NoelanAngelPaws

Holidayshortstory

JordanTaylor

Copyright©2013byJordanTaylor.Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsystemor

transmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronic,

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withoutthepriorpermissionofthepublisher.

Thisisaworkoffiction.Anyresemblancetoactualpersonsordogs,livingordead,is

coincidental.

Notreeswereharmedinthecreationorpublicationofthis

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Noel

Noel lifts her head from herstrawbed,earspricked.Barnwindows rattle. The doorbangs back and forth. Aflurryofsnowburststhroughthegapateachcrash,meltingasittouchesthecementfloor—so warm is the buildingfrom huddled bodies of

eighteen sheep, three dairycows, two goats, one horse,andonedog.

As icy wind gusts and cedarwallsshudder,Noelturnsherhead, eyes wide, nostrilsquivering in the nearly blackbarn. Sheep and cows doze.Goats shift, alert. Boxer, theoldShiregeldingsnortsinhisdarkstall.

As minutes pass and thehuge, white dog hears

nothing, she finally sighs,droppingherheadoncemoreinstraw.

Boxer turns in his stall. Thegoatsmurmurinstrange,softtones, like childrenwhispering.

The door gives an especiallyviolent bang. Again, Noelraisesherhead,throattight,abarkstickingthere.

With a glance through

darkness to the goats andhorse, then a quick look atsleeping sheep, all butinvisible despite their whitefleece, the big dog heavesherself to her paws. Shestands still, straw droppingfrom her coat, inhaling rich,familiarodorsofherbarnandherlivestock.

Boxer swishes his tail andpaces a circle, ears prickedtowardthedoor.

Noel watches with ears andnose more than eyes, thenfaces the banging door anddrivingsnow.

It’s the middle of the night,though Noel has never beenmuch good with clocks andtimes. She knows BreakfastTime,DinnerTime,andTimetoFetchtheSheep.Now,sheknows it’s the middle of thenight.Andsheknowspeopledo not drive about in snow

storms in the middle of thenight. And she knows sheheardanengine.

She stalks to the door whereshe stands with her nose afew inches from it. Bang,crack,crash.Snowgustsoverher face.Noel licks her noseand sniffs: ice, wood, straw,rats, corn, oats, horse, goat,cow, cat, leather, woodsmoke, motor oil, Peter.Peter’s smell always lingers

aboutthebarn,evenwhenhehas long gone to bed in thelittle farm house.But Peter’struck has not been startedtonight.Peterhasnot triedtodrive anywhere since heavysnow began the day before.He is safe inbed. Justwhereheshouldbe.

Thewhitedogstandsstillformanyminutesaswindhowls,snowgusts,doorclatters,andgoats and horsewatch her in

silence. Another long, slowsniff.Listen.

At last, she turns away. Asshe does, she feels the goatsand horse relaxing. Falsealarm.

Rumble,rumble,rumble.

Noel whirls back to face thedoor, head up: far, far away,so hidden in wind and snowand distance, it’s as if thesound is an inner knowing

ratherthanamessageherearsperceive.Butit’sthere.

Boxer stomps. The goatsmurmurandmewintheiroddlittlevoices,tense,watchful.

She could wait. Perhapsshould wait. She’s in chargeofthebarn.It’snotherplacetoabandonitinthemiddleofthe night. It’s herresponsibility to know allthingsthathappenaroundherflock.Toknowwhoandwhat

and why might beapproaching. To protect anddefend every goat and eweand lamb, right down to thecats in the hayloft. All herresponsibility. Anythingunusual, anything newarriving near her propertymustbeinvestigated.

Noel looksaroundat themixof alert and slumberinganimalswarming the barn sopleasantly with their body

