go through the square?” Pru asked. “I’ve had just about enough of that place today.”

  Finnie turned from the door, looking from one to the other. “Agnes,” she said. “Yer ticker will benefit from a wee bit of exercise. Use it or lose it. And, Prudence, my darlin’, whatever drama is unfolding with the high school lassies, yer best to face it head-on.”

  Pru’s jaw loosened, and she looked at Agnes. “How does she do that? How does she know?”

  “She’s a canny one,” Agnes agreed.

  “I know the
people I love, ’tis all.” Finnie fussed at her feathery white hair with a bit of pride in her blue eyes. “Now, let’s get a move on it, ladies. Oh, and, Agnes, tell Pru who’s going to play Santa Claus tonight at the festival.”

  “Please, I almost forgot my punishment. Ho ho, oh no.”

  “You are?” Pru almost choked with a bubbling laugh. “Where’s George Snodgrass?”

  “New York, the old bas…”

  “Agnes.”

  “Bas…bass fisherman,” she quickly corrected with a wink to Pru. “He’s gone off to see his family, like it’s Christmas or something.”

  Pru laughed and held up a hand for a high five. “You’ll be a great Santa. Now let’s go get…what’s the new dog’s name?”

  “Rover,” Finnie said before Agnes could open her mouth.

  “Rover?” Pru threw a lock back of long black hair in disbelief. “Someone actually named a dog Rover?”

  “I knew I liked this girl.” Agnes slipped into her coat and found her handbag, checking to see if her wallet was there, because she’d pay whatever Radical wanted. “Whatever we call him…” And it will be Charis. “He’ll be a Christmas miracle for me.”

  They stepped out into the brisk North Carolina day, locking arms to walk over last night’s dusting of snow, with Pyggie and Gala prancing on leashes in the lead. Well, Pyggie was waddling in the lead, but they’d get there eventually, and then they’d bring home the dachshund that would save Agnes’s life.

  Chapter Two

  Pru tried to listen to the two grannies chatter as they walked down Dogwood Lane toward the heart of Bitter Bark, but she was still replaying every word that had just been exchanged with Teagan Macdonald, her best friend. Well, her former best friend.