5. Dean

5

DEAN

D ean wanted to hate Juan on sight.

He wanted Deirdre's mate to be arrogant or stupid or mean, so that Dean would feel justified in protecting Deirdre from him…and keeping her for himself.

He wanted to loathe the man, and feel no compunction about smashing a fist right into his too-handsome face.

But Juan was gentle and kind, easy with both Aaron and the still-nameless dog, and all of Dean's instincts said he was a good man. Someone he might even be friends with.

When he turned and left the store without his change, Dean had a flicker of hope.

That was the end of it. Juan was just passing through. Even his work down the road was temporary. He'd said himself that he wasn't staying, and not to tell Deirdre that they'd spoken, that he wouldn't pursue her.

Dean could do exactly that, and Deirdre would never even know his name.

…and Dean would know for the rest of his life that he 'd kept Deirdre from her one true love out of sheer selfishness.

"Daddy?"

It didn't matter that she thought things would work with Dean, that she'd forget Juan. How could Dean even claim to love her if he couldn't let her go to find happiness that they had no chance at themselves?

"Daddy??"

How could destiny be so cruel?

"Have to go potty, Daddy!"

Dean's attention snapped down. Aaron was in the very earliest stages of potty training, and this might be a milestone. But it wasn't Aaron that had to go, it was the dog, who was whining and pacing the gate.

It took all his attention to get shoes on Aaron and herd them both out to the yard, where the dog tried to lift a leg to pee on a tree, nearly fell over, and ended up squatting.

Dean had to keep Aaron from trying to "help" and untangle him from the leash several times. By some miracle, no one got peed on.

When they got back into the store, Stanley was at the counter, impatiently trying to buy a rake. "Last one I bought here broke in six months," he scolded Dean. "My old rake lasted thirty-seven years. They don't make things like they used to. You keep ordering those off-brands."

"John Deere is not an off-brand ," Dean snarled, wrangling Aaron and the dog back behind the gate.

"I should get a warranty replacement," Stanley argued. "This one ought to be free."

"You have to bring in the old rake to do a warranty replacement," Dean pointed out, already dreading the paperwork. " And the receipt."

Stanley argued about how inconvenient that was, and complained about how everything was going to pot because of the Internet and video games.

Dean finally gave him a ten percent discount on the rake to get him out of the store, and Stanley left, grumbling about young people and manners and government conspiracies.

After Dean closed up the store early, he wrangled Aaron and the dog down the block to their house to face further horror.

"Want to help me give the dog a bath?"

Aaron looked up at him suspiciously. He always enjoyed baths once he was actually in the water, but resisted them with his whole self beforehand.

"The doggy needs a bath!" Dean told him. "The doggy smells bad!"

"Stink!" Aaron agreed, waving a hand in front of his face.

"You don't have a lot of ground to stand on there, Mr. Stinkbutt," Dean reminded him.

Aaron grabbed for his diapered rear. "No stink!"

Dean might not be excited for the ordeal of potty training, but he'd be glad to have it behind him. So to speak.

Aaron went to the bathroom closet and began gathering bath toys.

The avocado green bathtub was not quite as old as the farmhouse, but it was close, and Dean filled it halfway with warm water while he wrapped a trash bag around the dog's casted foreleg and duct taped it securely. He wasn't sure tape was the best product, but he didn't have any better ideas.

The surgery collar came off with Velcro and the dog shook his head vigorously, panting happily as Dean picked him up. His tail thumped against Dean's arm.

"Aaron, stay back! "

Aaron studiously ignored him to dump an armful of plastic boats and squirty animals into the water.

Dean put himself between the dog and Aaron and lowered him carefully into the tub.

The dog's tail continued to wag, though his head tilted in confusion as he was put in the water. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad , Dean thought, as the dog stood still on all fours. "Down," he commanded. The dog looked at him blankly.

Dean pressed on his back and the dog resisted with more strength than Dean expected. He couldn't just crush the poor thing, and he didn't want to put too much pressure on his broken leg. Maybe he could wash the dog standing up.

Dean let go with one hand to reach for the shampoo.

"Wanna see!" Aaron said, squirming under his arm and reaching.

"Aaron, no…"

The dog tried to take a step, slipped on his own garbage bag, and face planted into the water as Aaron shrieked in laughter.

Dean squeezed the shampoo as he dropped it, catching Aaron under one arm as the dog turned into a howling whirlwind of confused limbs. None of his feet could find purchase, and he splashed and thrashed and scratched at the tub. Aaron thought this was a marvelous show, and to Dean's horror, began to undress, clearly intent on joining the dog in the tub.

"Aaron, you have to wait! We have to wash the dog first!"

Dean got a hand on the ruff of the dog's neck and held him in place, face above the water, all his limbs splayed out in a stiff refusal to actually lay down. He was wedged between the sides of the tub in a half-crouch, and the shampoo had lathered into a foamy layer of bubbles .

The dog licked wildly and got a mouthful of the bubbles, struggled a little further, and then began to wag his tail again, frothing more foam. Aaron continued to undress, still giggling.

"You can't take a bath now, Aaron!" Dean begged, "It's the doggy's turn!"

He couldn't find the shampoo bottle in the foam and floe of bath toys, but he figured there was enough soap in there to make a game try, and used a washcloth (Deirdre was going to kill him!) to sponge down the mutt's fur.

If he'd been bedraggled before, the dog was absolutely pathetic when wet, and although his tail wagged and his tongue licked air like he was too happy to bear it, he was trembling as Dean gently washed off his fur.

The bubbles turned mud brown as he scrubbed, and Dean had to use his elbows to keep Aaron, now naked, from crawling over him into the tub.

This was a very poorly planned campaign, he realized. He should have waited until Aaron was in bed, or safely buckled into a highchair, or maybe hired a groomer.

He wasn't sure that any self-respecting groomer would have accepted the dog in his shape, though, and he'd probably have to drive to Alder Springs to find one anyway. "Help me rinse the doggy," he said coaxingly to Aaron. "Find the pitcher!"

The water was filthy, and Dean wasn't sure that he was getting the dog any cleaner now.

The release of the drain plug was a new terrifying noise, and the dog tucked his tail beneath his legs and scrambled back in the tub away from the sucking bubbles as Dean turned the water on—too cold! too hot!—and tried to turn Aaron's eagerness into actual help.

Aaron rummaged around in the sinking bubbles and came up with a squeeze-dolphin. Before Dean could stop him, he was squirting the dog from the other side of the tub.

The dog's ears went straight back against his head for a moment and Dean gathered himself to intervene until the canine gave a delighted bark and tried to capture the stream of water in snapping jaws.

Dean found the pitcher himself, adjusted the water to a reasonable temperature, and rinsed off the dog as Aaron rotated through every one of his squeeze toys.

He was not convinced that any of them actually got clean or rinsed, but when the worst of the bubbles had been washed away, Dean plugged the tub and filled it halfway again, then pulled the dog out and dropped the boy in.

Dean got the nearest towel off the rack (Deirdre was going to kill him again…) and wrapped the dog, drying vigorously.

Aaron chortled, splashing and sending his toys crashing against sides of the tub. The dog unhelpfully tried to get right back into the vessel of torture, and Dean held him back and found that the trash bag had come loose around the casted leg. The entire thing was filled with water.

That precipitated taking the rest of the bag off and hauling out Deirdre's hair dryer (a third death sentence, at least!).