Wanted: Zookeeper (Silverpines Book 19)

by Lynn Donovan

  Wanted: Zookeeper

  Silverpines Series

  Book 20

  © Lynn Donovan 2019

  Cover Copyright JBGraphics

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To Mary Polly

  Appreciation

  Thank you to everybody in my life who has contributed in one way or another to the writing of this book. My husband, my children, my children-in-law, and my grandchildren. You all are my unconditional fans. My BETA readers and grammar guru who make me look gooder than I am. [Bad grammar intended.] My fellow author friends who chat with me daily to exchange ideas, encourage, maintain sanity, and keep me from being a total recluse/hermit.

  Mostly I thank God for the talent he has given me. I hope to hear you say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant,” when I cross the Jordan and run into your arms—Many, many years from now. :).

  LYNN DONOVAN’S NEWSLETTER

  I’d like you to be the first to know about a new book release by me or other authors that I can recommend. E-mail me at authorlynndonovan@gmail.com and tell me you’d like to subscribe to my Newsletter. I promise, I’ll NEVER spam you or give your information out for any reason!

  As a reward, I will send you a free book called “Stories for the Porch.” A collection of short stories written by me just for you and will be published NO WHERE else.

  The new century means nothing to Ellen Mae Myers who prefers the companionship of animals over the company of people. At least that’s what she tells herself but in the deepest part of her heart, she longs for the comfort of a good man. How can she possibly find a man who will accept all the animals she cares for and love her for who she is?

  Niles Phinney survives a dangerous voyage across the Atlantic, towing exotic animals from the wilds of West Africa in order to keep the promise he made to his twin brother. En route to Seattle, he is waylaid by a blizzard in Silverpines, Oregon but it’s more than snow holding him there. After meeting Ellen Mae, he wonders if the promise is more important than the woman who captures his heart.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Atlantic Ocean

  January 1, 1900

  “Batten down the hatches!” A deckhand screamed, as he ran through the freighter delivering the captain’s orders.

  Niles Phinney opened one eye at the shrieking sound of the deckhand’s frantic warning. The previous night’s celebration throbbed behind his eyes. The boat tossed violently, swinging his hammock, and tormenting the incessant hangover. Pain swamped his head with every movement. The rum and champagne from the celebration didn’t blend well. Nausea overtook him. He leaned across the suspended muslin and retched.

  Hours before, several barrels of rum had been uncorked to toast Old Father Time’s final hours on the vast, open Atlantic. The star-splattered sky had not changed, nor the vast endless body of water around them. Only a solitary bell indicated the arrival of the twentieth century. A surreal hush fell over the crew as the single brass sounded twelve bells, a new year. Niles stood awestruck on that deck, in that moment, absorbing the fantastic reality of it all.

  Nineteen hundred.

  A new century.

  Champagne flowed like fountains for the next hour, maybe more. It was good to be alive to witness this. And yet, something was amiss.

  He had staggered to his area of the large cargo bay where he slept with his treasure trove of a dozen live animals from the west coast of Africa. They were his atonement. It was his twin brother’s plea and this magical passing into a new century that convinced him it was time to return home.

  No private cabin for him, or even a lousy mattress. The animals’ safety came first. With his training at the London College of Veterinary Medicine, he was the only person on board with the knowledge to properly care for their needs.

  A canvas hammock between bay poles was his quarters. A foot locker on the floor was his wardrobe. Here he could maintain a constant, conscious awareness by monitoring the sounds the animals made day and night to know they were all right.

  Except for this night. He had celebrated on deck with the crew. A storm must have built while he slept in his drunken stupor. If the deckhand’s alarm had not woken him now, the bawling and baying of the animals soon would have.

  A really hot spot on his chest drew his attention. Had he been burned? He lifted a hand to inspect the sensation. A soft lump under his shirt indicated the little creature with a trunk-like nose, called an elephant shrew, had sought refuge after the sea had become so rough. His needle-sharp claws scratched Niles’s belly as the rodent flipped over and pressed into a tighter curl. Niles sucked air through his teeth and laid a palm over the lump to assure the little mouse he was safe, as long as he didn’t get too frightened and dig into Niles’s flesh.

  Unsteady hooves clacked against the wooden slats, bodies rolled and slammed into the walls of their crates. The wood cracked. Various octaves of animals’ hysteria echoed against the metal bulkhead sectioning the cargo bay. Niles squeezed his eyes closed, his imagination playing out the horrible traumas possibly happening inside each container.

  The crates were firmly anchored with strong braided ropes and tied securely with two half-hitch knots to eyebolts welded strategically to the walls and ceiling of the cargo area. But with the brutal tossing of the ship, the other animals were not as lucky as the African mouse. The stationary containers became their torture chambers.

  Nausea and the explosive pain in his head hindered his ability to get to them. He wrestled against the debilitating effects of the hangover to get to his feet. The animals’ survival was paramount to his redemption. He had to see for himself if they were alright, fearing they were not. What then? If they did survive this storm but were severely injured, how would he treat their wounds?

