She gripped the steering wheel hard, and realized her hands were sticky with drying blood. She looked down. There was blood everywhere, it seemed. On her shirt, her arms, her hands, the wheel, the seat.
Carrie slid out of the truck, shaking her arms, as if she could shed the evidence of Gun’s trauma.
And not just Gun. She thought of Ethan, covered in blood, his chest bruised by the dog’s bony head and big teeth, bared in pain. The dog had been attacked by a bear. Which meant Ethan himself could have been attacked by the bear.
She sank to her knees in the dry roadside grass, trying to get her emotions under control, trying to ride out the shakes that rolled over her now that the rush of adrenaline was gone.
She lifted her head. Did she, in fact, know that Ethan hadn’t been hurt by the bear? He’d been yelling for her when she’d arrived, stumbling through the field with the big dog in his arms. She didn’t know whose blood was whose.
She staggered to her feet and made her way into the veterinary hospital.
“Where’s Ethan?” She leaned against the reception desk, trying to catch her breath. The woman looked up in alarm. “The man that just brought his dog in. The bear attack? I need to see him.”
“I’m right here.”
She turned around and nearly fell to the floor with relief. “Ethan.”
He’d donned a dull green scrub top and he’d wiped his arms, but there were fresh streaks of blood on the fabric.
“Come here.” He frowned, then looked at the receptionist. “Can I bring her to the back and clean her up?”
“Absolutely, Ethan,” she responded, tossing him another scrub top. “You know where to go.”
“How’s Gun?” She felt ridiculously close to tears. Other than the blood, Ethan looked completely intact and perfectly controlled. The air inside the hospital was vastly cooler than outside and she shivered.
“Don’t know yet.” His words were clipped. “You’re a mess. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I-I’m fine,” she managed through chattering teeth. “But Ethan, are you sure you didn’t… the bear didn’t… are you sure you’re not hurt?”
He pushed her through a wide, wheelchair-accessible door and locked it behind them.
“I’m positive. Take off your shirt,” he commanded.
Before she knew what was happening, he was peeling her t-shirt away from her skin. She watched in the mirror blankly, knowing on some level that she should be appalled at his unapologetic manhandling. She barely recognized the white-faced person staring back at her under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Ethan turned on the hot water faucet and dampened a wad of paper towel. He pressed it against her forearms, where the blood had caked and clotted. The heat felt almost unbearably good against her chilled flesh and she trembled visibly.
“You’re in shock,” said Ethan. “I’ll clean up the worst of it now. You’ll have to live with the rest until we get home.”
How was he so calm, when she felt like she was about to break apart into a thousand pieces?
He stroked the other arm, quick, firm, but gentle too, and the warmth of the towel sent bolts of heat through her icy body. He moved the towel to her upper chest, where more blood stained her skin.
“Did you see it happen?” she whispered. “Were you there?”
His jaw tensed. “No. They were all out at the far end.”
“So,” she swallowed convulsively, “the bear didn’t get you?”
His hand stilled. His eyes met hers in the mirror. He gazed at her for a long moment and she felt something indefinable pass between them.
“No, Carrie.” His voice was husky. “The bear didn’t get me.”
Once more, her knees wobbled. He led her to the toilet, closed the lid and pushed her onto it.
“Carrie, honey, I’m fine.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said, her voice shaking. She couldn’t, for the life of her, get herself under control.
He touched her chin with his knuckle, forcing her face up. He was squatting right next to her, so close. He had one hand on her thigh, the other on her shoulder, holding her steady. Holding himself steady against her.
“You helped save his life, you know that?” He smiled gently at her and she felt some of the chill dissipate. “I’d never have gotten him here so quickly without your help.”
He swallowed hard and a lump rose in Carrie’s own throat.
She put her hands on either side of his face, as everything else rushed out of her head. Ethan was hurting, and not just physically.
