Snowbound Summer (The Logan Series Book 3)

by Clements, Sally

  “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

  Once upon a time, being marooned with Summer Costello would have been on his to-do list, but being marooned with her and her boar of a boyfriend would be pure torture. “The sooner I get out there the better.”

  *****

  Summer was on the point of phoning Nick again—it had been an hour and a half since she’d made the early morning call—when the distinctive sound of an engine cut through the silence.

  “He’s here,” she said to the unresponsive dog. “Help is here.”

  In the past hour the dog had barely raised his head from the cold cobbled floor of the woodshed—even when she spoke to him—and the fight had gone out of his eyes. She’d gotten close enough to drape an old blanket over him in a vague hope of keeping him warm. The growl that issued from his throat was a faint and pathetic noise. He looked like he was staring death in the face and welcoming it.

  “Hold on—just hold on a little longer.” She left the woodshed and walked around the house to the front door.

  A tall figure was climbing out of the Land Rover. The last time she’d seen him Nick Logan had been tall and skinny. Like her brother, he’d shot up in his late teens. This Nick Logan was different. He’d grown into his frame, and while he was still lean, he’d developed muscle. He’d always been a good-looking boy, but now, as a grown man, he was devastating.

  “Hi, Summer.” He slammed the door of the Land Rover and walked to her. “Good to see you.” He enveloped her in a warm hug—which should have been no surprise—the Logans were notorious huggers. He’d hugged her when she left for London eight years ago.

  She was pretty sure she hadn’t felt anything back then, but being enveloped in Nick Logan’s warm arms, breathing in his scent, sent a ripple of awareness through her now. So she stepped back as soon as was politely possible. “Hi, Nick.” Her face felt hot. Am I blushing? She swallowed. “Thank you so much for coming out.”

  He and Declan had been friends forever—he must know she wasn’t expected to be here.

  To her relief he didn’t question her. Instead, he grabbed a black doctor’s bag from the back of the Land Rover. “Where’s the patient?”

  “He’s different this morning.” They trudged through the snow to the woodshed. The snow was still falling, dusting Nick’s dark hair with snowflakes. “It’s as though the fight has left him.” Nick strode along next to her, not touching, but a tangle of awareness spread at his proximity.

  She pulled open the door to the woodshed, pointing at the hole. “He must have crawled through here somehow.” For the first time, she noticed a trace of blood on the broken wood.

  The dog didn’t look up as they approached. His eyes were closed.

  “He was awake when I left.” Her gaze focused on the dog’s chest; relief flooded her seeing it rising and falling slowly.

  “Ah, poor fella.” Nick walked straight to the animal’s side and placed his bag on the ground. He crouched. “How are you doing, fella?”

  The dog’s eyes flickered open, but he made no noise, probably too exhausted.

  Nick reached out a hand and let the dog sniff him. “Okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  He continued talking in a low, comforting tone that made the tension leave Summer’s body. The dog, too, seemed to relax, mesmerized by the sound Nick’s voice. Her breath caught as Nick stroked the dog’s head. She wouldn’t have had the courage.

  Slowly, still murmuring, Nick lifted the blanket and ran his hands over the dog’s flanks. He examined the cut on the back leg carefully. “He’s in bad shape.” He stood up and took a step back to where she stood. “You got him to eat something?”

  “Yes, he had the steak I was going to have for dinner tonight.”

  Nick nodded. “That fits. He’s badly malnourished and dehydrated. I don’t think he’d survive the trip back to the surgery.”

  Summer felt a pain in her heart as though someone had wrapped their hands around it and squeezed. “You mean you have to put him down?” Her gaze flicked to the dog who opened his eyes and stared at them.

  “No. But I can’t treat him here, the conditions are filthy and there isn’t enough light. I’ll need the help of your boyfriend to carry him inside.”

