Dragged through Hedgerows

By Forthright

He had one job. Becoming a family pet wasn’t it.

For the sake of his people, Daroo-fen has lived among humans, working as a lawyer in a little mountain town. He’s vowed to protect the surrounding woodlands, no matter the cost. But in the course of duty, he meets a man who needs help … and a frie

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twinkle Press
• Release date: Oct 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781631230691

Book preview

Worn Out Welcome

Daroo-fen rarely deviated from the little routines that reinforced the impression he needed to make. He jogged every morning, so that whenever people remarked on his build, someone could be counted on to say, Oh, you know Drew. He works out.

He rented a bungalow two blocks from his office, where he kept regular hours, so that everyone would know he was as honest and upstanding as they come. And he shopped at the corner market every other day—except Sundays—so that the women of Pine Hall would see that he could take care of himself. Otherwise, they tended to show up at his door with casseroles and broad hints about nice, eligible girls who could help him settle down.

He bought Girl Scout cookies and yearbook ads. He attended town meetings and adopted a two-mile stretch of highway. He donated to the food shelf and returned his library books on time.

Nobody knew him well, but most folks would vouch for him. He was both a pillar of the community and an island unto himself. Not an easy balance to maintain, but Daroo-fen had considerable practice.

One thing he definitely did not do was make house calls.

So it was with well-concealed uneasiness that he walked the four blocks to End Street, where neat hedgerows defined the property lines of a section of modest homes. Because too many letters had gone unanswered. And the only phone number on file seemed to have been disconnected.

Turning up the walk of the last house before the dead end, Daroo-fen trod gingerly over pastel graffiti that continued right up the porch steps and across much of the front of the house. Powder pink letters warned all comers that COOP LIVES HERE.

The young culprit—a boy by the whiff of him—had passable handwriting.

Daroo-fen pressed the doorbell, then retreated off the stoop. It was a simple trick that served to diminish the inevitable height difference. He was widely recognized as the tallest citizen of Pine Hall, but he didn’t like to loom in doorways.

Feet thudded on stairs, and the front door swung wide, revealing a boy-child clad in nothing but too-small pajama pants printed with a montage of superhero icons. He had spiky blond hair, wide-set blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of a pert nose. Bandages decorated both elbows, and another clung precariously to the underside of his chin.

Having each sized the other up, the boy asked, Are you a stranger?

Yes.

The door slammed shut.

Daroo-fen sighed, reclimbed the steps, and rang the doorbell again.

From the other side of the door, the boy hollered, Dad! It’s a stranger!

This time, the door was opened by an adult. The man was young, slight, and in need of a haircut, for loose brown curls all but obscured his eyes. His feet were bare, his pajama pants striped, and his arms occupied by a baby and her bottle. Hi. Sorry. He’s not supposed to open the door for strangers.

Mr. Cooper?

Yes. He adjusted his hold on the baby and began to sway. Well, maybe. I’m Charles Cooper. My father recently passed away. He was David Cooper.

I knew your father. I’m sorry for your loss.

Charles accepted that with a cautious nod. Who are you?

"The name’s Drew Hunter. I’m a lawyer here in town. You should have received a letter from our offices—Woodruff, Thackeray, and Hunter."

It was actually more like five letters. Daroo-fen had finally given up on hearing back.

If you wrote any time in the last six weeks, it’s probably in here. Charles bumped his foot against an oversized, overstuffed cardboard box with bold green letters that promised round-the-clock, leak-proof protection. He shook his head. We just moved. Things are a mess. I haven’t gotten around to sorting mail yet. Sorry.

The man’s scent wasn’t terribly promising—a pall of grief and a haze of stress. But under it all shone a glimmer of something Daroo-fen hadn’t encountered in many years. The words were out of his mouth before he could give them proper consideration. Do you need help?

Charles was already shaking his head. We’re fine. We’re great.

The smile might have worked to warn off the usual sort of polite inquiries, but Charles had a wolf at the door. Daroo said, I could pitch in with the paperwork. It’s what I do.

No need. We’re fine, insisted Charles, as if trying to convince himself. Besides, I can’t afford a lawyer.

Daroo-fen sifted through the mixed messages he was receiving—words and worries and weariness. Think of it as an exchange. I’d be willing to help you if you’d be willing to hear me out.

Charles shook his head. Are you trying to sell me something?

I’m a lawyer, Mr. Cooper, not a salesman. Daroo-fen pushed. I have no other appointments today. Let me locate the documents my office sent. And if you like, I can create a checklist of the things you’ll need to do in order to settle your father’s affairs.

The man didn’t so much give in as give up. Sure. I guess. Come in.

Life in Boxes

Sorry for the mess. Charles was usually more on top of things, but the move had discombobulated everything. We haven’t been here long. A little over a week. We’re packing and unpacking and … sorry.

You don’t need to apologize, Mr. Cooper. This is a difficult time.

He had no idea. Edging past a wide-open suitcase with clothes spilling over its sides, he led the way into the dining room. The big walnut table was probably the best place for the lawyer to set up, but that’s where Charles had unloaded everything. Was it sad that all his worldly possessions fit on a dining room table? They hadn’t even needed a truck. Just a rental van that had rattled half-empty across three state lines.

He’d been reduced to two suitcases, three cardboard boxes, and a clumsy heap of baby stuff—seats and stroller, playpen and playthings. Charles was still too numb to be homesick for the pristine little Cape Cod that had been his whole world. All he really knew for sure was how glad he was that Ally hadn’t argued when he said he’d take the kids. And how much it terrified him that she’d suddenly change her mind.

Mr. Cooper?

Kitchen table, maybe, he suggested, pushing aside a laundry basket with one foot. It slid easily on wood floors that were dusty enough to show footprints. Dad had been letting things go for a while. Charles had wanted to come back sooner. Might always regret putting it off too long.

With one hand, he stacked cereal bowls and carried them to the sink. Snagging a dishcloth, he mumbled another apology, only to stagger to a full stop.

The lawyer stood just inside the kitchen door, the heaping box of mail casually balanced on one arm.

Charles was used to looking up at people. He’d matched his father’s height at fourteen and never surpassed it. Five-two in his hiking boots, if he rounded up. He suddenly remembered how peevish Ally had been over having to wear flats for their wedding. And all the little tricks the photographer had used to make him look taller and her less pregnant.

This guy was well over six feet, a dominating presence. The house seemed to shrink around him, and a part of Charles was shrinking as well. He’d always felt awkward around professionals.

Mr. Cooper?

Is this okay? Charles gave the table a quick swipe, then rubbed self-consciously at a sticky patch that was probably an ice cream dribble from the night before.

Yes.