Baker's Dozen

  Baker’s Dozen

  Soul Mutts | Book One

  Lori R. Taylor

  Copyright © 2020 by Sterling & Stone

  All rights reserved.

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  Contents

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  What to read next…

  A Note from the Author

  About the author

  Chapter One

  Baker scooted closer to the wall at the back of her cage, pressing against the wire mesh until she felt the cool cement wall through her fur. Her favorite place to sleep, not just because it made her cage seem bigger, but because it put her out of reach.

  The air smelled strange, like the rough hands that scrubbed and pinched and poked her. All those people scents mixed with the sharp smell of urine, the dry savory of kibble, and the scent of fear or happiness from the other dogs.

  This wasn’t her first time in a place like this. But she didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about that. Her legs got shaky when she did, and her chest felt empty, like her heart had dropped into her belly.

  Somewhere in the building, a door slammed. Baker lifted her head, looking down the row of cages filled with fellow unlucky dogs, but she couldn't quite see to the end.

  Didn't matter.

  The terrier with spotty ears in the cage opposite hers sat upright and alert, brown nose pressed against the gate, gnawing the metal every now and again.

  He wanted one of the humans to come and take him away.

  Baker didn’t. She knew better.

  “Right through here,” said a voice, before a flurry of barks broke out.

  The spotty-eared terrier barked and hopped on all fours, wagging his tail.

  “It all depends on what kind of temperament you’re looking for.” It was the soft-spoken, dark-skinned woman who ran the place. Leslie, the other humans called her. Leslie didn’t try to touch her when she didn’t want to be touched, and she didn’t make her go out into the yard to play, either.

  Not like her last owner. Michael had pretended he was nice, but then he kicked her, and hit her, and—

  “I’m looking for an animal who will be a companion.” The reply was from another woman, who smelled like flowers.

  The last time Baker had seen flowers, Michael had jerked her leash so hard she’d choked, and dragged her behind him to the car, then brought her here.

  “—prefer it if it was a female dog. One with a more docile personality.” The voices were closer now, and Baker dropped her head, lying as still as she could.

  Spotty Ears hopped up and slammed his paws against the fencing.

  The two women stopped in front of Baker’s door.

  She glanced up at them, without raising her head. She’d learned in the past few days that the more bored she looked, the less interested the humans would be in her.

  The dark lady wore a long coat with a pattern on the front pocket and stains all over: muddy paw prints and a splash of food. The other woman, the one who smelled like flowers, bent down and peered at Baker.

  “That’s Baker.” The dark lady smiled. “She’s a boxer mix. Very shy.”

  “Oh.” The flowery woman had long gray hair, and her hands clasped a big black bag in front of her. She reached inside it and brought out a smaller black box — Baker had seen some of the other humans use these things before. They had lights and pictures on them, and sometimes made strange noises. “Do you mind if I take a picture?”

  “She’s probably not the dog you’re looking for,” Leslie said, sounding uncertain but unwilling to argue with the other person.

  “My husband loves boxers. And my son, Michael—”

  A low growl built in Baker’s throat, and her lips slid back over her teeth at the sound of that name.

  The flowery woman took a step back, her smile flattening.

  “I’m sorry, she’s been through a tough time,” Leslie said. “She’s not quite ready for—”

  “She looks dangerous. You should get rid of her.”

  Humans. They only pretended to be nice.

  Leslie straightened, and her shoulders stiffened. Her voice was just as stiff. “We don’t ‘get rid’ of dogs just because they’ve had a rough go of it.”

  “She’s clearly aggressive. Who’s going to want a dog who growls and—?”

  Baker let out a yapping bark, the fur on her back bristling.

  “I think you’d better leave.” Leslie stepped back and gestured for the woman to walk down the long corridor. Once they were gone, the other dogs settled down.

  Spotty Ears across the aisle stayed a moment longer, sniffing and licking the fence. Finally, he huffed and retreated to the other side of his cage. He sat on his blanket and placed his snout on his paws, eyebrows lifting as he looked around, though not at Baker.

  None of these dogs liked her. Fine. She didn’t like them either.

  But she couldn’t leave with a human like that. Not after Michael, not after the girl who kept forgetting to come home and feed her, and not after the old man who had left her in the park.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  “So, what have we got today?”

  Baker’s eyes snapped open. She recognized the voice — Dr. Dale. He poked Spotty-Ears with a needle, twice, while another human held him so he couldn’t get away.

  She stayed at the back of my cage, hoping he wouldn’t notice her.

  He wore a long white coat, and he stood next to Leslie holding a flat piece of wood with paper on it. He tapped a thin black pen against the sheet.