  The shrew under Niles’s shirt could take care of himself, freeing both Niles’s hands to cling to the double-lines of rope. As long as the little guy didn’t burrow deeper into Niles’s trousers, they both would be alright— he hoped.

  The boat rocked back on itself. A loud crack and a cry of pain confirmed an injury. The bongo’s unique bellowing identified which one. Did he break a leg? Or an antler? Niles prayed it was the latter. Breaking the thick spiraled horn would be painful, but he could live from such an injury. He wouldn’t look as regal until next season when it grew back. Would the Bongo’s antler grow back that quick? Niles had never seen one shed a rack like the deer back home.

  What should he do to protect them? There was no way he could let them out. They couldn’t run to safety. That would be worse— for them, for him, for the crew. Predators and prey, he had all levels of the food chain among these specimens. Some of them would eat people too. If the ship survived this storm, there’d be nothing to deliver to his brother in Seattle— except possibly the lion, who would be well fed, fat, and happy.

  Regret consumed him. These animals were innocent. A victim of his own selfish greed to bring them to his brother’s zoo in Seattle. All for the sake of his own redemption. Here it was a few hours into a new century and they were all going to die horribly at sea.

  Niles forced himself out of the precariously swinging hammock, his stomach in his throat, and a proverbial axe splitting his head. Every movement only served to drive the pain deeper. He threaded a path over the crates in rhythm with the tossing of the ship. Maneuvering across the crates, as he had done each day since they launched into the ocean, was now an impossible balancing act. What shoul
d have been a horizontal stroll, teetered and tottered at vertical angles that switched back and forth rhythmically. The ship had to be fighting to stay afloat by riding every wall of water the storm threw at her.

  A feeding hatch on top of each container allowed Niles to look inside and confirm the animals were still alive. Blazing, self-contained gaslights shone overhead. He peeked in on the bongo antelope. A dilated, fear-filled eye looked back, piercing Niles’s soul. The auburn coat with defined, whitish-yellow lines was filthy from being tossed about in his own waste. His ram-like horn was indeed broken. A bloody patch was all that was left on one side of his head. And the poor thing had that severed piece of his crown pummeling him with the tossing of the sea. He bellowed and threw his head in protest with every blow. It was essentially stoning him to death inside his crate. Niles lay on his belly to reach through the feed hole, hoping by chance he could catch the broken antler. The African shrew scurried around to Niles’s back, still under his shirt, to avoid being crushed.

  The broken horn smashed into Niles’s extended hand, painfully cracking his knuckle, and fell back to the bottom of the crate. Another sway of the ship brought the horn through the air. Niles gritted his teeth to focus on the projectile. “Come on!”

  By Lady Luck, herself, the horn flew near his fingertips. He strained against the opening, nearly displacing his shoulder for the effort, to snatch the horn in midair. Triumphant in his victory as he scrambled to his feet, he threw the horn across the cavernous space. “Yeah!”

  Instantly, he regretted what he’d done. The horn came back at him with the next toss of the sea. Now it might pummel him. He watched it disappear behind a crate.

  The shrew scrambled back to its place on his abdomen, nestling among the fine hairs around his naval. A shiver of goose-flesh traversed his skin. Ah, this mouse was going to be the death of him.

  His stomach heaved, forcing his whole body into a rigid stiffness he couldn’t overcome. It held him in place when all he wanted was to see that the animals were still alive. All he could do was cling to the straps and endure.

  Every upswing of the ship’s floor forced him to pause his inspection, regain his balance, then stagger forward. What an idiot he had been to have indulged so heavily last night when he was responsible for so many innocent animals’ lives.

  And each time he bent to heave, the shrew ran under his shirt, then flipped and curled in a new spot. At least the mouse was safe, but a growl of frustration vibrated through his clenched teeth. The blame lay heavily on his shoulders. His eyes darted among the crates he had not yet inspected. “Don’t be dead.”

  A wave of dizziness weakened his solid stance. He staggered toward the next container. One leg suddenly dropped between two boxes. As his body went down, the African shrew scurried out from under his shirt and leapt to a taut diagonal rope above his head. Instinctively, he grabbed to catch the rodent, but missed. The realization that he had fallen lagged behind his disheveled mind. A sharp pain quickly followed, shooting up the leg as the crates shifted and ground against his flesh. He closed his eyes tight against the agony and sucked air through his teeth.

  Wait it out. There was nothing he could do but wait it out. The crates would shift again with the next tottering movement. Despite the pain, he adjusted his grip on the straps, prepared to yank himself up to escape the wooden vice.

  The ship swayed, the crates moved just enough, and he pulled with all his might.

  “Ahhyuh!” He yelled as he rolled back over the top of the box and grabbed for ropes to hold himself in a sitting position. Numbness in his leg set off alarms in his head. That was not a good sign. He squeezed the length of his leg. Nothing broken. Dark fluid quickly discolored the fabric of his pant leg. Lacerations. A lot of blood. He was definitely injured.

  It must be a hell of a storm, he concluded before rolling over onto his hands and knees for another wave of dry heaves. Should he dare leave his animals and abandon ship? With this bloodied leg, he’d be instant shark bait. He turned his attention to the entrance to the cargo bay. What was the crew doing? He had only heard the one deckhand screaming to batten down. The roar of the storm dominated everything. Had they abandoned the ship… and him?

