Only by Your Touch

by Catherine Anderson

  The balding doctor stared at Chloe over the rims of his glasses. “No payment, no service, that’s our policy. We accept credit cards.”

  Chloe wanted to reach across the table, grab him by his smock front, and give him a hard shake. “I don’t have any credit cards.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “May I ask why?”

  It was none of his business. “My husband fell ill. All my cards are limited out.”

  “I see.” He sniffed. “That’s unfortunate. Treating parvovirus is very expensive. I won’t demand payment in full, of course, but I need three hundred down.”

  Chloe thought of her child sitting in the waiting room. For all intents and purposes, he’d lost his father a year and a half ago. And three weeks ago, she’d taken him away from everything familiar, including his doting grandparents. He’d been so thrilled to get this puppy, and now, only a few hours later, he was about to lose it. She couldn’t let that happen. No matter what, she absolutely couldn’t let it happen.

  “My little boy isn’t well,” she tried. “It’ll half kill him if this puppy dies. Please. I have a ruby brooch—a family heirloom. I can get at least three hundred for it. I’ll be back with the money before noon tomorrow.”

  “The dog will probably make it through the night, Mrs. Evans. Bring him back when you have the cash.” He gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. Everyone is long on promises when a pet’s life is at stake. It’s a different story when the crisis has passed.”

  He turned and left the examining room. Chloe stared at the closing door. This couldn’t be happening. Shaking with impotent anger, she gently gathered the puppy back into her arms.

  Jeremy leaped up off the bench when Chloe reentered the waiting room. His small face was pale, his eyes huge. “Can’t the doctor make him well?”

  Chloe was so furious she could barely speak. “I’ll tell you about it outside, sweetie.”

  Once in the car, Chloe carefully transferred Rowdy into her son’s waiting arms. Jeremy pressed his face against the puppy’s matted fur. “Please, Mom, don’t let him die.”

  Chloe clamped her hands over the steering wheel and stared balefully at the clinic building. “The doctor says Rowdy has a disease called parvo,” she said carefully. “The vet wants three hundred dollars down.”

  “Three hundred is a lot, isn’t it?”

  “All we have right now is ninety-eight.” She forced a smile. “But, hey, all isn’t lost. The vet thinks Rowdy will be okay until morning, and I’ve got an idea how to get the money then.”

  “But, Mommy, he’s so sick.” Jeremy’s breathing became ragged. “What if he—?” The child gulped and dragged in a laborious breath. “What if he dies tonight?”

  Searching her little boy’s face, Chloe thought, A child his age should still believe in miracles. All she saw in her son’s eyes was shattered hope.

  The wheezy whine of his breathing filled the car. Chloe’s heart clutched with fear. “We’ll pray really, really hard that that doesn’t happen,” she tried.

  Jeremy bent his head over the puppy. “Praying didn’t help Daddy.”

  Chloe looked away. “No,” she conceded hollowly, “praying didn’t work for Daddy.”

  “It prob’ly won’t work for Rowdy, either.”

  Tears sprang to Chloe’s eyes. What could she say? A dozen lies came to mind, but Jeremy had already heard them all.

  Once they’d sponged Rowdy off and Chloe got her son tucked into bed that night, she collected the sick puppy and sat on the sofa with him cradled in her arms. As deathly ill as Rowdy was, he emitted that sweet puppy smell that Chloe could remember so clearly from childhood. Through the bath towel and her clothing, she felt the heat of his fever. He was so very sick. She feared only a miracle would save him.

  The thought nearly broke Chloe’s heart. Running a fingertip up the bridge of the puppy’s nose, she huddled there in the shadows, too exhausted to weep. Why was it that she so often failed at even the simplest things? Other people got puppies for their children, and those dogs didn’t die. Recently Chloe had begun to feel as if life and its many problems were bigger than she was—that no matter how hard she tried, nothing went right.

  God, she was tired, an awful, bone-melting weariness that made her limbs feel leaden. If Rowdy died during the night, how would she tell Jeremy?

  Moonlight slanted through the living room windows, feeble fingers of illumination that spilled over the floor like puddles of silver. Chloe gathered the puppy closer and pressed her cheek to his head. Exhausted though she was, she was afraid to put him in his box and go to bed. He might die while she slept.

