Rescued by a Stranger

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “Morning!”

  She jumped three inches and put her hand over her heart. “Ben! I didn’t figure to see you here.”

  She meant on the small animal rather than the equine side of the clinic.

  “I heard you were coming in with a stray. Had to see your newest rescue project.”

  Heat crawled up her face until she saw him nod at Angel. Jill mentally kicked herself. He didn’t even know about Chase.

  Ben had been a handsome man in his youth. Now, nearing sixty, his long face was craggy, his eyes heavy-lidded and adorned with the crow’s-feet and tracings of late middle-age. As usual, his horn-rims had slipped down the bridge of his nose, giving him a professorial mien.

  “I found her on the road. She’s an awfully nice dog. The girls in the office are going to help me get the word out.”

  Ben squatted and let Angel greet him with wiggles and enthusiastic kisses. “She’s a pretty little thing. Someone will claim her, give her a good home.” He stood, and caught her eyes with something like regret. Her pulse quickened. “I got some other news last night, too.”

  “Oh?”

  This was a small, small town. Had he finally run into David? Or Colin?

  “I received a call that Dr. Hardy, Dennis, up in Northfield, got viral pneumonia, of all things, and it actually landed him in the hospital.”

  “No! I’m sorry.” Jill had never been so cruelly relieved over someone’s bad news.

  “Yes. The thing is we’ll be taking his emergency calls this week, starting with two big appointments today. So, I have to ask you a huge favor. You know Robert McCormick?”

  “Everybody knows of him. Of course.”

  “Did you know he has horses?”

  “No way, seriously? Crabby Robert McCormick with the shotgun?”

  “Yeah. He’s Dennis’s client. Turns out he has a mare due to foal any day, and Dennis has her on sulfa for a puncture wound. McCormick lost, or spilled—I missed the story—his bottle of tablets. I said you’d play delivery service.”

  Angel barked and sat, wagging her tail as if she thought it was a marvelous idea. Jill, on the other hand, frowned, mild dread forming in her stomach. “Gosh, thanks, Ben.”

  “All you need to do is hand him the bottle, look at the wound, and run.” A roguish tic threatened at Ben’s mouth. The evil man. He was palming the task off because he didn’t want to do it either.

  “You’re the worst boss ever.”

  He patted her bad shoulder, and she managed not to wince, although it hurt less today. He’d only fuss if he knew about an injury. “Soon you’ll be the doc, and you can order people around, too.”

  She nodded, a little guiltily. “And if I do ever become one, I’m going to be nice and never give my techs the crappy jobs.”

  “I’m writing that down somewhere,” he said. “Gotta run. I’ll leave the sulfa on my desk.”

  “Good. If I can’t find it then I don’t have to go, right?”

  “I’ll clean off a spot.”

  DEWEY MITCHELL MIGHT have been unassuming in nature, but he was clearly the man to know in Kennison Falls. After a mere hour sitting beside him at his computer in the cramped office of the Garage and Gas, Chase experienced countless interruptions from people who flowed through the station for gas or service, or who simply stopped by to jaw about life, and was beginning to think of the man as a benevolent earl. Dewey spouted his laconic opinion on every subject, and employed a young man of about fifteen named Joey who seemed to regard his boss as something of a hero. In fact, although he seemed anything but soft, Dewey had no enemies as far as Chase could discern.

  “I’ve checked pretty much all my connections, and nobody has that part sitting in inventory.” Dewey sat back in his plain wooden chair and pointed at the computer screen. “But, like you saw, most everyone thinks they can find one sooner or later. And we got that ’78 coil there on eBay. If all else fails.”

  “You’ve given up a lot of time for this.” Chase stretched his own legs out next to the desk. “I appreciate it. You sure you don’t mind keeping the bike here?”

  “Nah, it’s no problem. And this is like a puzzle to solve now. Have to find me that coil. I have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

  Chase huffed out a laugh and stood. “I don’t see that as a problem. I could make money running your fan club.”

  “Don’t want a fan club. Got too much other stuff to do. Besides, here’s the guy with the fans. Don’t ask him for an autograph, though. We don’t let anyone bother him when he’s home here.”