heat. She twitches her tail,thenpresseshermassiveheadagainst the warped door. Byshoving her weight into it,she bends the bottom half ofone double door and slipsbetweentheboards, thenout,away,intosnowydarkness.

~~~

Anna glances over hershouldertothedarkbackseat,

tearsinhereyes.

Everything is going to beokay.Everythingisfine.

She grips the wheel, takes adeep breath, closes her eyesfor amoment, then turns thekeyintheignition.Thesedangrowls,grumbles.Theengineturnsover.Againandagain.

Sherestsherforeheadagainsther knuckles, clutching thewheel. “Please,” she

whispers.“Please,please.”

Another twist of the key.Rumble,rumble,rumble.

Anna sits back.Deep breath.So cold.With the heater off,thetemperatureinthecarhasalready plunged. Again, sheglances around at the infantcar seat diagonally behindher.Allisstillandsilent.Andcold.

Tiny Lily had squealed upon

the solid impact of the carsliding into this snow-driftedditch. Then sputtered andsighedbacktosleepwhilehermotherpanickedupfront.

Annacloseshereyesandsitsstill, praying the baby willremainasleepawhilelonger.Anna has driven in snowbefore, plenty of times, sheshould have been able tomanage. Stupid, letting thishappen: it’s not only about

hernow.NotsinceLily.

She shivers, releasing abreath.Ifshe’sgoingtoraiseLily alone, she’ll have to bemoreself-reliantthanthis.Soclose. As turned around asshe became in the blizzard,she knows she’s near herparents’. They urged her nottocomewiththeforecastandunplowed side roads, milesfromanyone.Butthedriveisnot so far—an hour in good

conditions. She has neverbeen away from them onChristmasmorninginherlife.

Now Christmas morning isnearlyuponher.Soclose.Sofar.Sheknowsnowshemadea wrong turn, nearly blind,crawling in first gear atwalkingpace for thepast tenmiles. Still, she should havebeentherelongago.

Annalooksoutthewindowtoblacknightanddrivingwhite

snowgustingagainstglass in40mphwind.Atleastthey’resafe. Yet … how long untiltheyfreeze?

She shuts off the headlights,buried in snow and casting awhitehaloaroundthehoodofthe car. She squints in alldirections,leaningovertorubglasswithhersleeveandpeerthrough. No sight of a faintstreetlight, house light, carlight.Nothing.

A shudder runs up her spineand she sits back, taking adeep breath. She reaches tothe passenger seat for herphone, though she tried tocall her parents half an hourago when she startedsuspecting she had becomelost. It wouldn’t go through.She tries again. No service.Shetries911.Noservice.

A cheap phone. It had nevercrossedhermindtothinkshe

mightbenefitfromsomethinglike a satellite phone. Or alarge,four-wheel-driveSUV.

Shepushesthephonebackinherpurse.Think.

ShecannotstayhereallnightwithLily.They’llfreeze.Sheonlyhas theirovernightbagsforherparents’place.

But they cannot leave either.The ideaofbundlingLilyupand starting down the road

with her in this blizzard, nodirection,nolightsinsight…Annashiversagain.

Amailbox.Asign.Afencetofollow. If she’s anywherenear her parents’, there aresmall farms and largestretchesofopenandwoodedland.Very large.What ifshecan’tevenstayontheroadinthis leveling snow andwandersoffwithLilythroughmilesofopencountrywithout

meetingafenceormailboxorfrontporch?

She turns the key, holds it along time, sits back. Noblankets, though she doeshave extra clothes and adiaper bag in the trunk. Andflairs?Anemergencykitwitha jack and a couple of roadflairs.Ifanyonediddrivethisway tonight, at least theywould see that through thesnow in the middle of the

road. And if no one comesalong? What if they have tospend all night in the carwithout heat? It won’t takelong for the temperatureoutside to be the same asinside.

She needs the bags. Get thebags up here. Get into thebackseatwithLily,holdher,bundle them both up. Theywon’t freeze. She won’t letthem.

Anna unbuckles her seatbelt,zipshercoattoherchin,pullsthe hood over he face, gritsher teeth, then pushes openher door. Or tries. The doorwill not budge. She throwsherself into it and it flingswide, caught by wind andthrown open like a gapingmouth.

With the door closed, Annaleansbackagainstcoldmetal,lifting her arm to shield her

face from the ferocity ofbiting wind and snow. Socoldshefeelsthemoistureinhereyesfreezing.Fightingtobreathe, arms liftedprotectively, she makes herway to the hood, kickingthroughdriftingsnow.

As she fights her way backaround thecarwith thebags,she is nearly blind by windandcold,snowanddarkness.Yet she sees, like a ghost, a

polarbearstandingbesidehercar.Annascreams,staggeringbackwardintotheicycar,hervoice snatched away by thegale.