  Could this freighter ride out the storm? Could he?

  The ship tossed, he grabbed another strap, and forced himself to stand on his good leg. His St. Christopher medal flopped out from under his shirt and slapped his face. He paused in surprise to absorb the sting against his cheek. The elephant shrew chittered at a short distance above his head, chastising him for not keeping him safe. Niles frowned at the shrew as he clung for his own dear life to the anchoring straps.

  He screamed to the sacred saint. “Please, Saint Christopher, protect me… and th-these innocent animals! Forgive me! It’s not their fault they are here.” Did the protective saint hear him? Could anyone hear him? The roar of the sea drowned out everything, including his own voice. If the crew was doing anything to save the ship, he couldn’t hear it. The port to starboard pitching of the ship made him wonder if they were still on board or had they completely lost control? The raging storm and the sea roared against his eardrums, or was it his heart pounding?

  Too bad he had waited so long to try to go home. Was this God’s way of punishing him for staying away? His vision darkened. He blinked hard, but blackness drew in closer. His strength drained along with the blood flooding his boot. His arms grew weaker. His hands slipped on the ropes. His knees hit the wooden box lid. He looped a rubbery arm in between the straps, forced the other into another set of ropes, and prayed it would hold him in place on top of the crates. The last thing he wanted was to be tossed across the crates like the broken horn. He panted with great effort, fighting the blackness, but it swooped in on him like a wool cloak being thrown over his face.

  Silence devoured the roaring storm.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Silverpines, Oregon

  January 1, 1900

  “Ellen Mae Myers!” Tonya Watts hurried into her lumberyard with a broom held up over her head. She must have thought a raccoon was digging in the wood piles and was planning to shoo it away with the broom. At least Ellen hoped that had been the purpose of the broom. Ellen smiled, praying Mrs. Watts would not be mad at her for gathering scraps of wood without asking first.

  Tonya and Ellen celebrated their twentieth birthdays last November and had been school chums since Ellen moved here with her family eight years ago. But their friendship altered when Tonya became Mrs. Braylon Watts last fall. Now she treated Ellen like a silly, foolish girl. Ellen missed the friend she lost to the institution of marriage.

  Mrs. Watts’s face had very little color and her cheeks looked hollow. Yet she had that glow that many of the new brides had in Silverpines. Families were expanding right and left. Tonya was no different from the others, just different from how she had been before she married.

  Ellen Myers stood with a big sigh and a nervous giggle.

  “It’s just me, Tonya.” Ellen held several discarded pieces of trimmings in one arm and had another single strip in her right hand. Her cheeks stung from the cold wind. There was still snow piled high between the buildings and in shaded areas from the last storm. Today was warm for New Year’s Day. But in this high forested area of Oregon, warm meant not below zero. Today felt like it was above freezing, although the breeze held a stinging chill.

  It could chap a gal’s tender cheeks if she didn’t wrap a wool scarf around her face when she worked outdoors. The town’s handymen, Martin Gale, her grandpa, Walter Myers, and Flora Adams’ teenage son, Jackson McMillan, had already cleared every walking path around town, although it was barely midday.

  Ellen let Tonya come to her, she needed to finish gathering these wood scraps and get home to the two new animals she had taken in during the night, Chantelle, a rooster that had been attacked by Copper, a large male fox. They both bore names before morning light because she knew from their injuries they’d be staying with her for a while.

&nbs
p; The fight had ended with neither winning. They both lay exhausted next to the other. Their injuries were beyond their ability to escape the other. Chantelle’s leg had been chewed off by the fox and Copper had been severely pecked to pieces. He was bleeding from so many holes in his hide, Ellen was amazed he still lived. The point of his left ear had been completely torn off.

  The full moon had passed into a new year at midnight as she cleaned their blood-smeared bodies and placed them in separate rooms of her grandpa’s house. This morning, she intended to make them boxes so they could be separated, but together in the dining room where she kept the ones who needed her immediate attention. Like Dr. Hattie’s special-care room at the clinic.

  Grandpa and she ate at the small table in the kitchen, so turning the dining room into an infirmary was no imposition. At least that was what Grandpa told her, nearly daily. She had a sneaking suspicion she inherited her soft heart for wounded animals from him. After all, he’d tended to the livery almost all of her life and even after he retired. He voluntarily continued on after the terrible earthquakes and mudslide that killed the livery owners, not to mention nearly every man and a quarter of the women in Silverpines.

  Ellen watched Tonya come closer, lowering her broom. She hated that she must come all the way out here to discover what Ellen was doing. But she didn’t want to drop the wood she had gathered so far, just to tell Tonya what had happened to the rooster and fox. Tonya generally allowed Ellen to take scraps once she knew the story. Ellen had gone straight to the wood pile this time. She should have gone through the Lumber Office and explained her need to Mrs. Watts first. The professional etiquette just seemed silly to Ellen, just because her friend bore the name of a husband shouldn’t make Ellen’s life so much more difficult.