Chapter 14 #2
“Are you insane? Are you hurt? What the hell are you doing here, Story? Someone could have hit you.”
She doesn’t answer. She just moves out of the way and behind her is Churchill.
He gives a halfhearted struggle against whatever’s trapping him as I step forward. Even through the rain, making it nearly impossible to see clearly, it’s obvious he’s in a lot of pain. “Oh buddy, what’ve you done?”
“He’s caught up in barbed wire. There’s so much of it, Hen.” She opens her hands, and all I can see in the light from the car is her palm covered in bloody scratches. “I tried to loosen it, but I couldn’t.”
Her face is streaked with black mascara.
The red lipstick from earlier is gone, and her hair is plastered to her head as the rain drips down her cheeks.
She’s looking so forlorn, I forget all about how mad I’ve been at her today.
I need to focus on the task at hand: freeing Churchill.
Once that’s done, then I can figure out the rest.
It’s impossible to stop myself from swiping away one of her tears, however. “We’ll get him out. Don’t worry.”
Scrambling back up to the car, I do a quick scan for what I need, grab my vet bag, and toss the walkie-talkie to Story. “Message through to Lando, tell him I need him here and to bring bolt cutters and a chainsaw.”
Opening my bag, I pull out a foil blanket, which I wrap around as much of Churchill as I can to keep him warm. He might be somewhat listless, but his eyes still bulge when I pull out a needle and a vial of ketamine, measuring out enough to take the pain away but keep him conscious.
“Don’t worry, Churchy. It’ll make you feel better, and you’ll be back to stealing apples in no time.”
He barely makes a sound as I slip it into his right foreleg.
“Stor, come and stand next to him. I haven’t given him enough to knock him out, but he’s going to be really dopey in a minute, and I don’t want him to fall.”
Scooching closer, she hands over the walkie-talkie. “Lando’s on his way.”
“Thank you,” I say, as she gets into position, and I realize how much she’s shivering. She’s barely wearing anything at all besides Lycra. “Story, where are your clothes?” My eyes scan down her body, following the line of her curves all the way to her— “Where’s your other trainer?”
“In the mud somewhere.” She hugs him as he leans against her, eyes flickering closed. “I ran home from work, and I heard him crying.”
“Jesus, you’re going to get hypothermia.”
I don’t know why I’m snapping, but for fuck’s sake, her lack of self-preservation is astounding.
Not to mention her clothes are so clinging and wet I can see everything far too clearly, even in the dark.
She’s too close and all of it—the swell of her breasts, the hard points of her nipples, her firm, tight arse—feels taunting.
Moving her out of the way, I take position next to Churchill instead.
“In the car, you’ll find another foil blanket, a jumper, some rain trousers, clean socks, and a couple of pairs of wellies. One will fit you, as Clemmie always leaves hers lying around. Go get dry.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. And I need to keep an eye on Churchill, not worry about you. Go get dry.”
Through the rain and the glow of the headlights, I catch her scowl. “I didn’t realize I was such an inconvenience.”
I watch her scramble back up the bank, instantly regretting being so harsh. “What a mess, Churchy. What a mess.”
The angle of the car on the road means I can’t see anything, but I turn my back anyway to give her privacy. I don’t want to think about her changing in the car, practically naked. Thankfully, by the time she’s done, Lando has pulled up.
“Glorious evening.” He’s brandishing a chainsaw in one hand and cutters in the other like he’s in a horror movie. Holiday’s influence is rubbing off. “Trust this fucking goat to get stuck on the night it decides to drop a year’s worth of rain.”
“Yeah.” I roll my eyes. “It’s bad, though. He’s stuck in barbed wire.”
Lando’s expression turns thunderous. There’s not an inch of Burlington land he doesn’t know and isn’t aware of.
“Where the fuck’s that come from? There shouldn’t be barbed wire anywhere near here.”
I shake my head. “No idea. But we need to get him out.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“He’s sedated, and I think we need to chainsaw around the hedge, then I can see how bad he’s caught.”
“Got it.” He steps forward, then turns to Story. “Can you move both the cars so the lights are facing here? Block the lane if you have to.”
“Sure.”
“Also, hi, nice to see you back in Valentine Nook, Story.”
I want to add, “Not for long,” but I bite my tongue.
With more light, it’s easier to assess the situation, which isn’t great, but not as dire as I originally thought.
The first kick of the chainsaw, however, causes Churchill to panic enough to deepen his wounds, so I get another dose of ketamine until he’s knocked out, and it makes things much easier.