~~~

Noel cocks her head, eyesnearly shut against wind andsnow.Sheinhalesthroughhernose, taking in rubber, steel,

oilfromthepartlyburiedcar.Then fearful, soapy orange-mint, alive smell of thewomanleaningagainstit.Shehears the woman’s gaspingbreaths, hears her heartpoundingevenoverthesoundof the wind, and knows at asniffsheisyoung,scared,andanewmother.Sheknowsjustas fast, this woman and hersuspicious vehicle are nothere to disturb Noel’slivestock.

Nothing tobotheraboutafterall.Noelturnstogo.

“Wait!” The woman’s voicesounds sharp and high, as ifinpain.

Noellooksback.

“Here dog, come on. I’msorry—you startled me. Youlooked like a bear.” A short,nervous laugh. She kneels inthesnow,hertwobagsfallingbeside her, holding out her

armstoNoel.

“Doyouliveouthere?Surelyno one is taking you for awalk tonight.” She lifts hervoice, shouting the nextwords. “Hello? Who’s outthere?”

Noelturnsherfaceoutofthewind, listening. The womanseems to be calling forsomeone, though Noel cansmellnootherhumanbesidesthebaby.

“Hello? My car is stuck! Ineedhelp!”

No answer. Noel glances atthe woman, swishes herbushy tail, then again startsaway.Shemust return toherflock.

“Please,dog,comeback.”

Noelhasnouseforstrangers.Even harmless ones. She’snot even demonstrative with

Peter. Other humans are, atbest, of little interest orconsequence. At worst,menaces toherdomain.Still,thewoman’svoicestopsher:the terror and desperation,and the motherhood smellwhichattractsher.

She pushes through snowwithmassivelimbsandbroadchest to reach the crouching,shiveringwoman,whoburiesher icy fingers in Noel’s

whiteruff.

“Gooddog.”Herteethchatteras she tries to speak.“Whereareyoufrom?”

Noel watches her, taking inher smells, sounds, thehammering heart and bittercold of her fingers reachingdown to Noel’s skin underherthickcoat.

“I was driving to myparents’—butI’veneverseen

youaroundtherebefore.”Hervoice catches, shaking morethan ever. “Will you helpme?” She runs her fingeraround the smooth, oldleatherofNoel’sloosecollar.“Please?”

Theystareatoneanother fora long moment throughdarkness, wind crashingagainstbothfacesonlyafewinchesapart.

The woman strokes Noel’s

head,thenstandsupwithherbagsandpriesopen thebackcar door. With the doorclosed and the car’s insidelighton,sheworkswithbagsandcoatsandbabycoverings.

Noel gazes into the carwithout looking up. It’snowhere near the size ofPeter’s pickup truckwith thehigh tailgate and sturdyrunning board. Noel couldstepintothiscarlikestepping

intothebarn.

She shakes herself, resettlingthefurpartedbythewoman’scold touch. She seems to betakingcareofherchild.Oncemore,sheturnstogo.

Thedoorcracksopenagainstice and wind. “Wait! Gooddog.”Thewomanclimbsout,a thick, grumbling, snufflingbundleinherarms.

Noel wags her tail. She

knows about young, helplessthings. How they need to bewarm and protected andwatched over. She returns toexaminethebundlewhiletheshaking woman, nowwrapped in more garmentsherself,bendsclose.

“Please, will you take us toyourhome?Home.”

Noel sniffs along thebundle,which is whimpering andmovinginthemother’sarms.

“Gooddog.Gohome.”

Dogandwomangazeateachother for another longmoment, then Noel startsback through the alreadyblown over snow trail shemadewalkingdownhere.Sheskirts the post and rail fencebyagooddistance.Windhasmoundedsnowonthissideofitandthedriftsrunthreeandfour feet deep against therails.

The woman follows,struggling and gasping inNoel’s wake, floundering indeepsnowlikeayoungdeer.ItmakesNoelvaguelyuneasyleadingastranger towardherflock. Instinct reassures herwithoutherbeingawareofit.This woman is almostcertainly not going to attackNoel’s sheep—with a babyclutched to her chest andhardly able to move through

snow.

When she reaches the fencecorner, Noel turns to followthe line directly, the snowlyingsmoothandshallowthisway, wind at her back. Shebreaks into a trot and jogseasilythroughdarknessandafamiliartrack.

“Comeback!Wait!”

Noel pauses, looking around.The woman has vanished.

Noelsniffs,listens.Theresheis.Howterriblyslow.

