by Ava Gray
“Call somebody?”
“The battery in my phone died. Do you have a cell I could borrow?”
He shook his head. “Wish I did.”
Not that he had anyone to call, or the money to pay for one. But it’d be nice to help her right now.
“Service station three miles that way,” he said, jerking his head. “I’ll go.”
“Do you have a car?”
Damn. He did. The truck might not run, after sitting for so long, but he’d left it parked at the farm. It hadn’t even occurred to him to drive. He’d wanted to run. The realization sent tension coiling through him again.
“Kinda. Be back soon.”
He turned then and headed back the way he’d come. The farm was closer. It made no sense that he hadn’t thought of checking things out in the truck. Maybe they’d broken his brain.
It took him a little while to find the keys, and then a bit longer to coax the old Ford into motion. Eventually the motor caught, but he didn’t find driving natural anymore. He felt tense and scared, wrestling the wheel as he sent it down the drive. Sickness rose in his belly, and by the time he got to the service station, thankfully still open, he was covered in cold sweat.
Tim Sweeney, the owner, recognized him, leathery face creasing in a smile. “Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age, Zeke. Where you been?”
“Traveling,” he muttered. “Lady down the road a piece needs a tow.”
“Scooter!” Tim called. “Mind the front. I’m taking the truck out.”
A kid made some noise of affirmation and Tim headed for the parking lot. Zeke followed, hands shaking. He tried to hide it, though the jingling of his keys gave it away.
“I’ll show you.” He got back in the cab and pulled out onto the empty road.
The fear scaled up. He had no place behind the wheel. It was all kinds of wrong. He wished he’d just run for help. By the time they reached the site, he barely had a grip on his emotions.
He flashed his lights, and the woman had the presence of mind to signal back, showing Tim where she was. Zeke turned off into his driveway then and brought the truck to a ragged stop before the farmhouse. For long moments he leaned his sweaty forehead on the wheel and listened to the knocking of the engine.
Distant car doors slammed. Voices whispered in the wind.
Too far away. I can’t . . . This ain’t possible.
“Who was that?” the woman asked. “I didn’t get to thank him.”
“Zeke Noble. He ain’t been back long.”
Their voices bled away, swamped by nearer noises. He caught squirrels in the dark trees, and the rustling of bird wings as they settled in for the night. Crazy. How he wished it weren’t true, but normal people didn’t hear this stuff. Maybe he hadn’t been kidnapped. Maybe there had been no secret underground facility, just a mental institution he’d managed to slip away from. Maybe he’d simply been locked up for his own good because he was nuts. Just like his mother.
Blood stained Geneva Harper’s gloved hands. That wasn’t unusual. She’d just finished operating and her patient looked like he’d be fine. Since he was a big fellow, he was already shaking off the anesthetic. Julie, her assistant, rubbed his head, and his tail gave a weak, corresponding thump. Duffy, a black Labrador, was still groggy, but soon he’d need a cone to keep him from worrying his incision site.
“Dogs eat the strangest things,” she said, not for the first time.
Julie nodded her agreement. “But at least you saved him.”
That was her job, after all, and she was good at it. Leaving Julie to clean up, she went to wash her hands and then she checked her schedule; the day looked pretty full. In ten minutes, she had a poodle coming in for routine vaccinations, but Kady didn’t like needles. She’d need the muzzle.
Most places had a couple of vet techs, a receptionist and office manager, maybe even a couple more doctors in the rotation, but Paws & Claws ran on a skeleton crew, which meant it was pretty much herself and Julie, five days a week. And she stayed on call for weekend emergencies, too. It was exhausting, but this was what she’d always wanted, and she didn’t regret any of her choices. There had been problems, of course, but she didn’t want to think about her string of bad luck today.
She did regret that she couldn’t seem to keep an attendant on staff: someone to clean the cages and kennels, wash the pets, take the dogs out for walks, and handle general maintenance, like replacing lightbulbs and painting lines in the parking lot. But two men had quit in the last three months alone. It wasn’t glamorous work, admittedly—it was tough and menial, but if you liked animals, it could be rewarding.
