Love Chocolate and a Dog Named Al Capone Read online

  Also by Abigail Drake

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  Tiger Lily

  Legacies of the Amazons

  The Bodyguard

  Passports and Promises

  Saying Goodbye

  New Heights

  Flying Solo

  Delayed Departure

  The Passports and Promises Series Boxed Set

  The South Side Stories

  The Enchanted Garden Cafe

  The Hocus Pocus Magic Shop

  The Dragonsong Law Offices

  The Tink Holly Chronicles

  Rebel Without a Claus

  Standalone

  Starr Valentine

  Love, Chocolate, and a Dog Named Al Capone

  Traveller

  The Reformed Pantser's Guide to Plotting

  Lola Flannigan

  Watch for more at Abigail Drake’s site.

  PRAISE FOR ABIGAIL DRAKE

  First Abigail Drake grabs you with her fresh writing, then she keeps you in the throes of her story with an incredible voice and a gifted talent for spinning tales that will amaze and delight. I am stunned. Tiger Lily will consume you, and before you know it you are fighting for air yet begging for more. You've been warned!

  NY TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR DARYNDA JONES

  This is one of those hidden gems that you long to come across. It has a little bit of everything in it; romance, paranormal, mystery and lots of action. There are so many twists and turns. A book that packs a punch you'll never see coming.

  Absolute perfection!

  DARK RAVEN REVIEWS

  LOVE, CHOCOLATE, AND A DOG NAMED AL CAPONE

  ABIGAIL DRAKE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Abigail Drake

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art by Najla Qamber

  Edited by Ramona DeFelice Long, Lara Parker, and Marylu Zuk.

  To Capone’s loving and devoted followers. You help me start each day out right, by laughing at life, and at myself.

  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

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Other Author

  Also by Abigail Drake

  ONE

  A list of things not to do on a horse farm:

  Irritate the horses.

  Mess with the cows.

  Make an enemy of the barn cat.

  First of all, stampedes happen. It’s a fact of life. But how could I have known horses spooked so easily? And cows—don’t get me started on cows. It took nothing but a whinny or two from some neurotic horses, followed by a few random stomps of their hooves, for the cows to get themselves worked into a tizzy.

  Cows. Such idiots.

  Mr. Collins, the barn cat, never saw it coming. He was too busy lecturing me at the time.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, jumping down from his perch on the fence post to march after me with a swish of his fluffy orange tail. “You aren’t supposed to be here. You know the rules. No puppies in the pasture. Go back to the house, where you belong.”

  I ignored him, even though I knew he was right. This was against the rules, and rules existed for a reason. I’d learned this the hard way.

  One time my caretaker, Mistress Sue, warned me to stay away from bumblebees. She told me it was a rule. I should have listened to her, but the creature looked so fuzzy and yellow and delicious. Sadly, it did not taste as nice as it looked.

  Note to self: Never eat something with a knife growing out of its butt.

  But no bumblebees buzzed around the pasture on this bright autumn day. And even though Mistress Sue told me never to bother the horses, surely sneaking under the fence to nibble on a teeny-weeny bit of horse poo did not constitute a crime.

  We all had our weaknesses. Mine happened to come from the back side of an equine. I’d never met a pile of poo I didn’t like.

  “Capone, you’re disgusting,” said Mr. Collins, watching me eat the horse droppings with revulsion. “And you’re going to get in trouble again because of this. Why can’t you make good decisions? You’re the worst dog I’ve ever met.”

  Since Mistress Sue bred Labradors, Mr. Collins had encountered a lot of dogs. If I was the worst he’d ever met, I must be pretty bad.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s like you have a personal vendetta against me, but I’ve never done anything to deserve it,” I said, pausing between mouthfuls. “Well, other than the time I bit your tail by accident. And the time I ran too fast and knocked you over. And the time I ate your food. And the time—"

  “Enough. We both know the truth. You’re a menace, and no one wants you. That’s why you’re still here. Your brothers and sisters were adopted ages ago.” He narrowed his eyes, spitting out words that felt like daggers to my heart. “You are a bad dog.”

  He’d gone too far. Feeling defensive, I barked at him. A lot. And I may have chased him around too, but I didn’t expect the cows to go crazy. I certainly didn’t want Mr. Collins to get hurt.