She starts off again. Thewoman calls to her. Shewaits. 100 yards on, Noelstrikes out across the openfield of blowing snow andshifting drifts. This seems toalarm her companion. Shepauses for a long timeas thepanting, terrified womancatches up, tripping andalmost falling in the drifts,

clutching her bundle againstherbody.

The infant is crying. Noelhears a high, shrieking wailover thewind and goes backtosniffoncemore.

“I’msorry.Ijustcan’tgothatfast.Ican’tloseyououthere.If we lose you … we’llfreeze.”

Noelstepsback,watchinghernearly invisible figure with

eyes almost shut. Thewoman’s fear and tensionboil off her like the baby’scries—athick,uncomfortablepanic which Noel cannotunderstand and whichmakesher uneasy. Why should thewoman become more afraidas they near home? She saidshewantedtogohome.

Noel walks on, glancingmanytimesoverhershoulderto her noisy followers. Peter

will know what to do withthem. Peter always knowshow to help troubledlivestock.

When she glances back oncemore, the woman hasvanished. The infant shrieksagainst wind. Ice stingsNoel’snoseasshebacktracksto find thewomanstrugglingonherknees,tryingtoregainher feet and push throughblownsnow.

TheyneverwillreachPeteratthis rate. Noel trots away,plowing through drifts like asnowmobile. This time, sheignores frantic calls behindher.

~~~

Peter wakes, listening. Hecannot thinkwhathas rousedhim.Windscreamsandbangs

against the house. It doesn’tusuallybotherhim.Yet,evenhalf asleep, he feels sure asoundwokehim.

Bang, clatter, whoosh. Justthe wind after all. Perhaps abranchcracked.

Rrwwof!

Peter sits up. The dog isbarking.Barkingrightoutsidethe house, not from the barnwhere she zealously guards

herassortedfamily.ButNoelnever barks unless there istrulyaproblem.

He scrambles out of bed,hitting the switch on thelamp.Nothinghappens.He’dbeenexpectingthat.Hegrabsa flashlight on the bedsidetable.

Morebarking,impatient.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”Hescramblesintojeans,wool

socks,asweater.

Thehouse is stillwarmfromlingeringelectricheatandtheglowing wood stove. Petertakes a deep breath beforepushingopenthebackdoortofindNoelbarkingup intohisface.

“What?”

Noel, a huge, white snowbeast, steps back, gazing athimasshewagshertail.

He casts the light around thefarmyard, or tries to. Thebeam illuminates walls ofblowing, churning white. Hecan hardly remember ablizzard like this. And onChristmasEve.

He looks back at his dog,aiming the light over herhead.

“What’s up? Want to comeinside?”

Thequestionisajoke.HehastriedtogetNoelinthehousefor years. Before they weregone and Peter inherited thefarm from them, his parentstried to get her inside. Shetreats such things withcontempt.Herplace is in thebarn and fields with hercharges.Nowhereelse.

Now she gazes up at him,dark eyes squinted in thewind. Calm, unruffled by

sheets of snow plasteringacross her shaggy coat. Shedoesnotappearupset, as shewould have if one of theanimals was ill or injured.Yet, shehas seen fit towakehim.He’sonlyknownher todo such a thing in anemergency—a lambing eweorcolickyhorse.

Investigating this nighttimecall wouldmean coat, boots,a trip to the dark barn. Not

something he can welcomewith open arms just now. Ifonlyshewouldtellhimwhatthetrouble is.But that isonething Noel has never beenskilledat.

“Justaminute.”Heclosesthedoor in her face and turnsback into the mudroom forhisbootsandparka.

Outside, Noel remains silentfor about twominutes. Afterthat, she seems to grow

concerned lest he return tobed.Shestartsbarkingagain.A huge, thundering barkwhichcuts throughwindandwalls and into his eardrumslike explosions. His fatherusedtotellhimtheonlythingmoreimpatientthanawomanwaiting supper on youwas asheepdog waiting for you toanswerasummons.

Finally, boots, hat, coat, andgloveson, flashlight inhand,

he throws the doorwide andstepsout.

Noel quits barking, wagginghertail.

“You’re welcome,” Petersnaps. “All right. Lead on.”Head bowed in the wind, hetrudges down steps, towardthebarn,lightrippedawaybyiceandwind.

Noeldoesnotleadon.Afteradozensteps,Peterrealizesshe

isn’tevenwithhim.Helooksaround, just catching Noeltrotting away through a glintoflightonsnow.

“Noel! Where are yougoing?”

Shedoesn’tlookback.

Peter jogs after her, pushingthroughsnowthathasdriftednearly to his knees in spots.There is something terriblywrong here. If an animal is

loose, hurt, out in this snow,Noel would be upset,running, eager to get himthere. Now she heads off inan apparently randomdirection, trotting along likeshe is going for a walk. Sowhydidshefetchhimifshe’snotworried?

He is just openinghismouthto ask her, when he hearssomething. Something or …someone? Someone …

callingout?

Peter stops, listening.straininghisearsasNoeljogsbeyondthereachofhislight.

“Hello?Comeback!Please!”The high, stricken voicetwistsandvanishesintowindanddarknesslikeanecho.

Stunned,Peterbeginstorun.