“He’s going to make it, Ethan.” She pressed her forehead against his, suddenly aware that she wasn’t the only one shaking. “He’s going to be okay. He has to be.”
Ethan nodded.
“I know.”
*
“Go home,” said Dr. Morrow, tearing off a piece of tape with his teeth. He secured the IV catheter to Gun’s foreleg and checked the drip.
Behind him, a technician was shaving the lacerated leg. It looked like hamburger meat.
“I’ll stay,” said Ethan.
Morrow glanced at Carrie. “Take her home, at least.”
“I’m okay,” said Carrie.
But she wasn’t. Carrie was standing so close he could feel her body heat through the rough scrub top. She had his elbow in her hand, tucked up tight against her body. She was still trembling.
“We’re ready, Doc,” said Lorena. “Go scrub while I do the final prep. Meet you in surgery.”
Morrow lathered up his hands at the sink. “It’s going to be a long night, Ethan. I can’t guarantee anything. I understand if you want to be here, but hovering over my shoulder will just make things worse, for both of us. I won’t amputate if I can possibly avoid it, but I won’t ask your permission to do it, either. You have to trust me.”
“I do. Take the leg, if you have to. Just save him. Please.” He was heartsick at the thought of Gun, disabled, but a three-legged dog was better than a dead dog.
Dr. Morrow nodded. “He’s young and strong. Now go home. I’ll call you as soon as we’re out of surgery. But it could be a couple of hours.”
So they got back into the Land Rover, Ethan behind the wheel this time.
“You okay?” said Carrie.
“Fine.”
But as he pulled the seatbelt across his lap, a band of muscles in his neck seized up, radiating into his jaw and across his skull. He opened his mouth, feeling the spot where Gun’s big head had smashed into him.
“You’re not fine.”
Instead of buckling herself into the passenger seat, Carrie slipped into the rear seat on the driver’s side.
“What are you doing?”
She reached out and put her hands on his neck, pressing her fingers into the muscles at the base of his skull. Fireworks shot through his head and he groaned.
“You’re really not fine.”
He let his hands drop to his lap, unable to do anything while her nimble fingers walked over the landscape of his flesh. It hurt… but it felt good, too.
Too good.
Chapter Twelve
‡
Ethan dropped Carrie off at her house with a promise to let her know as soon as there was any news about Gun. He looked exhausted and she suspected those bruised muscles were hurting more than he let on. But he assured her he was well, so she had to accept it.
She braced herself for the overjoyed affection of poor, neglected, starved, lonely Belinda but was still caught off guard when the cat leaped out from behind the closet door in an ecstasy of psychotic joy.
“Yes, yes, you’ve suffered dreadfully in my absence,” she said as the cat licked her arm. Then she washed out and dabbed antibiotic ointment on the scratches on her leg where the cat had latched on.
Cat scratches. She feared these small marks were nothing compared to what Ethan was dealing with. Of course the dog hadn’t meant to bite; that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened accidentally.
S
he checked her phone. Nothing from Ethan. Oh well. He’d probably just gotten home. She wondered if he’d be spending the night at the animal hospital. Maybe she should offer to feed his dogs in the morning.
Or, maybe she should leave him alone. That kiss had been a sweet gesture, but this was serious business and it’s not like she was his girlfriend or anything.
Though she was a friend, wasn’t she? And he’d be needing a friend right about now, wouldn’t he?
She put down fresh cat food and water, both of which were still full. She changed the station on the radio, which had been playing Belly’s favorite nature sounds.
Then she got to work cleaning up a mug of old coffee the cat had pushed off the counter and the soil she’d dug out of the potted palm and kicked across the hardwood.
“I love you, my darling,” she said, pulling out a brand-new catnip mouse for the cat to play with. “But right now, I can’t for the life of me remember why.”
Still nothing from Ethan.
Restless and still nerve-jangled, she went downstairs to check the messages on her business line.
No phone messages, but one email. Subject line: Cherry Festival photography.