  When the cows charged, rushing toward us, I ducked under the fence and ran away as fast as my puppy legs could carry me. Mr. Collins wasn’t so lucky. With one well-placed kick by a cow to his backside, Mr. Collins went flying into the air, over the fence, and onto the green, green grass of the meadow.

  He didn’t die. In fact, other than having a limp for a few days, and a severely bruised ego, he recovered rather quickly. But now he had a new goal in life; to make me as miserable as possible.

  Goals, like rules, are important. And Mr. Collins took his seriously.

  He insulted me and called me names every chance he got. The horses joined in, like they always did when Mr. Collins bullied me. He told me over and over again I was a bad dog, but I refused to believe it. I knew I had the potential somewhere deep down inside to be something great. Something interesting. Something… more.

  Needing love and reassurance after an espe
cially intense round of bullying and verbal abuse by Mr. Collins, I went back to the farmhouse and snuggled up on the couch next to Mistress Sue to watch PBS. It always soothed me. Everything I knew about humans came from Mistress Sue and the Public Broadcasting Service. Well, that and books. With little to do on the farm at night, and because we lacked cable television, we had limited options for entertainment. Mistress Sue either read me a book or turned on PBS. On this particular evening, as the sun set in the sky, we watched a program that changed my life.

  The Rules of Being a Regency Gentlemen.

  At last. I now had rules to follow which actually made sense.

  I watched, spellbound, and learned about tying cravats and waltzing and helping ladies alight from carriages. The more I watched, the more a plan formed in my little Labradorean brain. I’d prove Mr. Collins and those nasty horses wrong by becoming the one thing a lab had never been before.

  A proper gentleman.

  There was only one problem. I had few opportunities to learn how to become a gentleman while living on a horse farm. Although a lovely place, it was basically only a stretch of grass, a few glorious piles of horse poo, a mean cat, and some exceedingly unfriendly horses. Not a single person to practice the waltz with, and definitely no one to teach me more about becoming a true gentleman. It was hopeless and I sank into a deep pit of despair.

  The next morning, I woke up, wishing I had a cravat to tie, and a valet to tie it, when I heard a knock at the door. We never had guests this early, which meant perhaps someone had finally arrived in response to Mistress Sue’s advertisement in the local paper.

  Full bred Labrador retriever puppy for sale. Black. Male. Energetic and extremely friendly. Three months old. Last of the litter. Will consider all offers. Must have previous puppy experience.

  Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my many virtues, but Mistress Sue knew what she was doing. I hoped for the best, but what greeted me at the door was even better than I’d ever imagined; an elegant, red-headed vision in a mossy green skirt.

  She was a lady. She had to be.

  Mistress Sue grabbed me by the collar to keep me from jumping all over our guest. I wiggled to escape, but to no avail. Mistress Sue had a grip of iron.

  The stranger smiled at me. “I’m Anne Weston. I’m looking for a puppy for my friend, and I hear you have one available for adoption.”

  Mistress Sue stared at Ms. Anne with a critical eye, taking in her fancy clothing and high heels. “Who is your friend?”

  “Her name is Josephine St. Clair. She’s the owner of Bartleby’s Books of Beaver. I want this to be a surprise gift for her.”

  “Are you sure your friend even wants a puppy?”

  In spite of the wording in her advertisement, Mistress Sue did not give her puppies to just anyone, but this might be my only chance. I squirmed and wiggled until Mistress Sue released me, then I ran over to Ms. Anne. I licked her high heels and slim ankles, and she bent down to give me a pat and a scratch behind the ears.

  “She doesn’t just want a puppy, she needs a puppy, and this one is so sweet. What’s his name?”

  “Capone,” said Mistress Sue.

  Ms. Anne let out a laugh, the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. It sounded like bells tinkling, or the wind chimes Mistress Sue had out back.

  “How perfect. A tough guy wrapped in an adorable, furry package. Josie will love him.”

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea. Capone requires a great deal of supervision,” said Mistress Sue. “He’s very…curious.”

  Ms. Anne seemed unfazed. “Not a problem. He can stay with Josie all day while she works, so he’ll be well supervised. He’ll love it at Bartleby’s. It’s a beautiful bookstore.”