~~~

Beth is startledawakeby theshrillblastofthephoneinherear. She jumps, fumbling tosnatch theoldhandsetoff itscradle. She hadn’t meant todrift off, waiting up for herdaughter and infantgranddaughter, calling theunresponsive cell over andover.Ridiculous to comeoutin this snow. All the reportssaid it would turn into a

terrible blizzard by evening.Andwith thebabyalongandAnna alone with her.… Justridiculous.

“Hello?” Beth clutches thephone,lookinguptoseeJohnrubhiseyesfromhisrecliner.

“Mom?”

“Anna! What happened?Whereareyou?”

John sits up, pushing the

footrest down on his chair,glancingathiswatch.

“I’m okay.” Anna’s voicetrembles.“We’rebothokay.”

“Whathappened,Anna?”

“Is she all right? Nevershould have come out inthis,” Johngrumbles. “Powerout,feetofsnow—”

“Thecar’sstuck,”Annasays.“But we’re fine. We’re at a

farm onAndersonRoad.Myphone didn’t work. I’mborrowingone.”

“Oh, Anna. You could havefrozenoutthere—”

“I know, Mom. I know. Itwas stupid. I just, couldn’tnot be there for Christmas—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t havetried.”

“Where is she?” John keepsasking.“Whathappened?”

“AfarmonAndersonRoad.”

“Anderson? That’s four orfivemilesfromhere.”

“At least it’s nomore,”Bethsays. “She could have beenanywhere, John. Anna, youlisten: stay right there untilthis weather clears. We cancelebrateChristmaslateifwehave to. The important thingisyouandLilystayingsafe.”

Anna assures her that Peter,

the young farm owner, whohas a wood burning stove, acamp stove, and anabundance of candles, saidshe is welcome to either theguest room or couch (beingnearestthewoodstove)foraslongassheneedsit.

“Mom,” Anna whispers.“MerryChristmas.”