  And so she sat there in the darkness, rocking him as she might a sick child, holding on to the fragile thread of life for him because he was too weak to hang on himself. The clock ticked loudly in the silence. The night wind puffed against the exterior walls of the house, and bushes scratched the siding. The sounds made her nerves jump, and she kept looking over her shoulder. Not so very long ago, she’d heard similar noises outside her Lynnwood apartment, and it hadn’t been bushes making the sounds.

  The memories filled Chloe’s mouth with the metallic taste of fear. She tried to tell herself she was being silly, that Roger couldn’t find her now that she was living in another state. But somehow that didn’t make her feel better.

  The minutes dragged by, small eternities that mounted, one by one, into an hour, and then two. Occasionally, Rowdy’s small body would convulse with heaves. He brought up only bile. Each time, Chloe wiped his face and wrapped him in a clean towel. Keeping vigil, she lost track of time. Her eyes grew dry and started to ache, and her arms cramped from the weight they cradled.

  When the first faint rays of dawn lightened the windows, she stirred from the sofa, carefully laid the puppy in his box, and staggered to the kitchen. Her joints throbbed like those of an old woman as she filled the coffeemaker with water and scooped grounds into the basket. She punched the BREW button and went to the window to watch the sunrise.

  The sky turned a gorgeous pink, long, wispy streaks of rose and burgundy threading through clouds as soft and fluffy as cotton candy. Watching the glorious transformation, Chloe felt a resurgence of hope. The puppy had made it through the night.

  Chapter Two

  Morning sunlight filtered down through the branches of the pine trees to bathe the lawn and woodland floor with dancing patterns of shimmering yellow. The warmth worked on Ben’s knotted shoulder muscles like the clever fingers of a masseuse. This was one of his favorite times of day, a stolen moment solely for him, when he could sit and listen and sort his thoughts while he watched the deer enjoy their breakfast.

  In the treetops, black-capped chickadees, robins, and sparrows raised their voices in joyful song, thankful for the sunshine, the tasty bugs under the bark, and the water in the birdbath. The necessities of life and a few simple pleasures were all they needed or wanted.

  Ben envied them that. Over the last several weeks, his schedule had been nightmarish, without enough minutes in the day to get everything done. Sometimes he yearned for rest like a starving man did food. Unfortunately, a malevolent presence had invaded his forest, and the wounded animals continued to seek him out in an unending stream. He got at least one new patient a day, sometimes more.

  He had seven furry convalescents at the cave a mile and a quarter northwest of his land. Counting the quarter-mile walk to his property line, the twice-daily commute was three miles round trip. Normally Ben would have enjoyed the exercise. But he also had recovering creatures inside the house. Providing all the critters under his care with medical treatment kept him on the run from dawn until dark, leaving little time for his writing, which paid the household expenses and bought much-needed veterinary supplies.

  Ben could have reduced the travel time to and from the cave by riding his Arctic Cat, a four-wheel ATV that sailed over rough terrain, but he was afraid the noise and tire tracks might give away the cave’s location. He couldn’t take that chance. Whoever was wo
unding the animals stalked the surrounding hills practically every day. If the bastard found that cave, he wouldn’t hesitate to enter and open fire on the cages. At all costs, Ben had to protect his patients from further harm.

  A hummingbird buzzed Ben’s head. He ducked and then chuckled, amused by the tiny creature’s audacity. He stood six feet five inches tall in his stocking feet and weighed 243 pounds. Feathers and all, the hummingbird would tip a postal scale at about an ounce, yet the little bugger still dared to take him on. My fault, Ben decided. He never should have hung the nectar feeder so close to the steps where he liked to sit. Hummingbirds were territorial about their feeders, and a loitering human being posed a threat to their existence.

  One of the browsing bucks suddenly lifted its head to sniff the air. Preoccupied with the antics of the hummingbird, Ben might have ignored the deer’s odd behavior if it hadn’t snorted and tapped the earth with a sharp front hoof.

  Ben pushed up from the steps and cocked his head to listen. He heard nothing out of the ordinary. Turning back to the group of deer at the edge of the lawn, he saw a doe break off from enjoying its grain to stare at the west end of the house.