  Mistress Sue eyed me carefully as I pranced around in a circle, nearly exploding with excitement. I loved books, and Mistress Sue knew it. I’d already heard wonderful stories about barn spiders spinning miraculous webs, rabbits in velveteen jackets, and faithful dogs doing heroic things. To live in a bookstore would be a dream come true.

  Mistress Sue offered Ms. Anne a spot on the couch. “Capone’s a strange little dog, and he likes books, oddly enough. There isn’t much to do in the evening here, so I read to him almost every night. Even so, I’m not sure he’d be the right fit for your friend.”

  Ms. Anne leaned down to pat my head again, and I stared up at her with adoration. I liked the way she smelled, like flowery perfume and scrambled eggs made with butter and cheese, which was probably what she had for breakfast that morning. I crawled onto her lap and licked her fingertips, which still carried a trace of butter, and Ms. Anne smiled.

  “Josie will love him,” she said, and I thought I heard a hint of sadness in her voice. “She lost her parents a few years ago, and she’s all alone. She needs him for companionship, and also for protection.”

  Mistress Sue’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Don’t let the name deceive you. Capone’s not guard dog material. He’s a licker, not a fighter, and he has the attention span of a gnat.”

  I wanted to protest but got distracted by a bit of dust on the floor. I wiggled my bum, eyeing it the way a lion stalks a gazelle on the Savannah, and pounced on it. Several times. Then I hopped up and down on it to make sure it was dead and barked at it, too. When I finished, I looked up to find both Mistress Sue and Ms. Anne staring at me.

  Curse my overactive imagination.

  “He’ll grow out of it,” said Ms. Anne after a long moment. “I always trust my instincts, and right now they’re telling me Josie and Capone belong together.”

  I sat up straighter, hard to do when my rolly polly puppy belly kept getting in the way. This might be the answer to all my problems. I could live at the bookstore with Miss Josie, become a faithful and attentive companion, and learn how to waltz and play Whist. I could also protect her from rogues and miscreants. Gentlemen always provided this service to ladies. They were extremely clear about that on the special on PBS.

  I stared at Mistress Sue, hoping she’d see the longing in my eyes. To my great surprise, it seemed to work. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll let you take Capone, but only on a trial basis. I’ll come check on him in two months. If he’s not adjusting well, I reserve the right to bring him back to the farm. Are we clear on this?”

  “Definitely.” Ms. Anne stood, a smile lighting up her face. “Josie will be so happy. She loves surprises, and Capone will be the best surprise of all.”

  TWO

  Ways not to greet a lady:

  Lunge at her.

  Stick your nose up her skirt.

  Lick the back of her thighs.

  Get a tiny bit of lint from her stockings caught on your tongue.

  Make gagging noises as you attempt to dislodge it.

  Urinate on her favorite potted plant.

  Bartleby’s Books had a bright blue façade and gold lettering above the door, but I barely noticed its splendor. Instead, I panted nervously as a cloud of white dandruff erupted from my skin, making it look like I’d wandered through a snowstorm.

  Curse my high-strung nature.

  I forced myself to calm down through sheer power of will. I had to make an excellent first impression on Miss Josephine St. Clair, but how?

  Although butt sniffing was a time-honored tradition among members of the canine persuasion, and animals in general, I doubted it would work when meeting a lady. I never saw any gentlemen sniffing butts on the PBS special, not even once. I suspected it might not translate well between species, so I chose not to smell Ms. Josie’s bottom.

  Well, not on our first encounter at least.

  As I wracked my brain, trying to decide what to do, I came up with a great idea. Hand kissing. The perfect solution. On the PBS special, it worked like a charm. Women generally responded to hand kissing by fluttering their fans and blushing adorably. If I kissed her hand, Miss Josie would be so amazed by my manners and comportment; she’d want me to stay with her forever.

  I walked into the shop with Ms. Anne, de
sperate to do well. It intensified when I saw Miss Josie.

  She was lovely. The prettiest human I’d ever seen. She stood at the cash register, engrossed in a book, as the sun streamed through the windows, bathing her in its light. Her hair shone in a curly halo around her head, the color of spun gold. She’d stuck a pencil in her bun and had black-framed glasses perched on her tiny nose. Her eyes, the dark grey of a summer storm, focused on her book, and a little wrinkle of a frown formed between her brows.