Bethglancesatthewallclockover the window. It’s justpast midnight. “Merry

Christmas,sweetheart.”

~~~

Noel supervises as Peterfeeds the livestock, doessomequickmuckingout,thenoffersthemtheopportunitytovisit the outdoors. Cows,goats, and sheep crowd intothe barn doorway, stoppingonthethresholdtoregardthe

world. The sun rises overhills and peaks and plains ofsmooth,sparklingwhiteasfarastheeyecansee.

The animals look around ateach other, then Peter, thenturn back for their stalls,goats mumbling, cowschewingcud.

HedishesoutNoel’sbowlofkibble in hot water, thenstarts the engine of his truckbefore trudging back to the

farmhouse with the aid of ashovelandtallsnowboots.

Noeldoesaroundofthebarnafter breakfast. With noanimals outside, there’s notmuch else to do. She tries apatrol around the house, butthesnowissodeepinplaces,withno icecruston top, thatshemust plow throughup toherchest.She’sbythepickuptruck when the back dooropens and Peter steps out,

talkingtosomeone:

“They’re only four milesfrom here. That’s nothing.And you’ve never seen apropervehicleatwork in thesnow.”

“Ialreadyhadtoabandonmyown car in the snow.” Theyoung mother follows him,wrapped in coat, hat, boots,and with the same babybundle in her arms from thenight before. “I won’t be

responsible for someoneelse’sgettingstuck.”

“Youweredrivinga…?”

“ACivic—ratherold.”

“And is it a V8 with four-wheel-drive, chains, and 420horsesbehindit?”

The woman laughs as shestepscarefullyalong the trailPeter has cleared to therumbling truck. “Well, it

definitelydoesn’thavechainsonthetires.”

Peter holds out his arms,giving a sweeping gesture tothe vehicle. “Madam, I giveyou the Modern Farmer’sChristmasSleigh.Guaranteedto get any damsel in distresswhere she needs to be onChristmasDay.”

“I promised my mother Iwould stay put and stay safeuntil road conditions

improve.…” She trails off.HerlaughingeyeshavefoundNoel, standing in the lee ofthe truck where the snow isonly a few inches deep,watchingthem.

Peter follows her gaze toNoel, who swishes her tailoncewhenhelooksather.

“I didn’t even thankyou lastnight.” She walks forwardand kneels, the baby bundleheldtoherchest,reachingout

withafree,glovedhand.

Noel steps forward to sniffthe glove and allow thewomantostrokeherhead.

“You saved our lives,” shewhispers. “I can never thankyou enough.” She looksaround at Peter. “I don’tknowwhatIwouldhavedonewithout thisdog. In thedark,lastnight,Ithoughttherewasapolarbearbesidemycar.”

Peter grins. “She’s a GreatPyrenees, or PyreneanMountainDog,asmyparentsused to call them. I grew upwiththemonthefarm.She’sthelastofmydad’sdogsand,not to put her down, but I’msurprisedshehelpedyou.Shedoesn’t like strangers. Takesher flock guarding veryseriously.”

The woman looks back intoNoel’s eyes, stroking her

chin. “I’m so glad youmadean exception. What’s hername?”

“Noel.”

The woman turns to look athim.“Areyouserious?”

“Absolutely. It’s a good fit:todayisherbirthday.”

Thewoman shakesher head,again stroking Noel’s ears.“You’re telling me I was

rescuedonChristmasEvebyadognamedNoelwholookslike a walking snowdrift andwasbornonChristmasDay?”

“Think you can handle onemore Christmas miracle?Let’s go surprise yourparents.”

She stands to look at him,then the truck, biting her lip.“You’re sure we can makeit?”

“We’re already there.” Heopensthepassengerdoorandholdshishandouttoher.

She smiles as she takes it.“Whocanarguewiththat?”

Noel feelswarmthemanatingfrom the truck now as thewoman with the baby settlesherself in the seat. Door stillopen,shelooksback.

“Thank you, Noel. MerryChristmas.”

Noel swishes her tail,stepping back as Peter putsthe truck in first gear andturns on the windshieldwipers to flingmelting snowand ice from glass. Slowly,they rumble away over thesmooth, white drivewaytoward the little road wherethe woman’s car stuck thenightbefore.

She watches until the truckturnsonto theroadandstarts

away in the pristine, stilllandscape,herbreathmakinggentlepuffsofvapor in frontof her face. Then she doesanother round of barn andhouse before returning insidetostrawandanimalwarmth.

Boxerturnshisheadfromhishaynettonickerather.Goatsmurmur. Sheep lift theirheads to see her pace in. Acat drops from the loft alongthe old wood ladder to greet

her by rubbing along bothforelegs.

Noel does a lap of the stallsandpens, finally returning toher own straw bed, lyingdownwithasigh.Suchalongnight. Time for a nap: all iswell with Peter, with Noel,withherflock.

AbouttheAuthor

Jordan Taylor has been aprofessional dog trainer forover ten years, working in avariety of areas from privateconsultations to agility andentertainment—training dogsforfilm,advertising,andlivetheater. Her first book,Wonder Dogs: 101 German

Shepherd Dog Films, tracesthe history of GermanShepherd Dogs in moviesfrom the 1920s to moderntimes. Jordan continues tomerge her love for writingand dogs at home in thePacificNorthwest.

StoriesintheAngelPawsandAngel Paws Holiday seriescelebrate the unique bondbetween canines and humanswith heartfelt, moving, and

insightful tales for anyonewhohaseverlovedadog.

If you enjoyed Noel, pleaseleave a review on Amazonand find more Angel Pawsand Angel Paws Holidaystories on Jordan’s authorpage:https://amazon.com/author/jordantaylor

YoucanfindJordantweetingontwitter.com/JordanTaylorLit,updating her website atwww.jordantaylorbooks.com,

and being delighted to hearfrom readers throughjordantaylorbooks@gmail.com

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