  My boyfriend. “Michael isn’t here.” She couldn’t bring herself to reveal the truth, that her three-year relationship had ended four months ago, and she hadn’t seen him since. She crossed her arms. “I can help you get him inside.”

  *****

  Nick looked out at the falling snow. Emotions mixed within him at her pronouncement. Curiosity, that her all-too-perfect investment advisor boyfriend wasn’t here, and relief that he wouldn’t have to deal with the city slicker sliding around in the snow in his shiny, black leather shoes. Michael was the sort of man who probably didn’t even own a pair of jeans—he doubtless wore a suit five days of the week, and dressed in designer gear every weekend.

  From the sarcastic snippets Declan had furnished over the years Nick had built up a fairly clear picture of the man Summer had chosen. Haircuts once a week, manicures every fortnight, and regular manscaping appointments at his salon.

  The last time Declan had visited them in London, Michael offered to treat him to a back, sac and crack wax. When Declan returned to Brookbridge, they’d laughed their asses off in the pub at that.

  Not having him here was a relief.

  He looked down. The dog was young, maybe a couple of years old. She’d described him on the phone as an Alsatian, but he wasn’t a pure bred—if Nick had to guess he’d say the dog was possibly half Labrador or collie as well. His size was intimidating, and the rope around his neck indicated he’d been tied up—probably used as a guard dog by someone with something to hide. He knew too well how the lives of many of these dogs went. They were permanently chained outside, infrequently fed, and encouraged to snarl and bark at strangers.

  Even if he survived the significant health challenges that faced him, he might never be rehabilitated enough to become a family pet.

  The dog’s eyes flickered open; the expression in them made up Nick’s mind for him. He looked like hell, looked as though he’d been living in hell, but he deserved a chance.

  “I’m going to sedate him—it will take a few moments before he’s out and then we can get him inside.” He crouched at the dog’s side again, took a syringe from his bag and carefully filled it. “Okay, fella, you will feel better soon.” He located a vein in the dog’s foot and injected him.

  Then he stood up, brushed damp sawdust from his knees and turned to Summer.

  Driving up here, he’d hoped that the years might have dimmed her beauty. That he might have grown out of the oversized crush that had tormented him through his teens and early twenties. Unfortunately, she was prettier than ever. Sure, there were a few more lines on her face—but they just added character.

  It was a shame she was such a bitch.

  While she stared at the dog, he looked closer. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and didn’t even seem to have brushed her hair, which was unusual for Summer—she’d always put great stock in looking good. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she seemed to have lost weight since the last time he’d seen her.

  “Let’s go inside. We need to prepare the kitchen.”

  “Okay.” She cast a last look at the dog. “I hope he makes it.”

  “We should give him a name.”

  She smiled. “I think you’ve already done that—I reckon his name is Fella.”

  She talked away as they walked to the house. Summer had always been blessed with the ability to talk to anyone, anytime, and make them feel special. She excelled at charm—when it suited her. “I’d forgotten that you were training to become a vet,” she confessed. “When I lived here the veterinary practice was around the back of Main Street—the vet was Patrick Jackson I think.”

  “He retired. My partner and I took over the business.”

  Her eyes widened slightly at the news, but she d
idn’t comment. She pushed open the back door into the kitchen.

  The warmth made his cold hands tingle. “You lit the wood-burning stove?”

  “I thought that would be sensible. The heating is on, but if the power goes out…”

  “Good.” He walked to the heavy pine table, and started to clear it. “Have you an old oilcloth or something we can cover this with? There’s likely to be blood.”

  Her face went pale, but she straightened her shoulders. “I’ll get it. What else do you need?”

  Nick thought for a moment. “A bowl for hot water. An old cardboard box and a couple of blankets.”

  “And a bowl for some water for Fella to drink?”

  “Not right now—I’ve brought a drip to rehydrate him and he won’t be taking anything by mouth for a while, but later, yes we’ll need one for water and one for food.”

  She hurried from the room, and he shoved the table closer to the range.