And it wasn’t like Harper Creek was overflowing with jobs. Her dad had been steadily laying people off at the mill for the last year. As a result, Neva expected an influx of applications from men who used to work maintenance there, but so far it hadn’t happened. Puzzling and upsetting, but she didn’t have time to reflect on why things weren’t working out like she’d thought.
Mrs. Jones was here; she could tell by the yapping in the foyer. She came out of her office, tucked just around the corner from the waiting room. Julie’s desk sat in the waiting area, so she handled the hellos, if she wasn’t working on a pet; her friend expressed anal glands, cleaned ears, and clipped nails on her own. But before she started any such services, Julie pulled all the medical histories and put them in order in the file holder outside the exam room. Neva snagged the first one.
File in hand, she smiled as she waved Mrs. Jones back. “How are you and Kady doing today?”
The other woman smiled. “Well, I’m old. Kady’s lively as ever.”
“You’ll outlive us all.” She led the way back to the exam room.
If only dealing with a cantankerous, spoiled pet comprised the worst of her worries. She made small talk while she fastened the muzzle and then prepared the shots. If Julie wasn’t cleaning up from surgery, she’d have already done this. But there was no point in wishing for more help. Some nights she cleaned the place before going home, too—and her mother never tired of telling her it was beneath her.
Harpers don’t work like you do, Lillian would say, clad in one of her endless pastel suits. Neva had never been clear if she meant with animals or just the whole idea of employment. It didn’t matter; she had long ago resigned herself to the fact she’d never be the daughter her mother wanted. Nor could she make up for the son they’d lost.
It hadn’t always been that way, of course. She remembered when Lillian was less concerned about appearances, when she laughed more freely. But Neva had been a lot younger then, and Luke’s loss had only frozen her mother more. Putting those thoughts aside, she went to work with the vaccines.
Naturally, the little dog yipped more than the shots warranted; in response, Mrs. Jones hovered and cooed. Tiredly, Neva feigned cheer as she finished.
“Same time next year?” she said with a smile.
“I will if you will.”
Neva let the old woman deal with the muzzle while she disposed of the empty vials. Mrs. Jones was a good client; she always bought all the boosters, not just rabies. People like her kept the clinic in the black. Barely. It was a matter of pride for Neva that she made ends meet without touching her trust fund. Not that she could anymore, in any case. Her parents had it frozen after their last argument.
The rest of the day went quickly. More appointments. More pets. Neva gave shots and examined sickly animals. Most just needed minor treatments or medicine, except a dog she took as a walk-in near closing time. He was clearly in bad shape.
“He’s not eating or drinking,” the man told Julie. “I’m at my wit’s end.”
She didn’t recognize him, and in the two years since she’d been open, she’d thought she had treated all the animals in the area at one time or another. Of course, some people didn’t believe in spaying or neutering or regular vaccines. They only brought the pet in if it was sick—and sometimes not even then. So while he filled out the new-patient intake card, sh
e assessed the dog from across the room and winced. Neva braced herself to deliver bad news—she’d learned to recognize the look of a dying animal. He wasn’t a big breed, maybe thirty pounds, and he showed mixed heritage in his fuzzy dun coat.
After asking the usual questions, she performed a routine prelim exam, but as she’d suspected, it would take a CT to know for sure what was wrong. She hated this part of the job because she was almost sure she wouldn’t be able to offer a cure. If Amos had brought Duke in sooner, maybe. But not now. The dog was just too weak.
Still, she had to try. Her instincts, while good, were not infallible. Neva scooped the dog into her arms and took him in back. He didn’t fight as she laid him on the table. Julie came back to assist, but she paused in the doorway when she saw how much Neva had done on her own.
“Are you okay?”
She heard the question in the tech’s voice. Julie had a boyfriend and a life outside work and she was ready to be done for the day. “Yeah, I can handle this. Go on home to Travis.”
