Fencing Her In Read online

  Fencing Her In

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2019 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Proofread by Red Pen Princess

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Created with Vellum

  This book is dedicated to all of the dogs. They are all very good boys and girls, yes they are.

  Contents

  Fencing her In

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  A excerpt from Abby’s next stand-alone release, coming in August!

  Fencing her In

  Molly has everything she needs: a German Shepherd named Dolly and a plot of land to live out her dream life. Despite what the handsome — but slightly uptight — new neighbor may think, she’s perfectly within her rights to operate her canine day care business as she pleases.

  House-flipper Daniel has big plans for his newly-acquired property, and those plans do not include butting up against a quirky — but adorable — lady who seems to have more dogs than she can handle.

  This enemies-to-lovers story has a hard-working alpha male and a feisty, independent heroine whose story is full of furry friends, danger, surprises, and plenty of panty-melting heat. Get ready to fall in lust and then in love with Molly and Daniel!

  Chapter One

  Molly

  Life is perfect on my creaky front porch.

  I have my own eleven-acre patch of Texas land, hot coffee in the percolator, Dolly Parton’s voice on my MeMaw’s ancient transistor radio, and no more handsy restaurant managers hounding me as I wait tables. My career as a server is blissfully over and done.

  Most importantly, I have dogs.

  A lot of dogs, in fact.

  Some might say too many.

  I would say those people don’t know what they are missing.

  Around me on this pleasant morning are Bucky the bloodhound; Randy the goldendoodle; Susie and Penelope the black lab mixes; Carter the boxer; Fluffy the pregnant Bichon, Fluffer-Nutter, the Pyr-Golden mix; and finally, Dolly, my German shepherd, who I found under this very porch as a pup.

  These older, relaxed canines like to kick it on the porch with me and watch over the property. They follow me everywhere. The younger dogs are frolicking in the grass, scrambling up the steps to get scratches behind the ears, lapping up water, then scrambling back down for more play before they, eventually, collapse in a heap at naptime.

  Some of these animals belong to me. Some I adopted. Some of them got dumped here one day anonymously. Fluffy, the Bichon, was rescued from a nearby puppy mill. Some of them, like the goldendoodle, are visiting while their owners work or go on vacation.

  I had a hunch about those puppy mill people when I saw their breeder ads in the newspaper and had gone to check it out. I roped my do-gooder big brother, Boone, into helping me, and for protection. He’s a big, grumpy-looking dude.

  Some people know him as Pastor Boone, but he doesn’t actually have a church building, so to speak. Mainly he spends his days hanging out with homeless people and chasing down legislators to talk about affordable housing. It’s a good thing I don’t have to visit him in an actual church since I might get struck by lightning if I darkened any sacred doorway.

  Boone and I may or may not have trespassed to get a better look at that puppy mill. My brother had fussed at me under his breath the whole time, but I think he was having fun. He is so strait-laced-for-Jesus, he needs some bad behavior once in a while or he’ll go insane.

  I won’t bum you out with what we saw at that puppy mill, but you can bet your ass I called the SPCA of Texas right away and let them bust up that operation.

  The owners were fined, and the rescue organization found homes for most of the dogs and offered me one of them as a gesture of gratitude. Boone stayed with me for a week after that to make sure those owners didn’t show up at my place to harass me or worse.

  “When are you going to settle down with a partner so I don’t have to play the bodyguard anymore?” he had asked me teasingly.

  “Soon as I find someone at least your size who ain’t such a goody two shoes.”

  I sip my coffee and sing along to the radio while I put my bare feet up on the railing, my skirt flapping in the breeze. My daddy would say it’s not very ladylike. But Daddy ain’t here. This is my house and I make the rules.

  Most of big dogs don’t get bothered much when a plume of white clay dust rises from the unpaved road. The rest of the motley band of canines that live here—or stay here part time while their owners are at work or on vacation—rile themselves up but good. Especially the small dogs who like to think they’re the ones in charge.

  It’s too far out to see who it is, but I make a mental note where my rifle is just in case it’s those boys from the puppy mill coming to harass me. Out here in the sticks, you never know who’s gonna come to bother you.

  Just then, my flip phone rings.

  I dig it out from under a stack of newspapers. “Hey, Momma.”

  The woman’s voice on the other end sounds concerned. “Checking on my girl. Everything good? You need anything?”

  “Momma, I love you, but you’re in Corpus Christi. What would you do if I did need something?”

  “Well, I just want to make sure you’re OK, money-wise. Just want to make sure you don’t want to hang on to your day job.”

  I smile. “But if I keep waiting tables, I won’t have enough time to get this place to where I want it.”

  “You could hire help? I hate seeing you do this all by yourself.”

  “If I hired help, then I wouldn’t have enough money to fix up the house, install a new fence…do you see where this is going?”

  Momma sighs.