Instantly, her guard went up. She opened the message, hoping it would simply be confirmation of the various details they’d discussed.
We regret to inform you that the board has elected not to retain the services of Forever Yours Photography for the upcoming Cherry Festival. Certain aspects of your business are incompatible with the family-oriented nature of our community celebration. We wish you the best in your endeavors.
Etc.
Etc.
And this after Karen’s phone call, confirming the plans.
The message was sent from the office email address, and not even signed with a name.
Coward.
Dear Festival Organizers, she replied.
Volunteer Karen Stanhope confirmed our arrangements via telephone less than a week ago, therefore this constitutes breach of contract, as well as defamation of character.
She had no idea if it actually did, but the people at City Hall weren’t likely to recognize the bluff.
I’ll be at the festival to provide the required services, as agreed.
Despite being well past business hours, the response came rapid-fire.
You may of course take whatever photographs you desire, but under the auspices of Cherry Lake. In fact, due to the distasteful nature of our discovery and the inconvenience of having to locate a new photographer at such late notice, we expect a full refund of the agreed-upon retainer.
Her one-third upfront payment, her only protection against exactly this scenario? Fat chance of that.
Carrie tapped out several paragraphs explaining exactly what she thought of their decision and why it was wrong and everything she’d done for the festival in the past… and then deleted the message unsent.
You could not change minds that refused to be changed. All you could do was adapt and change, yourself.
But it was a bitter pill and the taste of it, on top of her worry about the dog and of course, Ethan, left her hurt, disappointed and sick at heart.
And hungry.
Still no message from Ethan. Maybe she needed to send him a message.
Hey, any news on Gunny? How’s your head? You were right about my food situation. Pathetic. Are you going back to the clinic? Need me to do anything? Let your other dogs out? Bring you some clothes? A couple of pizzas? Just ask, okay? -C
There. That sounded about right. Casual, yet concerned. Friendly. Because they were friends.
Friends who kissed.
And she was worried about the dog. Despite her initial reaction to them, they’d charmed her with their tricks. Ethan had them extremely well-trained and it still irked her that Mayor Calloway had the gall to sic Animal Control on him. The thought of sweet, powerhouse, bone-headed Gun fighting for his life was just wrong.
She could only imagine how Ethan must be suffering.
Enough, she told herself. There’s nothing you can do. It’s not your problem.
She opened the refrigerator door. Now that the adrenaline was fading away, she was aware of the fact that she was running on empty. Unfortunately, Ethan was right, there was nothing to eat in her house. It was sad and pathetic. But she had no energy for shopping now.
She put some bread in the toaster and got out the peanut butter and jelly. A cup of tea, a hot shower and she’d be set for bed.
Except three hours later, when Ethan still hadn’t answered her text, she realized that it was her problem.
*
The next morning, Carrie punched the buttons on her phone, then tossed it onto the bed, biting back a scream. She hated waiting, hated feeling like there was nothing she could do, like the problem wasn’t even hers to worry about.
But to show up at the animal hospital, uninvited would surely be a mistake too.
No, she had to wait for Ethan to contact her.
Belinda head-butted her arm.
“Mrrt?”
“You’re right,” said Carrie. “I should get out.” She was going to lose her mind if she stayed here. She grabbed her purse and her laptop and headed for her car. A nice caffeine hit at the local cafe might clear her head.
Ten minutes later, she slid into a sunny corner booth and inhaled the rich smell of coffee beans in the air. Nothing like an excellent latte to make a person feel better. Though it was taking a long time.
A few minutes after that, she went back to the counter.
“Hello?” she called. “Sherry? Did you forget my order?”
The waitress came out from the back room. “It’s coming. Geez. In a rush today?”
“Sorry, sorry,” said Carrie, returning to her seat. Sherry wasn’t usually so curt.
