Washed Away. Carol Marinelli

to get back to town. Once there, she’d have the answers. She’d be in a position to do something. She’d be back in control—

      “Hell!” The curse slipped out of her lips as a dark bundle dashed across the road, too quickly for Cheryl to swerve. She slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt just in time to avoid hitting the object.

      Craning her neck, she peered out at the roadside, her heart rate slowly returning to its already accelerated state. A fox perhaps, running for shelter. Immediately she wished she hadn’t checked the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of solemn eyes and a shivering mass of fur. If only she were one of those people who could just drive right on.

      But she wasn’t.

      Cheryl pulled up her collar and forced the door open. She had no desire to venture outside again into the driving wind and rain, but she had no choice now that she knew it was a dog.

      “Come on, little guy.” She crouched by her vehicle. “You’re not looking at some sentimental animal lover here. This lady’s in a rush, so if you want a ride, this is your only chance.”

      What was she doing? A category four hurricane was about to hit, and here she was, trying to coax a stupid dumb mutt into the van. What was Mitch’s reaction going to be when she arrived back at the station with an extra passenger?

      “Last chance,” she warned, shaking her head in exasperation when the little dog refused to move. She had to walk away and head back to town. But as she climbed inside the Jeep, the smell of Beth’s fresh-baked cookies was the first thing to hit her.

      “Very last chance,” Cheryl corrected wryly, stepping back down from the Jeep and holding out a cookie, which was fast dissolving in the rain, to the shivering mutt. “Come on, little guy.”

      It wasn’t going to work, and even though Cheryl wasn’t the world’s greatest animal lover, it tore at her heart to turn her back. But a lost black dog must surely be way down on her list of priorities.

      He might not be lost, Cheryl consoled herself as she resumed what was becoming a familiar struggle to close the car door. He was probably hotfooting his way back to his home right now. But suddenly, with an indignant yelp, a wedge of wet fur clambered furiously onto Cheryl’s lap, then whining in protest as she pushed him over to the passenger seat. He agreed to stay put only when Cheryl placed a pile of Beth’s cookies on the seat beside her.

      “Somehow, I don’t think you were heading for home, little guy,” she said sadly, feeling the skinny ribs under the matted black fur. But there was no time for sympathy now. Slipping the emergency brake off, Cheryl glanced over at her companion, who was munching away, looking up every now and then with grateful eyes.

      “What shall we call you, huh? You need a name.” He was chomping away with gusto, somehow whimpering with delight at the same time. “Buster,” Cheryl said out loud. “We’ll call you Buster.” The dog looked up for a second and met her eyes. “Hey, Buster, save a couple of cookies for Hal.” Cheryl grinned as she drove on. “Or Beth will never forgive me.”

      There was the barn, just as Beth had said.

      Letting out a sigh of relief, Cheryl peered over the flat landscape at the massive, deserted barn Beth had assured her she couldn’t miss.

      “Where to now, huh?” Despite the demister, the windows were steaming up at an alarming rate. She wiped the windshield with the back of her hand and drove slowly, visibility decreasing with every slow lurch forward.

      She’d have to call Mitch and tell him she was lost. As if that wasn’t just what the guy needed right now! But Mitch must have been thinking along the same lines, because before she’d even pulled out the cell phone he had given her, it rang shrilly in her hand.

      There’s a bridge. Beth’s instructions played over in her mind as Cheryl pressed the answer button. There was a bridge, but not for much longer, Cheryl thought darkly, watching the swollen river rising, torrents of water sweeping along the banks, huge branches circling like tiny twigs as the current swept them along.

      Pressing the phone to her ear, she braced herself for a few sharp words from the fire chief.

      “Where the hell…” He got no further before his voice broke up.

      Cheryl shouted back, not sure whether he could hear. “I’m five minutes away, Mitch. Beth told me that the storm’s heading this way!” She was at the edge of the river now, and pulled open the glove compartment. Finding a rag inside, she took a moment to wipe the windshield clear. “She told me a shortcut. I’m at Hansen’s Barn. I’m just coming over the bridge, so I should be with you soon.” Although she strained to hear, there was only a crackling noise, broken by occasional fragments of Mitch’s words.

      “I won’t be much longer, Mitch!” Cheryl shouted. “I can’t hear you, you’re breaking up. I’ll be back soon.” Putting the phone down, intending to resume the conversation once she was safely across the river, Cheryl edged the vehicle forward, her nose practically against the windshield now as she strained to see. She chewed her lip nervously as she eyed the rickety bridge. From what Cheryl could make out, the wooden structure looked about as stable as old Hansen’s Barn.

      But surely Beth would know, Cheryl reasoned. She was a local, for goodness’ sake, and already her directions had cut Cheryl’s journey in half.

      The windshield wipers might just as well have been off now. The river was rising with each passing moment and Cheryl’s mind flicked back to the triage area she’d set up at the station. Victims of the storm might already be there, injured and needing help.

      Urging the vehicle slowly forward, she glanced over at her little friend. Trusting, wide eyes looked back at her. “Almost there,” she said bravely, more for her own benefit than for Buster’s. “Almost there,” she said again. There was no thought of looking down. She was too damn busy concentrating on keeping the vehicle straight on the narrow bumpy bridge. As the Jeep lurched violently sideways, her first thought was a blown tire.

      Terrified, she forced herself to look out the window and actually witnessed the side rails of the bridge snapping like taut string. Buster started barking in frenzied terror, and only then did the inevitability of what was about to happen finally register. Cheryl heard herself scream as the vehicle took a nosedive toward the water.

      She’d expected to witness drama and excitement here in Turning Point, and inevitable casualties, but not for a second had it entered her head that today she might die.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      HE’D LEAVE THE RADIO ON.

      Loud.

      It was the only thing Noah could come up with, the only thing he could think of that might offer some comfort to the animals while he went back into town to help Mitch.

      It was almost beyond his comprehension that he would be leaving them. These animals were so much more than his livelihood, so very much more than a job to him. But people came first, he knew that deep down. And today he had no choice.

      But, Noah thought now as he drove toward the clinic, the radio announcer might start getting anxious, and any urgency in his voice would only worry the animals. Perhaps CDs instead?

      Wiping the foggy windows with the back of his hand, he thought about all the jobs he had to get through when he finally made it home—locking up the animals, giving out some drugs, filling their water bottles and bowls, leaving out food. Yes, he’d stack some CDs on the portable player for them, a mixture of rock and dance, a couple of classical golden oldies for Georgina the miniature horse. He’d switch the CD player to batteries and leave it on low for them.

      “Mabel!” He shouted the name out loud as it sprang into his head, sending the animals in the rear into a frenzy. But Madge didn’t even turn a hair, more than used to her master’s occasional eccentricity.

      “She’ll freak,” Noah exclaimed, thinking of the massive pig in his shed due to farrow her first litter at any moment. “She’s going to freak, Madge.”