  The pack of canines focused on the activity on the road only gets feistier and louder as the creator of that plume of dust approaches the gate to the driveway in a shiny red, late-model Chevy pickup. My stomach relaxes. It’s not the puppy mill dudes.

  Fancy truck, I think.

  “Molly, darlin’, do you have a five-year plan? Ten-year plan?”

  I don’t, but I make one up on the fly to calm Momma’s nerves. “Five-year plan: to have a fancy permanent sign out by the road that says ‘Molly’s Canine Daycare and Sanctuary.’ Ten years? I don’t know. Hopefully all of Texas will have their pets neutered by then and I can remove the ‘Sanctuary’ part.”

  “That’s not much of a business plan.”

  I’m not gonna lie; that hurts.

  “Well, it’s true that I’m no pink-Cadillac-driving, executive grand poobah for a cosmetic pyramid scheme. But MeMaw believed in me, or why’d she give me her land when she died?”

&
nbsp; My mother clucks her tongue at me. “It’s not a pyramid scheme, it’s called a Christian multi-level marketing company. And it paid for your braces, missy.”

  She has a point.

  The fancy truck comes to a stop at the gate and the furry, smaller monsters are about to lose their damn minds, barking their fool heads off. It’s Terrence the boarding dachshund’s fault. He’s always starting shit.

  “OK, Momma, sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. I worry about you being so alone. You have protection, though, don’t you?”

  I smile. “Condoms? No. You never did explain those things to me…”

  She gasps, “Molly Chambers!”

  “Love you; gotta go.” You must admit, she walked right into that one.

  I hang up and silence my cheap flip phone, shoving it back under my stack of newspapers.

  I maybe take longer than necessary to stand up and greet our visitor. But the driver who exits the truck while waiting on me looks like he has a strong back; he can wait.

  I continue to size him up. Could be a potential new client looking for doggy daycare, or it could be someone with very bad news. The bad news could be anything from a county official delivering a noise complaint, or it could be someone with a rambunctious husky that was too cute as a puppy but who made the mistake of growing up into being a less-cute escape artist.

  I sit tight and sip my coffee and keep humming my music.

  The driver shuts his door and I get a better look. No dogs follow him out, which disappoints me. From this angle, he looks like a tall, well-built fella, though he’s dressed somewhat nerdy in Dockers and a golf shirt.

  I sigh. Just another dude bro with a toy truck, and not even a dog along for the ride.

  Finally I stand up and call out to him. “May I help you?” The gate is a ways down the driveway, so I have to shout.

  The guy leans up against the side of his truck, arms crossed over his big chest.

  As I approach, I see he’s wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses and his golf shirt is the latest brand of bougie.

  Living alone and running a business that requires a lot of contact with the public, it’s a good idea for me to have my .22 within reach, if not my rifle. But this dude’s center of mass is so big, I’m damn sure a .22 caliber bullet would not slow him down, even at close range. Not that he looks like he’s a threat. He doesn’t have mean eyes. If I’m being generous, he’s sorta nice looking, like a friend’s brother who would stop to help you with a flat tire. Well, if he tries anything sinister, I’ll probably have better luck siccing Terrence on his ankles.

  “Howdy, ma’am.”

  Oh shit, really? He must be a transplant. Nobody under the age of 75 says that unless they have at least 400 head of cattle. He is definitely not 75, and judging by those brand new construction boots, he ain’t running no cattle anywhere near here.

  Still, the way he tips his hat is legit and not rehearsed. Kinda sexy. And his voice is a chocolatey baritone that would ordinarily get me going. Going for what, I don’t know exactly. I’m not…experienced in the bedroom. Like, at all.

  His freckles remind me of someone. I play along. “Hey, Howdy Doody. What can I do you for?”

  He smiles wide and reaches out across the gate for a handshake and introduces himself.

  “I’m Daniel. Daniel Travis. Your new neighbor.”

  “I’m Molly.”

  His handshake is old-school: firm but not aggressive. The nervous butterflies are hard to distinguish from the instant-attraction butterflies, but overshadowing all of this is my anxiety over how he’s going to handle…well…me as a neighbor.

  I smile back. “Really? Which house?”

  He chuckles and points to the row of small houses that backs up to my north-side fence. “Well, for now, I’m staying at the Travis house — that one used to belong to my aunt — until I finish fixing it up, and then I’ll move on to the next one. One by one I’m fixing up that whole stretch of road.”

  I nod. “I know your Aunt Emmy. That’s my mom’s best friend. They all up and moved to Corpus Christi together not too long ago with their cuckoo church.”

  He nods. “That’s right! Small world.”

  I shake my head. “Not really. It’s a small neighborhood and a small town. So you’re a house flipper?”

  He shrugs. “In a way.”

  He’s being cagey. I don’t like cagey. Especially when people seem like they’re buying up a bunch of properties at once.