She pulled out her laptop and got onto the local Wi-Fi. Idly, she did a search on Ethan Nash, feeling like a high school girl with a crush. Then again, she justified it as research. In case someone asked her for a reference, later on.
“Why so glum, sugar-plum?”
Carrie looked up to find Aunt Pansy smiling down on her.
She waved the woman into the seat across from her. “Hey, Aunt Pan. Can I buy you a coffee?”
“Already had it, hon,” said Pansy, sliding into the seat. “But your grandfather’s around here somewhere. You can buy him one.”
“Grandpa Nate is here?” She glanced around herself. She’d been dreading this moment.
“Relax,” said Pansy. “He’s a big marshmallow. Don’t you know that?” She waggled her eyebrows and set a brown paper bag onto the table. “Hungry?”
“Only you could get away with bringing your own donuts into a commercial establishment,” said Carrie, shaking her head.
A couple of women at a nearby table nodded at Pansy. The look they gave Carrie, however, could have frozen Flathead Lake in August.
“Did you see that?” she asked Pansy.
“I did. Whose porridge did you pee in?”
“I can answer that.”
Carrie looked up to see the slim, strong, straight figure of Nathan Jackson stride over to their table.
“Grandpa,” said Carrie, feeling like a child. She got up to give him a kiss, but he held her out at arm’s length, looking her up and down.
“My little Care-Bear,” he said, shaking his head.
“Grandpa, I can explain,” she said, feeling tears at the back of her throat.
“I’m sure you can,” he responded. “But it doesn’t much matter, does it? Your mother’s practically hysterical. It’s all she can talk about and it seems she’s not alone. You’ve surprised me, Carrie.”
His tone made it clear that it wasn’t a good surprise.
“Nathan,” said Pansy sharply. “That’s no way to talk to your granddaughter. Even if the rumors are true, she’s family and Jacksons support Jacksons, don’t they?”
Grandfather closed his eyes, as if in pain, and Carrie felt her heart break. “Sure,” he said, f
inally. “But some things are bigger than family. You know that as well as I do, Pansy.”
“It was a long time ago, Grandpa,” said Carrie, struggling for her composure. “And those photos helped a lot of women in very difficult times.”
“Were you in a difficult time, Carrie?” His eyes pierced hers. “In that photo with the gauze, dancing in the sunbeams, were you in a difficult time then? It didn’t look that way to me.”
Carrie opened her mouth, but there was nothing to say. She’d never felt as free as she had in that photo, and now, all that was ruined, tarnished, soiled.
“That’s right,” said Pansy, glaring at Nathan. “She looked beautiful. And happy. What’s wrong with you, you old curmudgeon? Who cares what everyone else thinks? Carrie’s got talent, she’s done a great job taking pictures in this town and she’ll go on doing it. But not if you go against her. Don’t you see how much power you have? For God’s sake, Nathan. Have a heart.”
At least three tables were watching them openly now. Carrie wanted to fall through the floor. If there was any question about the rumors floating around, and the general reaction to them, this would answer them all nicely. Even her grandfather was angry at her about them, so it must be true.
Carrie Logan was a pornographer. She took – and posed – for dirty pictures.
She was no one’s good girl. And she’d never be again.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, trying to keep the tears in check. “I’m so sorry.”
Pansy reached out for her but Carrie evaded her easily, fleeing for her car, her home and her shame. More alone than she’d ever been in her life.
Chapter Thirteen
‡
Ethan pulled the truck up against the curb next to the little-used park across from the veterinary hospital, steeling himself, reminding himself that Gun was alive. It was early. He’d barely begun his recovery.
But the sight of such a powerful, driven, joyful creature lying immobile and in pain, likely sidelined forever from the activities he enjoyed, broke his heart.
Dr. Morrow had managed to preserve the limb, but the deep hind-leg laceration had resulted in nerve damage that may or may not improve with time. Gun would have permanent scars from the bite wounds on his face and neck and the vision in his right eye was likely compromised.
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