In total it takes twenty minutes to free Churchill.
I cut the barbed wire where it’s tangled in the branches, but I can’t remove it from his legs without causing more damage.
Lando and I work together quickly, while Story stays next to Churchill soothing him.
I should tell her it’s pointless because he’s unconscious, but truthfully the muffled whisper in his ear is soothing me too.
I can’t hear what she’s saying but every time I glance at her, I’m transfixed watching her mouth move.
Full lips, still slightly pink . . . fuck, the things I want to do to it.
“Hen?” Lando’s holding his hand out, and I know I haven’t heard a word he’s said. Based on the smirk he’s sporting, he’s fully aware why. “Pass me the cutters, then I think we might be able to move.”
The hardest part of the entire operation is getting him up the rainy, muddy slope, until Miles arrives with one of Max’s old sleds and we hoist him into the back of the car.
“This is not how I expected my evening to go.” Miles slams the Land Rover shut. “Poor Churchy, I hope he’s going to be okay.”
“I think he will, but I need to get him back now.”
“Did anyone call Mrs. Winston?” Story’s stopped shivering, but she’s back to being wet and muddy like the rest of us. “I can if you want.”
I nod. “Yes, thank you. Tell her he’ll be at the surgery. Lando or Miles can drop you home.”
“No, I want to come with you, if that’s okay. I want to make sure Churchill is sound.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Miles’s brow raise, and he glances at Lando.
“Um, it might be a while—”
“That’s okay. I didn’t have plans anyway.”
“All right then.” I sweep my hand in front of me, gesturing her toward the passenger door, and turn back to my brothers. “I’ll see you both later.”
“Catch you at home. Hot Duke and I are getting the hell out of here.”
I hear Lando mutter something along the lines of, “You’re such a dick,” and Story’s already at the passenger side, so she doesn’t notice that Miles doesn’t acknowledge her. Though I doubt she’d care.
We drive in silence to the clinic, where the overnight nurse meets us at the door, and the three of us carry Churchill into the operating room. One thing’s for sure, he’s going on a restricted diet when he’s out of here. His days of stripping every fruit tree in the village are over.
I thought Story would wait in the reception area, it was the only reason I agreed she could come because her in the operating room is nothing less than a distraction. But after we both get dry, the nurse offers her a scrub gown and she takes it.
“If you’re going to stay, make yourself useful. In the drawer behind you are cotton swabs, razors, and antiseptic lotion. I’ll cut the wires, and you can shave around the wound and clean it so I can see what needs stitching.”
She nods. “Okay.”
We get to work. I focus on Churchill. I cut, and she cleans. And we do it all in silence. Too silently.
Distractingly silent.
Story’s close enough that every so often her hair flops back from behind her ear and falls into my face. Blood, mud, and metal mingle with a faint floral perfume. My eyes find hers too often and look away too quickly.
Her mouth is inches from mine, and I concentrate on counting the barbs in the wire instead.
“You’re not an inconvenience to me, Story,” I say at some point while dropping another couple of inches of wire into the trash. It clatters against the metal.
Her hand stills and it’s the only way I know she’s heard me.
“This wound looks deep,” she observes a couple of minutes later.
I peer over. “Get a fresh swab and leave it on. I’ll stitch it.”
She does as I ask and continues with her role. Every so often, she whispers something to Churchill and strokes his face, just like she did in the trench.
“What are you saying to him?” I ask, after the fourth or fifth time.
“That he’s in the best hands, and you’re going to fix everything.”
The room suddenly feels too hot.
“Did you speak to Mrs. Winston?”
“No, she wasn’t answering. I’ll keep trying.”
In total, I estimate I removed three meters of barbed wire from around Churchill’s hind quarters, though I don’t know how he managed to get himself so tangled up. I only needed to stitch seven of the wounds, as the rest were only big scratches. And we do fix everything, the two of us.
Afterward, we wheel him through to the recovery room, leaving him in one of the crates usually reserved for the really large dogs.
“I’m glad I called you,” Story says, standing up after dropping a final kiss on Churchill’s head.
“Technically, you called the practice.”
Her lips roll together, teeth catching the bottom one. “I don’t have your number.”
“Still the same one. It hasn’t changed.”
She looks away and shrugs, which says it all. A knife pushed further into my chest. Confirmation that she completely erased me from her life.
“Funny. I still know yours by heart.” It’s not funny at all.