  Chapter Three

  Worry that had been a constant companion since she’d found Fella eased as Summer pulled open drawers in the storeroom off the kitchen where her mother kept all manner of odd things. When items were worn, they made the journey from the house to this room, and when they were completely beyond use, they were put out into the garage. Both her parents were borderline hoarders—letting go of stuff was difficult for them. When the garage got too full, they hired a skip and had a clear out. The garage was big enough that that event only happened every five years or so.

  A gold colored trophy lay on top of sheaves of paper in the first drawer. She picked it out, and tested its weight in her hands. When she was twelve, the trophy she’d won at school for being the fastest sprinter had seemed a lot heavier. The papers underneath looked familiar too. She leafed through them. First in the regional spelling bee. First in debating. A couple of rosettes from the brief few years she’d taken up horse riding.

  She shoved them back in the drawer, closed it, and opened another. This is more like it.

  A carefully folded piece of worn oilcloth was shoved into the drawer, along with a bolt of material, an offcut from her mother’s homemade curtains. She pulled out the oilcloth and opened it out to see if it would be big enough.

  Satisfied, she folded it again, and shoved it under her arm. Now, what else? He’d said a cardboard box and a couple of blankets, presumably to make a basket for Fella. She glanced around. She could do better than that. A huge plastic dog basket was stacked up against the side of the room—something that should by now have been relegated to the garage—their old dog, Seb, had been dead for at least ten years. It was stacked with empty plastic ten-liter water bottles.

  She moved the bottles to the floor, and struggled to ease the basket from behind a couple of old, broken down chairs, and tossed the oilcloth into it.

  She would have to check upstairs for the blankets.

  “How are you getting on in there?” Nick stuck his head in through the door.

  “I’ve found these.”

  “Great.” He took the basket and oilcloth. Their hands brushed, and a tingle raced up her arm. He stared into her eyes, and awareness of him spread like honey on hot toast.

  Summer swallowed. “I’ll just grab a couple of blankets.”

  “That can wait. The snow is getting heavier. We need to move Fella now.”

  The prospect of carrying an unconscious dog seemed impossible.

  “I’ll need an old board and a wheelbarrow.” Nick smiled. “I guess we should check the garage.”

  Of course. He knew her parents as well as she did—when he hadn’t been in his own house, he’d been in hers. He walked to the keys hanging on hooks at the side of the cooker, and instantly selected the right one. “Come on.”

  She followed him to the garage, where they found an old board—that had formed the side wall of the house her father had made for chickens years ago—laid it out on the wheelbarrow, and started back across the yard to the woodshed. “We’ll move him, and then I’ll bring in my stuff from the Land Rover.”

  *****

  Even though Fella was emaciated, he was still a big dog, and it took a lot of effort to pick him up and place him on the makeshift stretcher. But they made it. She placed a hand on Fella’s neck as he pushed the barrow to the back door, only letting go to open the door for him. She was getting attached. Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested they give him a name—if he didn’t make it, she’d be devastated. He’d seen this reaction before. People who saved animals and brought them to the vets always thought that the hard part was over, now the animal would receive medical attention and be saved. Unfortunately, sometimes there was nothing they could do.

  He gritted his teeth, and pushed down the negative thoughts. He’d try everything to save this dog. Already, he was living on borrowed time—Fella had been starved almost to death, somehow escaped from whoever had tied the rope around his neck, and Nick suspected Fella had been hit by a car at some stage last night.

  He deserved a break. A break Nick would do his best to deliver. “Okay, I’ll take his shoulders, and you lift his back,” he advised. They’d done it once, they could do it again.

  She moved into position, and slipped one hand under the dog.

  “Lift.”

  Together, they got Fella onto the kitchen table.

  “Stay there with him. I’ll be back in a moment.” He pushed the wheelbarrow out into the yard, and tramped through the snow to the Land Rover.