  Something was up. Not really alarmed because the deer seemed more inquisitive than frightened, Ben went to investigate. He’d taken only two steps when he heard a faint but shrill tooting sound.

  As he circled the west end of the house and stepped into the carport area, he glimpsed a small boy. Bold as polished brass, the kid was standing astride a bicycle out in the driveway. Sunlight glanced off his curly auburn hair, tipping the ends with glinting copper. He wore a blue Winnie-the-Pooh T-shirt, faded jeans mended at the knees, and scuffed white leather sneakers, one of which had come untied. Something about the child seemed vaguely familiar, but Ben couldn’t recall where he’d seen him.

  Every few seconds, the boy squeezed the rubber bulb of the bike horn. Ben had NO TRESPASSING signs posted all along his fence line at twenty-foot intervals. Nobody could accidentally wander onto his property—unless, of course, the interloper happened to be a little squirt who couldn’t read.

  On the rare occasion that intrepid souls ventured up to the house, Ben always ordered them off his land, sometimes cradling a shotgun in the crook of one arm to emphasize the point. This was just a kid, though. As Ben moved closer, he noted the child’s pallor, his feverish brown eyes, and the way his narrow chest heaved with exertion. Ben guessed he’d ridden his bike up the driveway, which was a quarter mile long and very steep.

  Slowing to a stop at the front end of the breezeway, Ben treated the child to his most intimidating glare. That alone was usually enough to send people running. Not this kid. He swung off his bike and lowered the kickstand.

  Looking scared half out of his wits, the boy gulped and said, “My name’s Jeremy. I need your help.”

  The silent-glare treatment wasn’t working. Ben spread his feet and planted his hands at his hips. “If you’re selling magazines, forget it. I can’t read.”

  “I’m not selling nothing.”

  The kid’s lips looked a little blue. Ben told himself it was a trick of the light. “I don’t like people trespassing on my property. Turn that bike of yours around, and get off my ridge.”

  Damn it. With 160 fenced acres, a man was entitled to some privacy. Ben didn’t want any locals up here. Every blasted time, they saw something they shouldn’t and carried tales back to town.

  “Go on!” he barked. “Get off my land, I said.”

  The tremors that racked the child’s body gained force to become a violent quaking. Ben’s throat thickened with shame. He could scare off adults and teenagers without a qualm, but a small child was different. He felt like a first-class jerk.

  As frightened as the boy clearly was, he still didn’t run. He had more backbone than a lake trout, Ben decided with reluctant admiration.

  “I rode my bike a long ways. If you’re still mad ’cause we stole your land, I’m real sorry, but I’m not leaving until I talk to you.”

  “Fine, then. Spit it out, and then make tracks.”

  “My puppy Rowdy’s dying. I brung him to you ’cause the lady at the feed store said you know a lot about curing animals.”

  Ben’s studied the child’s freckled face. He placed him now. It was the kid he’d seen at the store yesterday. A picture spun through his mind of the mother. She was a looker with a wealth of auburn hair, big, wary brown eyes, and a tidy figure. Since his divorce, Ben didn’t often notice women, but he’d given her a second look, much to his self-disgust a few minutes later.

  This child had cowered behind her when Ben had approached them in the dog-food section. Since returning to Jack Pine, he’d grown used to the gossip. Oh, yes, he’d heard the stories—about witchcraft and random murders, with him feeding the human remains to his critters. The stories were so preposterous and sick that he had long since decided not let them bother him. It carried a harder punch when a child cringed from him, though.

  What kind of mother allowed her child’s head to be filled with such tripe?

  To hell with it. Like he gave a rat’s ass?

  And yet, deep down, he actually did care a great deal, especially when he saw how deep-rooted the distrust of him really was. The boy had eyes like his mother’s—big splashes of liquid brown fringed with dark lashes. Something about her had appealed to him in a way no other woman had in years. Several times that morning, he’d caught himself thinking of her—and how good she had looked in khaki slacks and a form-fitting green knit top that showcased her sweetly rounded breasts.