  A tall, jeans-clad figure strode across the driveway, a green ball cap pulled to his eyebrows. Something familiar in the man’s jawline kept Chase’s eyes glued to the door until the figure entered and filled what remained of the small space.

  “Dewey!” he called.

  “Gray.” He nodded. “Welcome home. How was California?”

  “Insane. I’m very glad to be here. Hi there,” he said to Chase.

  “Chase Preston, this is Gray Covey. Gray, Preston here is stranded in town with a busted motorcycle.”

  Chase couldn’t help his momentary jaw drop. Every woman in Memphis over age twenty swooned over this guy’s singing. What on Earth was he doing here?

  “Man. Sorry to hear that.” Gray extended a hand.

  “Thanks. Dewey’s working on it. Nice to meet you, Mr. Covey. Wouldn’t have expected to see you in a place like this.”

  “Bah. It’s Gray,” he said. “I married a local girl, and they’ve had to take me in.” He laughed. “I ran out to the lumberyard and told Abby—my wife,” he added for Chase’s benefit, “that I’d stop here, too, and order her feed and shavings.”

  “Sure thing,” Dewey said. “Usual amounts?”

  “That’d be great. Hey, I ran into Ray from the barbershop. He said things are heating up with the gravel pit again and there’s a protest meeting or something being planned?”

  “I heard rumblings about it,” Dewey agreed. “I think they’re talking about something at the VFW hall in a week or so.”

  “There sure is something fishy going on,” Gray said.

  “Seems to be, but nobody knows what. Personally? I think it’s that Krieger dude.”

  “Krieger?” Chase asked.

  “Works for Connery Construction. Pretty high up,” Dewey told him. “There’s something about him. He’s in charge of this project, and he’s got a smart-ass answer for every question we ask.”

  “I know the guy. Sort of,” Chase admitted, with a little trepidation.

  “You know him?” Dewey asked.

  “I, ah, met him under unpleasant circumstances. We aren’t friends.”

  “Welcome to the club.” Dewey snorted.

  “Don’t welcome me too quickly.” Chase lifted a brow. “I just took a job with Connery Construction myself.”

  “I see. Dangerous thing to do around here.”

  “So I’ve heard. Duncan Connery is a friend of my grandfather’s. He seemed like a decent sort of guy.”

  “Connery is a damn wimp.” The adamant statement constituted the harshest thing Chase had heard Dewey say. “He defers everything to Krieger.”

  Gray shrugged. “I told Ray I’d be at the meeting.” He looked to Chase. “This is my new hometown, and it’s a nice place. I’d hate to see anything hurt the people and businesses here. All they’re after is the truth.”

  “Amen,” Dewey added.

  “I’ve gotta run.” Gray gave Chase a quick, sly grin. “You know, since you’ll be working there, we could make you our spy, Preston. You hear anything from the big office, let us know.”

  “Will it keep me from being lynched around here?” Chase took the suggestion as he assumed it was intended, and laughed.

  “It might,” Dewey said.

  He and Gray finalized a delivery time, and as they were saying good-bye Chase’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He waved to the singer and stepped away from Dewey’s desk, looking at the caller ID. When Jill’s n
ame flashed, his heart lightened.

  “Hey there,” he said.

  “Are you deep in your search?”

  “Just finishing with Dewey. No part yet, but we have some leads. What’s up?”

  “Could you pick me up an hour earlier than we’d planned? I have a favor to ask.”

  “Sure, ask away.”

  “Oh, uh-uh, not on the phone. I’ll never see you again if I ask ahead of time.” Her voice picked up the sparkle that set his pulse to pounding.

  “And that’s supposed to entice me? Wait. Do you need rescuing again?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No. Sounds like we’re in the clear. How’s the dog?”

  “Everyone loves her. She doesn’t have a microchip, so I’ve contacted the humane society in Faribault and listed her on an online pet-finder site. Eventually I’ll put a lost-and-found ad in the closest papers. We’ll see.”

  “Don’t bother. You’re going to keep her.”

  “Will you stop that?”

