Once inside, Dylan shrugged free and skidded to a stop. Everything looked neat and clean, in a lot better shape than he’d left the place in the last-minute urgency to get to the starting area for the race. From beside the stove, two mottled gray piles of fur stirred and jumped up, coming eagerly to greet him. They almost knocked him down as he tried to pet both of them and still keep his balance.
“Damn dogs aren’t supposed to be in the house,” he muttered. “What’s the deal here?”
Only then did he really look at the man who had apparently moved in and made himself at home. Who had Portola found to watch things? Did this guy know what he was doing?