conceal his guilt by going immediately and aggressively on the offensive. And
the woman was behaving peculiarly. She had not spoken a word. She was pale. Her
thin hands trembled. But judging by the way she petted and clung to the dog, it
wasn’t Einstein that frightened her. And Travis wondered why a couple would go
to the park dressed so differently from each other, one in running shorts and
the other in a drab housedress. He saw the woman glance surreptitiously and
fearfully at the runner, and suddenly he knew that these two were not
together—at least not by the woman’s choice— and that the man had, indeed, been
up to something about which he felt guilty.
“Miss,” Travis said, “are you all right?”
“Of course she’s not all right,” the runner said. “Your damn dog came barking
and snapping at us—”
“He doesn’t seem to be terrorizing her right now,” Travis said, meeting and
holding the other man’s gaze.
Bits of what appeared to be oatmeal batter were stuck on the guy’s cheek. Travis
had noticed an oatmeal cookie spilling from a bag on the bench beside the woman,
and another one crumbled on the ground between her feet. What the hell had been
going on here?
The runner glared at Travis and started to speak. But then he looked at the
woman and Einstein, and he evidently realized that his calculated outrage would
no longer be appropriate. He said sullenly, “Well . . . you should still get the
damn hound under control.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’ll bother anyone now,” Travis said, coiling the leash. “It
was just an aberration.”
Still furious but uncertain, the runner looked at the huddled woman and said,
“Nora?”
She did not respond. She just kept petting Einstein.
“I’ll see you later,” the runner told her. Getting no response, he refocused on
Travis, narrowed his eyes, and said, “If that hound comes nipping at my heels—”
“He won’t,” Travis interrupted. “You can get on with your run. He won’t bother
YOU.”
Several times as he jogged slowly across the park to the nearest exit, the man
glanced back at them. Then he was gone.
On the bench, Einstein had settled down on his belly with his head on the
woman’s lap.
Travis said, “He’s sure taken a liking to you.”
Without looking up, smoothing Einstein’s coat with one hand, she said, “He’s a
lovely dog.”
“I just got him yesterday.”
She said nothing.
He sat down on the other end of the bench, with Einstein between them. “My
name’s Travis.”
Unresponsive, she scratched behind Einstein’s ears. The dog made a contented
sound.
“Travis Cornell,” he said.
At last she raised her head and looked at him. “Nora Devon.”
“Glad to meet you.”
She smiled, but nervously.
Though she wore her hair straight and lank, though she used no makeup, she was
quite attractive. Her hair was dark and glossy, her skin flawless, and her gray
eyes were accented with green striations that seemed luminous in the bright May
sunshine.
As if sensing his approval and frightened of it, she immediately broke eye
contact, lowered her head once more.
He said, “Miss Devon . . . is something wrong?”
She said nothing.
“Was that man . . . bothering you?”
“It’s all right,” she said.
With her head bowed and shoulders hunched, sitting there under a ton-weight of
shyness, she looked so vulnerable that Travis could not just get up, walk away,
and leave her with her problems. He said, “If that man was bothering you, I
think we ought to find a cop—”
“No,” she said softly but urgently. She slipped out from under Einstein and got
up.
The dog scrambled off the bench to stand beside her, gazing at her with
affection.
Rising, Travis said, “I don’t mean to pry, of course—”
She hurried away, heading out of the park on a different path from the One the
runner had taken.
Einstein started after her but halted and reluctantly returned when Travis
called to him.
Puzzled, Travis watched her until she disappeared, an enigmatic and troubled
woman in a gray dress as drab and shapeless as the garb of an Amish lady or a