Saving Joe. Laura Altom Marie

blanket of night as by rote he headed down the path that ran beneath the cliffs to the small meadow where Bud could usually be found.

      Joe’s footsteps fell heavily as he expelled his breaths in white clouds. The slender moon now hung high, giving off just enough light through the fog to create garish shadows that blocked his way.

      “Bud!” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bud! Come on, boy. Let’s go home.”

      Still no response.

      Not a yelp, yip or whimper—out of the dog, or the woman tight on his heels.

      Traveled by foot, the roughly five square mile island provided plenty of areas to get lost—especially at night. And for a citified mutt who spent most of his time lounging in front of the fire, Bud had roamed too far from the cabin.

      Fighting a rush of panic, Joe quickened his pace, hopping over a gurgling stream that shone silver in the faint moonlight.

      Just as he came upon the meadow where Bud often fled to chase butterflies, an owl hooted, its lonely voice only accentuating the silence.

      Where was the stupid pooch?

      Joe couldn’t lose that dog. He couldn’t. Bud represented so much more than a mere companion. He was Joe’s link to his old life. He’d been Meggie’s tearful gift to him the night Joe had made his goodbyes. “You take ’im, Daddy. Barney’ll protect you from the bad guys.”

      As if that wasn’t reason enough to save the dog, there was another one, even more pressing. In light of what had happened earlier that evening with the marshal, the dog was now, in a bizarre way, serving as a chaperone—not against Joe’s actions, but his thoughts.

      Standing close to her back, at the cabin, he’d been acutely aware of not just her vulnerable size, but her barely there perfume evoking the sweetness of candy and sex. She’d awakened his protective streak. Made him squash the urge to finger-comb pine needles from her hair.

      “Yo, Bud!” Joe shouted. “Come on, boy!”

      When there was still no response, he kept walking, hunching his shoulders against the cold, stumbling over exposed roots and brambles as he tried making sense of the night that was every bit as cloistering as his mixed-up emotions.

      Nearing a bluff dotted with small holes that led to sea caves below, Joe remembered how much the dog liked to bark at the occasional sea lion hanging out on the rocks. They’d walked there together at low tide.

      At high tide, the caves were a death trap.

      To ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature, Joe cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Bud! Answer me! Where are you, you stupid mutt?”

      At first, he heard nothing but the crack of waves breaking against an offshore bank of rocks, but then he barely made out what sounded like a whine.

      “Barn? That you?”

      “Oh no,” said a feminine voice from behind him. “Is he hurt?”

      “Go away,” Joe said. He was scared, and angered by her intrusion.

      By the fact that she might smell his fear.

      His vulnerability.

      Joe heard the whine again, off to his left. Judging by the muted, echoing tone, the dog had fallen. Was the friend his daughter had named Barney, the constant companion Joe had renamed the generic Bud, because he couldn’t bear thinking of Meggie every time he muttered the dog’s name, lying there hurt? Had he twisted or broken a leg? Crushed a rib? Was he slowly bleeding to death?

      Joe took off at a dead run down the snaking path leading to the beach below. Even in full daylight, the route he followed was treacherous. At night, it was a natural minefield.

      Rocks loosened beneath Joe’s awkward steps, clacking down the hillside. Adrenaline rushed through him.

      “Joe!” the marshal cried. “Be careful! You can’t help him if you’re hurt!”

      At the base of the cliff, Joe ran parallel to the shore, sloshing through frigid tidal pools a foot deep or more.

      “Bud!” he hollered, approaching the cave. His voice echoed in the eerie stillness. A fog bank hugged the shore, dulling the lap of the surf.

      The whine came again, close, but still muffled.

      Scrambling into the mouth of the cave, Joe flicked on his flashlight, hollered the dog’s name again, then finally saw his glowing eyes. Just as he’d suspected, Bud had fallen into a crevice at the back of the cave. Even from this distance, Joe saw that he wouldn’t be able to reach the narrow space where the dog was lodged.

      The marshal sloshed through shallow water behind him.

      “Damn,” he mumbled. The tide was rising, and judging by the algae-and anemone-covered cavern walls, the entire area would soon be underwater.

      If he didn’t figure out a solution—quick—the dog would die.

      “Here, take my light,” she said, tucking it in his jacket pocket. “It’ll be a tight squeeze, but I’m pretty sure I can get back there.”

      “Go away,” Joe ordered, already heading for Bud. He wasn’t sure how, but no matter what, he would find a way to save his dog.

      “Come on, don’t be like this,” she murmured, tugging on his jacket sleeve with one of her small, cold hands.

      He wanted to handle this on his own. Wanted to tell her to stay away—for good.

      Unfortunately, his heart knew better. The sad fact of the matter was, he couldn’t handle this alone. The space was too small, his body too big.

      He took a deep breath before aiming the flashlight’s beam deeper into the cave. “Follow me. It’s slick.”

      She did follow him, without complaint, without concern for her own safety.

      He gripped her firmly by her forearm, helping her over slimy rocks where brutally cold water already swirled. The mammoth cavern ate the ineffectual beam of light. Incoming sea slapped the rocks.

      “Bud!” he called.

      No answer.

      “He’ll be all right,” she said.

      “You can’t know that.”

      “No, but I want to believe it, and sometimes that makes all the difference.”

      That was just the kind of Pollyanna crap he’d have expected from someone like her.

      He knew firsthand that sometimes, no matter how hard a person hoped for certain events to happen, people and dogs don’t return from the dead. He held the light high, searching again for the red glow of his pet’s eyes.

      “There,” she said, taking hold of the situation by splashing through the water to the rear of the cave, then scrambling over more algae-covered rocks. “Shine the light this way,” she cried. “I’ve nearly reached him.”

      Joe did as he was told.

      “Hey, Bud,” she softly crooned. “Remember me? Your new roomie?”

      The dog let out a scratchy whimper.

      “How is he?” Joe stood frozen to the spot. “Can you get him?”

      “Oh…oh, God.”

      “What? What does that mean?” Though he asked the question, Joe didn’t want the answer. Sure, the dog might be alive now, but that could be a temporary thing.

      “There’s…blood. Everywhere. And his right front leg, from the way he’s got it positioned, I…I hope it’s not broken.”

      The dog was going to die.

      Cold misery washed through Joe, replacing the blood in his veins with ice. Hadn’t he already been through enough?

      “Come