  “We still haven’t gotten any shot records for Bruiser,” Leslie said. “Eliza’s called twice, but no one is answering.”

  “Hmm.” Dr. Dale clicked the pen against the clipboard. Then he clicked it again. “If we don’t get anything by tomorrow, we’ll just assume he’s had nothing and start the series. Bruiser the Chihuahua, ha. Someone had a sense of humor.”

  “Wait until you meet him,” Leslie replied.

  Dr. Dale laughed once. It was warm, full sound. Baker caught her tail just starting to wag. She forced it still. She didn’t want them to think that she cared they were there at all. At least Dr. Dale didn’t want to take any dogs away, and neither did Leslie. So she just needed to stay out of reach whenever he returned.

  “I see Baker’s still here.”

  “She isn’t causing any trouble,” Leslie said. “I think she’s getting better.”

  Dr. Dale made his lips thin enough to disappear.

  “Les, no one’s doubting whether your heart’s in the right place
, but if you don’t send some of these dogs to other shelters … there’s not going to be a shelter left here to keep them in.” Dr. Dale touched Leslie’s shoulder.

  She took a step back and shook her head, but she didn’t show her teeth or snarl at him. “Pretty Paws will always be here.”

  Baker stayed as still and small as possible, but the fear in Leslie's voice scared her. This shelter was at least better than the last one, where they’d made her go outside, and a bulldog had bit her, and the man who had given her food sometimes skipped days.

  “Baker's spot could’ve gone to an adoptable dog. Maybe several, she's been her so long.”

  “You don’t understand, doc.” Leslie crouched in front of my cage. “She’s different.”

  “How?”

  “She needs help.”

  “They all need help.”

  “Not like her." Leslie sighed. "Look, she came from another shelter, and her previous owner was abusive. She deserves a second chance as much as any of these other dogs do.”

  Her brown eyes were so warm, Baker's tail kept wanting to wag, even though she told it not to.

  “Downright inspirational,” Dr. Dale said, chuckling. “Just … if we want to keep this place running, we’re going to have to make some changes. Or bring in a lot more donations.”

  Leslie sighed, placed her hands on her knees, and pushed herself upright. “Baker’s not ready to go yet, but we’ll get her there.”

  “If some of them don’t go soon, they’ll all have to go.”

  Leslie lifted her palms. “You’ve done enough grilling for the day, doc. You must have been a chef in another life.”

  Dr. Dale chuckled, clicking the pen again. “Lord knows, you weren’t a comedian.”

  Another door slammed.

  Baker flinched. She couldn’t get any closer to the wall of her cage, but she tried anyway.

  Spotty Ears jumped up again and barked, accompanied by a chorus of whining and yipping from the others.

  “Excuse me, but this is an employees only—” Leslie stopped, mid-turn. “Jeremy.” The word sounded rough. Like a bark gone wrong. “I’d say it was good to see you again, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, you’d be lying.” Jeremy waddled into view. He wore a blue shirt and dark pants. He had a thick, black stick strapped to his side and a hat on his head. “Sorry to do this to you, Leslie, but I’ve got another complaint.”

  “Not again.”

  “Yeah, again. Leo from the pizzeria next door.” Jeremy tucked his fingers into his belt as he chewed something minty-smelling with his mouth open. “Again.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Leslie put her hand on her hip. “We’re a shelter. Of course the dogs are going to bark occasionally.”

  “He says it’s chasing away his customers.” Jeremy chewed for a moment. “He’s a crotchety old you-know-what, but ain’t nothing I can do about this. I don’t follow up on the complaint, it’s my neck on the line.”

  She nodded, but her lips had gone droopy at the corners. “Let’s talk about this out front. I need a breather, anyway.”

  Once the humans were gone, everyone settled back down. Except Spotty Ears, who kept turning in circles and nibbling at his tail.

  Baker didn’t want to leave this shelter, but if she stayed here too long, they would put her in another one. A worse one.

  That meant the next old lady who came in would have to take her home.

  No matter what.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s not going to be possible.”

  No, no, no. This was not okay. Maeve had finally found the courage to take a leap of faith — and she’d leapt face-first into a brick wall.

  Except that the wall was a private banker named Greg, who looked at her like she was a bug on the underside of his shoe. If the bug was also coated in dog poop.

  “Please,” Maeve said, keenly aware of how saying “please” would probably make this worse. Guys like Greg loved it when people like her begged. “Look, I’m a total whiz in the kitchen. You should try my éclairs. In fact, if you give me, what like … a couple hours, I could come back here with an éclair to sweeten the deal?”

