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regarding this situation with our dogs,” Owen added. “I can assure you that I’ll take very good care of her while she’s pregnant.”
    “I’m sure you will, and thank you for the offer of the puppy. I’m not really sure what the protocol is regarding accidental pregnancy in purebred dogs, but this will suffice. I think we might get a Harlequin out of the litter.”
    “Why don’t you show Owen the kennels?” Kate continued. “You can leave Jill here with me and take Jack to see his daddy. He’s in number six. Dinner will be ready in about an hour.”
    “Okay, Mom. Jack,” Callie called. Jack looked at her, then at Jill, as if undecided. Her mother gave Callie a wink and a soft smile.
    “Ah, he’s torn between his two ladyloves. Hold onto his collar and I’ll take Jill into the house.”
    Callie grasped Jack’s collar, but he didn’t even try to bolt. He whined softly when the door closed behind Jill, but obediently followed Callie as she turned to head toward several fenced-in areas that had numerous dogs in each.
    One was full of puppies of all different sizes and colors frolicking on their long, gangly legs. Callie stopped and they came running to the gate. She petted a few and moved on. When they had walked for about ten minutes, they came upon a pen that held a regal Harlequin. His ears pricked and he came alert as he saw Callie and Jack. With a soft woof, he bounded toward the gate. Callie laughed as he pranced around impatiently while she unlatched the gate and let Jack in. Father and son exchanged greetings. When that was done, it was Callie’s turn, and she obediently obliged the reigning champion of Lassiter Run with long stokes along his head and back.
    “I can see why this is a championship Dane. He’s magnificent.”
    “Yes, he is. And he’s a good boy. Aren’t you, Samson?”
    She rubbed the dog’s face, and he clearly reveled in the attention. Her hands were strong and sure, the slender fingers buried in the dog’s soft fur. “Samson?”
    She smiled at Owen’s confusion and gave him an indulgent sideways glance, her green eyes animated. And once again, he had to remind himself that she wasn’t his type.  
    “That’s his call name,” she explained. “Registered names are a formality. Sometimes dogs will be called a variation of their registered name like my friend Harper’s standard poodle, Blue, and others, like Samson, are called by a totally different name. He’s named after my grandfather, who built this kennel and passed it on to my father.”
    She bent down and picked up a ball. Both dogs stood at attention, and she hurled it across the run. Four hundred pounds of muscle dashed after it in long-legged strides.
    Callie wasn’t hard on the eyes. That was for sure. And he admired a woman who didn’t mind getting her hands dirty. It appeared she wore little or no makeup, and had pulled her long brown hair into a ponytail beneath the baseball cap she wore as easily as some women wore diamonds.
    Long hair. He liked that. He’d be lying to himself if he denied wondering how it would feel in his hands, how it would look loose and free around her shoulders. He was a guy, after all. But it was clear she wasn’t all that caught up in the more conventional rituals of being female. Actually, Owen unapologetically enjoyed that extra emphasis on femininity in the women he chose to spend time with. Tomboys had their appeal, but he typically preferred a woman who embraced her femaleness.
    The dogs came bounding back, Jack proudly displaying the ball for his mistress. Callie threw it several more times. Finally, she said, wiping her hands on her jeans, “Let’s leave Jack here, and I’ll show you the kennels. They’re probably empty right now, because the weather is good, so they’re all in the runs.”
    The kennels were immaculate, with deep green trimmed lilac hedges that would shade the kennels to keep them cool. Baskets of pink impatiens hung from the extended roofs that