  When he came back, she was standing in exactly the same position as when he left. One hand on Fella’s neck. There was a trace of sadness in her expression, and for a moment he feared the worst. “How is he?”

  She turned, and an unsteady smile wavered at the corners of her mouth. “He’s still alive.” She looked at the things he was carrying. “Can I help?”

  “I can manage. I brought a bag to rehydrate, but I forgot to bring a stand.” He’d been in such a hurry it was inevitable that he’d forget something.

  “Maybe...how about the coat stand from the hall? It has hooks on it.”

  “Yes, that’ll work.”

  She dashed out into the hall and came back carrying the iron coat stand that Declan had bought his parents as a Christmas present years ago.

  “Set it up over there.” Nick pointed to the spot where he needed it. Then he went to the sink, and started to scrub.

  She filled a bowl with hot water as he dried his hands and put on latex gloves. The first thing he would do was insert a line for the drip, and then he would examine that leg.

  “You might want to leave for a while.” Not everyone was able to watch a dog being operated on, and the last thing he needed was her fainting.

  “Don’t you need me to help?” She stood her ground. “I’m not going to faint, if that’s what you’re frightened of.” She looked offended that he’d even think it. “I’ve done my fair share of dissecting.”

  “Yes, but those animals and birds are dead, aren’t they?” He grinned. She had spent nine months in the top Cordon Bleu school in London—he had no doubt she could reduce a cow to steaks without batting an eye, but dealing with living creatures was different.

  “You need me to help.” There was stubborn determination in her voice. “I’m up to it. What do you need?”

  I need to stop being so bloody impressed by you.

  “Attach the bag onto the coat stand hook while I insert the line.” She picked it up, and did as he asked. Nick breathed in deep, and focused his attention back to his patient.

  She stood at his side as he inserted the line, shaved around the cut with the razor he always carried in his surgery grab bag, cleaned the wound, and put Fella’s dislocated leg back into the correct position. To his relief, the bone wasn’t broken, but it would be badly bruised—Fella wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. He sewed up the deep gash in the animal’s flesh, and disinfected it. “We should get him into the basket while he’s out,” he said. “We don’t want him trying to climb off the table when he revives.�
��

  While he was stitching Fella, she’d found blankets and set the basket near the wood burning stove. Now, she helped him maneuver the large dog into the basket, which he more or less filled.

  “How long before he wakes up?”

  “It could be a while,” Nick said. “The anesthetic is powerful, and he’s exhausted, once he comes around, he’ll be groggy and fall asleep again quite quickly.”

  Summer poured the pink-tinged water out of the bowl and washed it. Threw away the pieces of lint and other detritus that littered the table, wiped down the oilcloth, and took it off the table.

  She folded it again and again, until it was a small parcel. “In that case, how about a cup of tea?”

  “Sure. I need to make a call though first.” Nick walked to the coat he’d thrown on a chair, put it on, and retrieved his cell phone. “I’ll check conditions while I’m at it. Excuse me for a moment.”

  Fat flakes of snow drifted in the air, too light and unsubstantial to do anything more than float. When he’d been a kid this had been the sort of snow he’d liked best. The type that stuck to your clothes and hair, converting you to a walking, talking snowman.

  Today, his feelings were very different. Above, a swirling vortex of snowflakes filled the sky. The tempest of the previous night had blown itself out, but the snow just kept coming. He looked down. The path he’d tracked from the Land Rover earlier had practically filled in, his footsteps now just faint indentations in the tight packed snow. His speed increased until he reached the car, jerked open the door and climbed inside. He punched in the practice’s number.

  “Evie. It’s Nick.”

  “How’s the patient?” Just like the rest of the people in his employ, Evie was hardwired to think of the patient first.

  “Well, I’ve stitched up his leg, and he’s in recovery. I had to put in a line—he’s dehydrated.” He couldn’t even see out of the windshield, cocooned in a bright, white soundless world. “There’s no way I can transport him today, he’s too weak. I’ll have to stay the night here.”