  Ben shifted his attention to the pup that lay so still in the towel-lined handlebar basket. He hated to see the kid lose his dog. But, hey, it wasn’t his problem. If he helped this child, he’d be signing the death warrant of almost twenty other animals, his cougar, Methuselah, included.

  Three months ago, a power company employee had driven up to Ben’s place to read the electric meter and seen Ben walking the cougar on a leash. Less than a week later, Deputy Bobby Lee Schuck had paid a visit to Cinnamon Ridge with two game wardens in tow. Caught off guard, Ben hadn’t had time to hide the animals in his outdoor hospital, which had been behind the house at the time. Several convalescents in cages had been confiscated. The only reason Methuselah hadn’t met with the same fate was because Bobby Lee hadn’t thought to search the house.

  It was against Oregon law to keep wild animals in captivity without a special permit. Ben had received a hefty fine for his infraction and been told he would go to jail if he broke the law again. None too thrilled at the prospect, he had tried the legal route, applying to the state for a special permit, but his application had been turned down, a result, he felt sure, of Bobby Lee’s blackballing him. For Ben, the choice of either abiding by the law or breaking it was no choice at all. He couldn’t condemn Methuselah to a slow death by starvation out in the wild, and he couldn’t turn his back on the other animals that came to him for help, either.

  Eventually his illegal veterinary practice would land him in jail. He understood that and was willing to pay the price. He just hoped to postpone the inevitable for as long as possible, and that meant keeping people off the ridge, including small boys who came to him with sick puppies.

  “I’m not a vet anymore,” Ben said firmly. “And I don’t like being pestered.”

  “Don’t you still know vet stuff?” Those big brown eyes welled with tears. “Please? He’s gonna die, Mr. Longtree. He needs your help.”

  The child’s body suddenly snapped taut, and what little color remained in his face drained away. Ben realized he was gaping at something behind him. Not Methuselah, he thought. Please, God, don’t let it be Methuselah.

  But, of course, it was. Just as Ben turned to look, the cougar stumbled over a six-pack cooler in the carport and sent it flying. The resultant clatter might have startled a less stalwart feline, but Methusaleh was accustomed to bumping into things.

  Ben was tempted to let loose with a string of curses to turn the air
blue. Only what good would it do? The cat was out of the bag now. The kid would race home to tell his mother. She’d grab up the phone to tell a friend. By this time tomorrow, everyone in Jack Pine, including Bobby Lee Schuck, would have heard the story. Ben didn’t kid himself. If the deputy saw an opportunity to cause him more grief, he’d jump at it, and the old cougar’s fate would be sealed.

  To Ben’s surprise and even greater dismay, the boy suddenly started wheezing—an awful whining sound that rattled up from his narrow chest. Clutching his throat with one hand, he began fumbling in the pocket of his jeans. Ben realized he was groping for an inhaler and hurried over to help.

  “Easy, son, easy.” Ben plucked the canister from the child’s pocket and pressed the orange mouthpiece to his lips. “The cougar won’t hurt you, I promise.” He depressed the cap to release a blast of medication. The boy tried to breathe it in but the inhalant didn’t help. Growing truly alarmed, Ben dropped to one knee to get a better angle and released more medicine. “What is it, asthma? Calm down, son. Try to relax.”

  Easy to say, but not so easily done. The boy dragged in a whistling breath of the mist, gulped, and grabbed frantically for more. A small eternity and several doses later, his wind passages finally cleared. Whether that was due to the medicine or simply because he began to calm down, Ben didn’t know.

  Exhausted by the ordeal, Jeremy leaned his weight against the circle of Ben’s arm as the last of the spasms abated. His wide, wary gaze remained fixed on the cougar.

  “Does that happen to you often?” Ben asked.

  The boy nodded. “I got asthma,” he said, his voice gone hoarse from wheezing. “The doctor says it’ll go ’way someday.”

  In most cases, asthma was an allergic disorder, but Jeremy’s attack had clearly been brought on by panic. “Not being able to breathe can’t be much fun.”

  “Nope.”

  The cougar, intrigued by Jeremy’s high-pitched voice, moved closer. Almost blind from a slight stroke, the cat had a perpetually bewildered look on his face. “This old fellow is Methuselah, Jeremy. I know he looks scary, but he’s a friend of mine.”