It didn’t take long to find the problem—tumor on the spleen. Fatal. This one was such a good size, it was no wonder the dog didn’t want to eat. There wasn’t room inside him.
Neva closed her eyes and took a deep breath, bracing herself for the encounter to come. Then she squared her shoulders and picked Duke up, cradling him with the same tenderness most people would show a small child. His yellow fur contrasted with her white coat as she carried him back to the exam room.
Amos came to his feet with an anxious look. “You find out what’s ailing him?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” Using her doctor’s voice, she explained the medical condition and his options. He could take some pain meds home and let the dog live as long as possible, or she could euthanize tonight. “I understand it’s a tough decision. I can give you some medicine for him if you want to think about it.”
His face fell. “So there’s nothin’ you can do?”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, wishing she could fix it.
No matter how many animals she saved, this never got any easier. The losses always overshadowed the wins. Sometimes she thought it would break her heart, but quitting would just prove her parents right. She’d refused the life they’d chosen for her; they must learn to accept her on her own terms . . . or not at all, though that wasn’t what she wanted, either.
But he surprised her. “Let’s get it done then. I don’t want Duke in pain.”
“If you’re sure, I have some forms for you to fill out.”
An hour later, she finished up. Amos was in tears when he left, and she felt heavy as a carton of bricks. Neva hated days that ended like this.
She jumped a little when a man stepped into view through the frosted glass of her front window. If he held a sick animal, she just might cry. Her lunch had consisted of a soggy sandwich ; she was starving and she needed some rest.
Halfheartedly she pointed at the “Closed” sign. In answer, he indicated the “Help Wanted” sign on the other side of the door. As she peered at him, she realized she knew him. He’d helped her the other day when she was stranded. Zeke Noble, the tow truck driver had said. A good Samaritan, and more importantly, not a stranger, thief, or vandal. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he’d had a better shot at it on that lonely road. He’d struck her as strange and wary, but not dangerous. So there was no need to call the sheriff to shoo him off.
Counting herself lucky that was all he wanted, Neva pulled an application off the pad on the front desk—covered with pictures of Julie’s family, her boyfriend, and her dog—and then went out into the dark.
CHAPTER 2
The woman looked tired, Zeke thought. Her scrubs were stained, and she wore a long tan jacket over the top of them, carelessly unbelted. It was chilly but not freezing today. The extremes ranged wildly; one day it could be below thirty with frost on the ground, and the next it might be sixty-six with threat of tornadoes. Tonight it was about forty-five, and she really should have her coat buttoned up.
Zeke stepped back so as not to crowd her. He didn’t often care what people made of him, hadn’t for years, but he didn’t want to scare a woman after dark, especially not one he hoped would give him a job. She locked the door behind her and then turned, offering him the form. Nodding his thanks, he took it and headed toward his truck. Her voice stopped him halfway there.
“You’re not much for talking.”
He recognized her voice, though he hadn’t gotten a good look at her the other night. She spoke with a honey-sweet drawl that almost made him retrace his steps. The power of those soft, almost teasing words flowed over him in a soothing wave; he’d like to listen to her a little longer, and maybe the knots in him would unwind. Right now he felt ten kinds of exposed—twitchy—as if unfriendly eyes watched him from all dark corners.
Zeke imagined how angry dogs must listen to her whispering reassurances until their hackles smoothed and they stopped showing teeth. Pretty soon they’d be belly up, whining for a rub. He knew that because he fought the same urge.
“Reckon not,” he answered at length.
“You never let me thank you.”
So she knew him, too. Tim Sweeney had told her his name, but they’d met before, a long time ago. Not that she’d remember. There was no reason for Geneva Harper to recall the boy who’d mowed their lawn while she was away at college. Their paths had only crossed the summer she came home instead of taking extra classes. He’d watched her a lot, those months, with quiet, hopeless longing.