  “There is no deal, Miss Watts. You simply don’t qualify for a loan this big. I can’t, responsibly, take the risk on you when you’re an unknown, and your credit score—”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  “—isn’t exactly what it should be.”

  “That was my ex,” Maeve said, hating that she’d even had to bring him up. “He used my card. I — look, can you just give me a break? This is my dream. Haven’t you ever had a dream, Greg?”

  He looked at her like she’d asked him if he’d ever picked his nose. Apparently Greg wasn’t a dreamer.

  Or maybe he dreamed about spreadsheets and credit scores and business plans. How could she say that in business-speak?

  Maeve had no idea. So she tried talking to him like a person. “I've been stuck in a really terrible job for a long time. I’m a freelance graphic designer. You have no idea what that’s like.”

  Greg stayed silent, the blue light from his PC screen illuminating his whatever, lady expression.

  “People never know what they want, Greg. Know what I’m saying? Whether it’s the color or the design or the brightness or the size or … but I do. I know what I want, and it’s to open a bakery.”

  “Miss Watts—”

  “It's all I’ve wanted, for the longest time. But I never took the leap. I always found an excuse.” She clasped her hands in front of her chest, like she was praying to St. Greg, Patron of Unbirthed Dreams and Personal Loans. “The past six months showed me that it’s time to finally take the leap. You can understand that, right? That this is a big step for me?”

  “I can’t give you the loan, I’m sorry. Not without collateral.”

  “Did I mention I have a car? You could take my car, if I don’t pay you back. Which I won’t.” Oh, shoot. “I mean, I will pay you back. So you won’t need to take my car.”

  “Even your house wouldn’t be enough collateral to cover the requested amount,” Greg said. “But you weren’t willing to offer it anyway. If you don’t believe in your dream enough to put everything you’ve got behind it, why would we?”

  Maeve flushed. He had her there. Mom had left it to her — the only place that had ever felt like home — and she couldn’t bear the thought of some other family baking cookies in the kitchen where Mom had first let her crack the eggs and read the Tollhouse recipe off the bag of chocolate chips.

  Some other family eating lasagna in the dining room that Mom had painted aqua and decorated with seashells and sand dollars when she was pregnant with her. They used to pretend to be mermaids in there, until Maeve got old enough to start feeling silly playing pretend.

  Some other family watching TV in the living room, where they'd watched old movies together after Mom’s chemo treatments. Her appetite had been gone then, and when she took a nibble of Maeve’s latest brownie experiment, it had only been to humor her.

  No, that house was hers, and it was going to stay hers.

  Greg rose from behind his perfectly-organized desk and walked to the door, which he opened and held for her. “Good day, Miss Watts.”

  Maeve stifled a groan and stood, searching for a new argument as she made her walk of shame toward the door.

  She paused just outside the office, turned to face him. “If you could find it in your heart to take a chance on me, I’ll prove to you that—”

  Greg’s office door slammed shut.

  “Great,” she muttered. “That’s just great.”

  Now what? Greg had been her last chance — none of the banks in town would give her a loan, saying the same thing Greg had. It didn’t matter that her jerk of an ex had ruined her credit, or that she was working crazy hours to pay off the debts he’d racked up in her name.

  It didn’t matter that everyone who’d ever tried her cookies said they were the best they’d
ever eaten.

  It didn’t matter that she was tired of designing website graphics for clients who either micromanaged her or expected her to read their minds.

  Maeve strode through the bank, head high like Greg the Dream Killer had just offered to loan her a million bucks, because nobody else needed to know that this was her walk of shame. She didn’t let her shoulders slump until she was outside, where the morning sunshine was watery and the air was ridiculously chilly.

  Welcome to spring in Logan’s Creek, the smallest town in southern Ohio.

  She drew her cardigan closer to her chest, then took a breath. The banks wouldn’t help her? Fine. She’d just have to come up with the money for the bakery on her own.

  Or … maybe Greg the Dream Killer was right. What did Maeve know about starting a business? She didn’t have the experience, a plan, she didn’t have a penny. She didn’t have a hope.

  Chin up, girl, you’ve got this.

  She walked down the street, passing wrought-iron lamps, quaint benches, and glass-fronted stores on the way to her car — which was scratched up, old, and definitely not worth any kind of collateral. But it ran, didn’t it?

  Everyone was always so worried about how things looked, but just because something looked bad on paper doesn’t mean it didn’t work.

  Her phone buzzed in her tote as she opened the car door and got inside.

  She dumped the tote on the passenger seat and fumbled the still-vibrating phone out.

  Her stomach sank.

  It was Leroy, her least favorite client. And unfortunately, the one who sent her the most work.