  Just over an hour later, The Creature rattled along the all-too-familiar gravel toward Robert McCormick’s farm. Chase’s memories of James Krieger’s damaged green Navigator and the resultant fury grew more vivid the closer Jill drove to the rise. He cringed. Throwing that rock had been such a phenomenally stupid thing to do.

  “Here we are.” Jill distracted him with a touch to his arm.

  Once again they faced the sloping, curving driveway descending to Robert McCormick’s farm. The road made a gentle curve to the right around a stand of oak, and three hundred yards away stood the house, a barn, and a silo. The spot of blue he’d seen yesterday became a crystal blue pond sparkling like a gemstone.

  “I admit it.” Chase sloughed off the memories. “I might stand my ground over a piece of land like this, too.”

  “It is lovely,” Jill agreed.

  Minutes later, however, when they rolled into the farmyard and stopped near the house, he could see why she’d enticed him into this trip by saying, “I need a bodyguard.” Up close, the charm of McCormick’s setting gave way to a shabbiness that couldn’t be seen from the hill.

  Chase swiveled his head slowly from side to side.

  “I don’t believe these buildings have been painted since World War II.” Jill said. “I knew the farm was old, but this borders on decrepit.”

  “Kind of sad.”

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  They approached the farmhouse slowly. It had once been stately, with two full stories, a massive three-sided porch, and gingerbread scrollwork adorning eaves and corners. Now the clapboard siding was grayed and chipped, and a massive rust stain veiled one side behind a metal downspout. Chase followed Jill onto the deck, skirting rotting boards to reach the door.

  No one answered any of Jill’s reluctant knocks, and her eyes filled with dismay at the crumbling outbuildings surrounded by battle lines of tangled grasses.

  “Holy handyman special, Batman?” she ventured.

  “Holy bucket full of ugly, Batgirl.”

  They made for the barn, which bore its own degenerated paint job—traditional red faded to cracked pink. Cobwebs festooned its windows, gaps and buckles marred the siding, and no doors protected the hayloft opening. The main doors were open, too, leaving a dank hole to the interior. A stray breeze carried the faint, acrid odor of ammonia.

  “I’m scared to see what the innards of that barn look like.” Jill’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What kind of poor horses live on a place like this?”

  Without warning, a lithe, elderly figure emerged from the barn’s maw, a green rubber garden hose slung in a coil over his left shoulder and a large, galvanized bucket in his right hand. He saw them and stopped like he’d slammed into a force field. His eyes darted between them, finally locking in like radar on Chase. The old eyes were piercing and darkly colorless.

  “Who are you?” His voice threatened like a thunderstorm.

  “Mr. McCormick?” If Jill was nervous her voice hid it. “My name is Jill Carpenter, I’m a vet tech from Southwater Clinic in town.”

  “Where’s Hardy?” For the first time, Robert McCormick locked in on her, too.

  “Dr. Hardy is ill, in the hospital. He asked if we’d deliver your sulfa, check your mare, and ask if you have any questions.” At McCormick’s skeptical look she added, “I’ll treat your girl with kid gloves. I’ve worked with horses a long time.”

  “Hunh.” McCormick gave a derisive snort. “You ain’t even been around a long time.” He gave Chase another long, curious stare and turned for the barn with a scowl. “Well, come on then. You the assistant’s assistant, young man?”

  Chase placed a reassuring hand at the small of Jill’s back. “No, sir, only a friend.”

  “Hunh,” the old man repeated. “Thought maybe they sent two for safety.”

  Jill’s mouth popped open. “Great. A mind reader,” she mouthed.

  McCormick was built like Popeye, short but powerful with a barrel chest, strong muscular forearms, and slim hips. He walked with a slight geriatric stoop, but his step, though a little bowlegged, was brisk. Profuse white hair curled from beneath a smudged baby-blue baseball cap that sported an ancient Allis-Chalmers logo, and his jeans fit loose and long in the legs.

  “Mare’s in here.” McCormick set his bucket and hose on the floor when they entered the barn, and Chase gaped in amazement. The filth he’d fully expected was nowhere in sight. In fact, the interior of the barn gleamed and smelled of nothing except sawdust and redolent hay.

  “Don’t slip on the floor,” McCormick warned. “I just hosed it down.”