  “You gonna raise my property taxes, neighbor?”

  Daniel looks taken aback. “Well…you could look at it as I’m raising your property value…. What exactly do you do here? I saw that cardboard sign out by the road but I couldn’t quite read it.”

  I clear my throat. “Well, it’s actually a plywood sign advertising Molly’s Dog Ranch. I take care of dogs.”

  “Take care of? You a vet? A dog sitter?”

  “Not a vet. I’m a boarder, plus I provide daycare for folks who don’t like to leave their dogs alone all day while they work. Some people use me once a week to wear out their pups. Some people bring their fur babies every day. I also provide dogs a place to stay while their human friends are on vacation or dealing with goddamn deportation bullshit—that kind of thing. But I don’t have kennels or runs. It’s…a big dog ranch. Some people come with their dogs on their days off to play, like a dog park. Those are hard to find around here.”

  “Sounds like a lot of noise to me,” Daniel says, frowning.

  “Mostly in the daytime, but at nighttime, it’s minimal. Besides, having a dozen or more dogs as neighbors can make your place pretty secure,” I say with a grin.

  Daniel winces. “A dozen or more, huh?”

  Uh-oh. This could be a problem. “I have all the proper permits for the place, in case you’re wondering,” I say.

  “When I bought the Travis house, my aunt said there was plans for a kennel in the neighborhood. She didn’t say the word ‘ranch.’”

  I have to chuckle. “Oh trust me. If you lived next to someone who kenneled dogs, it would be a lot noisier than my place,” I say with all the confidence I can muster, hoping he doesn’t follow up with a request for any data to back up my claim.

  I continue, “And also, these dogs mostly stick to the house and the barn.” I gesturing toward my home and say, “it’s plenty far away from your house. You might not even notice we’re back here.”

  A grin plays at his lips as he says in a low voice, “Oh, I doubt you ever go unnoticed.”

  This comment catches me off guard. I notice the heat pooling in certain regions of my body. Oddly, coming from him, this comment doesn’t make me feel smalI. He means it. Coming from one of my former managers at the restaurant, this kind of comment would make me deeply uncomfortable.

  He doesn’t seem to have anything to add, but doesn’t look away or turn to leave.

  I feel a grin creep over my face. I self-consciously cross my arms in front of my chest. As we both stand there staring at each other for a few more seconds, I study him. He doesn’t look like an asshole, despite not being much of a dog person. His eyes are a deep green I’ve never seen before. Plus, he’s got biceps like canned hams. Maybe he’d look better if he took off that derpy golf shirt.

  “You swing for the Texas Rangers? ’Cause you got the arms for it.”

  “Thanks…”

  I can see from his expression that he’s looking for some kind of equal compliment.

  “You…you kinda remind me of Anne Hathaway.”

  “…No I do not.”

  He laughs. “You’re right; you don’t look like her at all. I don’t know why I said that.”

  It’s not fair of him to try to be self-deprecating now. It’s far too cute a look on this house-flipper for me to stay suspicious.

  “OK. Good talk. Great meeting you, Daniel. Good luck with the house flipping business and…whatever else you don’t feel the need to tell me about.”

  Chapter Two

  Daniel br />
  It’s three o’clock in the morning and a dog is barking at my back fence.

  I can only guess who that dog belongs to.

  I toss and turn. I try ear plugs, but they don’t help. When I get up and turn on the back porch light, the barking increases in intensity.

  I open the sliding glass door and plod toward the fence. It’s one of those wiener dogs, whatever you call them. Hell if I know; I’m not a dog person. Not since my neighbor’s pit bull nearly chomped my hand off when I was a kid.

  It sees me coming toward the fence and its yapping gets yappier.

  Watching it, I realize it doesn’t look like it’s barking at me. Its snout is pointed directly behind me at about 11 o’clock, and its barks and yips are punctuated with growls.

  I look behind me and see a huge, gray-brown coyote staring down the wiener dog. I freeze. The coyote is completely ignoring me, totally focused on his early breakfast of German sausage. It might as well be saying, “I crap bigger ’n you, son.”

  I am not a dog person, as I said, and I’m especially not a yappy lap dog person.

  And I’m not exactly a big fan of Molly, either. Not much to like there, apart from her pouty lips, striking eyes, cute body and scent like a Texas ruby red grapefruit—sweet, tempting, and totally unique. But other than all of that, I definitely do not like that woman. She’s an animal hoarder, plain and simple.

  But I am pretty certain that coyote could easily clear the fence if he were hungry enough.

  The thought of Molly losing one of her dogs, well, I couldn’t have that.

  And I have no idea if I’m being brave or incredibly stupid, but I before I can think it through, my body reacts. I turn toward the coyote with my arms up in the air, clapping and growling, pretending I’m a bear.