The one time they’d spoken, she had come into the kitchen while he was eating his lunch to ask the cook to make some lemon squares. She’d said hello to him and given him a sweet smile. He’d mumbled something, hoping she’d linger, hoping she wouldn’t. She didn’t.
Zeke turned then, watching her cross the pavement toward him. She’d put on some weight since he’d seen her last, but she carried it well. Back then, he’d thought she looked like a fawn, all legs and eyes. Now she had curves, the kind that made a man want to see how deep the softness ran. But she still had the big brown eyes and pretty skin. Her hair was brown, too, caught at her neck in a clip. And she was smiling at him.
Annoyance surged through him. It was full dark; she should be more wary. Even though it was a small town, bad things happened here. He ought to know.
“Thank me with a job.” He emphasized the words with a rattle of the paper.
“I just might. Bring it back during business hours.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her smile flickered. “Don’t. Ma’am makes me feel old.”
You’re not old. The words stuck in his throat, too personal to be spoken. He just inclined his head. Best not rile her. At this point any job would do, and he’d visited every other business in town before stopping here. Nobody else had looked thrilled when he asked for an application. They remembered him from his mother, he supposed, and later, his father had done the family name no service, either. If things got worse, he’d heed the voices in his head telling him to slide deeper into the woods and never come out again. But Zeke wasn’t quite ready to give up. Not yet.
She smelled of blood and death. He’d fight hard to get past that, if he went to work here. Beneath the disturbing scents, she had others: honey, almonds, and warm cotton. Maybe it was just because he hadn’t been with a woman in over a year, but disturbing urges coiled up inside him. He wanted to pull her hair out of the clip, knot his hands in her hair, and growl as he—
No more. You’re not an animal.
“Sorry, Ms. Harper.”
“Neva,” she corrected gently.
Zeke hadn’t known people called her that. But then why would he? They didn’t travel in the same circles; he felt like he’d been granted an undeserved intimacy. It was vaguely shaming that he wanted her to remember his name—and that they’d met before—but she never would.
“Won’t keep you,” he muttered. “Thanks.”
Before she could stop him again, he wheeled and headed
for his truck. He climbed inside, and by the overhead light, he looked at the job application. He had a stack of them on the seat beside him. And none of them made sense. The letters kept changing shape on him, translating into symbols that made no sense. He’d once understood what they meant. At least, he was pretty sure he had.
Now he could only figure signs out based on past experience. He knew what an exit sign looked like, and he’d seen enough “Help Wanted” signs to recognize one in red and white because it was two words and the correct number of letters; he just couldn’t make them out separately as words. And it helped a lot that public bathrooms had pictures on them. His hands trembled as he put the form atop the others. There was no way he could fill these out without help and it enraged him.
“What the hell did y’all do to me?” he asked aloud.
With a little snarl, Zeke started the truck, and then he realized he’d waited until Neva made it to her car. In town, with lights all around, he could see it was an old Honda Civic—same one that’d stalled on his road, so she must’ve gotten it fixed; it was a little surprising Geneva Harper didn’t drive a more expensive car. Only after she drove away did he feel free to do the same. Weird, but his inner hound relaxed its guard once he knew she was safe.
To fill out these applications, he needed help. And there was only one person he could turn to.
Half an hour later, he sat in his aunt’s kitchen, listening with half an ear to her complaints. His excuses didn’t matter—nobody would believe the real story anyway. More importantly, with his mother’s history, he couldn’t trust anyone with the true story. Not even Auntie Sid, much as it grieved him.
“I was worried,” she concluded with a scowl. “I can’t believe you just run off like that. What would your daddy say?”
Nothing, Zeke thought. Being dead and all. But nobody mouthed off to her. Not if they knew what was good for them. Sid was short for Sidonie; it was a French name, as she never tired of reminding people, because their people had moved to Alabama from New Orleans. She was a small woman, barely came up to his chin, and her hair had more silver in it than it used to. He hoped the crow’s feet around her eyes weren’t because of him. It was lucky she didn’t look anything like his father, or he might have a hard time looking at her. People said he favored her around the eyes.