  The cement walkway dividing the barn in half was, indeed, glistening wet. To the right, metal pipe stanchions lingered from old dairy days. The left side, however, had been rebuilt into four roomy stalls with scrubbed pine sides, classy black vertical top bars, and sliding doors. McCormick stopped in front of the first, largest, stall.

  “In here. Name’s Gypsy. She’s big but friendly.”

  Jill pressed her face to the bars of the door, and Chase heard her intake of breath. She’d told him to expect a worn-out old pet. When he joined her, however, what he saw was a magnificent mountain of black and white.

  “Holy Budweiser, Batman,” he whispered in her ear and received a soft elbow in the ribs.

  Jill breathed out. “Mr. McCormick, she is stunning. I had no idea you had a Clydesdale. This is no pet, she must be worth a fortune.”

  Clearly Robert McCormick found that reaction pleasing. For the first time, a smile deepened the creases in his face.

  “You’re wrong, she’s a pet all right. Plain spoiled. Like her partner here.” He stepped to the next stall where another animal stood, ears pricked. This one, however, was light golden brown with a bronze dappled rump, white mane, and wide white blaze. It was slightly smaller than Gypsy, but the beautiful horse was still huge. “That there’s Belle.”

  “A Belgian!” Jill nearly squealed, all traces of nervousness or quietness disappearing.

  “You know something about horses, don’t you, missy?”

  “Some. But judging from these two beauties, so do you.”

  McCormick uttered one pleased grunt and went to Gypsy’s stall door to unlatch it. “Sulfa is for a gash Hardy stitched up about five days ago. It’s on the left flank.”

  “I’ll look at it and take her temperature if that’s okay.”

  Jill pulled a digital thermometer from her pocket and stepped into the stall. Gypsy towered over Jill by eight inches and her belly was like two rain barrels tied together. But she lowered her massive head and nickered, thrusting a velvety-looking muzzle into Jill’s hand. Jill stroked the wide nose and let the mare softly lip her palm.

  “She ain’t afraid,” McCormick said.

  “I don’t believe she is,” Chase acknowledged.

  “When’s she due?” Jill ran her hands over Gypsy’s sleek, swollen sides.

  “Hardy says any day.”

  She didn’t reply, but c
ontinued stroking the mare everywhere—down both forelegs, around her hindquarters, down each rear leg. Without hesitation she shoved the mare’s haunches around until the neat, stitched line on her left flank faced outward. “This looks perfect,” she said. Finally, she reached under the horse’s enormous belly and stroked Gypsy’s swollen teats.

  “When do you think the foal will come?” she asked.

  “Still a week, at least.” The old man grunted again.

  “I agree,” she replied, and stood to give him a thumbs-up.

  “You a vet?”

  “Not yet, but I am in vet school.”

  She turned her attention to taking Gypsy’s temperature, and McCormick turned his to Chase. The man and his perpetual frown seemed to have taken an instant dislike to him. Chase cleared his throat and rapped against the open stall door.

  “Did you build all of this yourself?”

  “If the door latches when we leave I’ll admit it.”

  “I’m impressed. These stalls weren’t built very long ago.”

  “You sayin’ it’s not bad for an old man?” Chase finally met McCormick’s stare.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  A permanent furrow had taken up residence on McCormick’s forehead.

  “That accent says you ain’t from around here but seems sure I know you.”

  “Mr. McCormick, I’ve only been in Minnesota a couple of days, so I know we’ve never met, sorry to say. My name’s Chase Preston.”

  The old man took an offered handshake with a firm grip but no loss of bemusement on his face.

  “Yah, well …” He shrugged, then gave the stall door a fingertip caress. “The carpentry is all right, but the hardware? To this day none of the latches work smooth.”

  “But they are rock solid.”

  McCormick froze in place and then began to chortle. “Rock, that’s it. Been wonderin’ if I was getting senile like people claim.” Chase’s heart tripped nervously. McCormick cocked his thumb toward Jill. “It’s the lady doc here confused me. She looks different today. Longer hair or some damn thing. But you.” He leveled his gaze at Chase. “You’re the young upstart who pitches rocks at trucks.”