Waiting Out the Storm. Ruth Herne Logan

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СКАЧАТЬ country life, the rigors of treating animals in all kinds of conditions. He felt equally at home in office or barn.

      But not sheep barns.

      Employing gentle twists and flicks, he withdrew the last barbs from the dog’s muzzle, then stepped away to gather ointment and antibiotics. After glancing at his watch, he wrote instructions on a small prescription pad.

      “You know how to administer pills to a dog?”

      “Yes.”

      He handed Sarah the vial and the salve. “Apply the salve twice a day. The pills are an antibiotic to prevent infection. Some of those quills went deep. You’ve got enough for ten days. If you see signs of infection or need a follow-up, give Hank a call.”

      They both understood the meaning of his words. Nodding, she sank her hand into the dog’s ruff. “Come on, fella. Let’s go.”

      “He’ll be woozy. Might want to wait a few minutes, let him shake off the effects of the anesthetic.” Regardless of the human awkwardness, the dog should have a few minutes of quiet, rejoin-the-world time. Walking the thick-set dog through the door, Sarah nodded, her chin tucked.

      “We’ll wait outside so you can close up.” The weight of the dog listed her step. At the second entry she turned. “You stayed late,” she said, her deep tone a blend of smooth gold and rough, gravel roads. A different sound, unique to her. A voice that suited her caramel skin, the long, thick braid, the high cheekbones that hinted at her Native American ancestry. She looked anywhere but at him. “Thank you.”

      He had no pleasantries to exchange with her. Nothing that wouldn’t sound trite and manufactured. He huffed a breath as he shut and locked the door.

      Minutes later he cruised out of the lot. Slowing his SUV to negotiate the turn, he noted the woman and dog in the cold front yard of the veterinary clinic.

      Straight and still, she perched on the verdigris-armed bench outside the main entrance. The dog, equally quiet, sat upright, his chin angled with pride, mimicking her stance.

      Maremmas. Great guard dogs, good bonders when housed with a flock at an early age. Smart. Independent. Faithful, not easily cowed. Willing to go their own way, awaiting no man’s guidance.

      As he observed the dignified profiles of dog and woman, Craig couldn’t help but see how well they suited one another.

      Chapter Two

      Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and forgettest our affliction and our oppression? Sarah finished the words of the forty-fourth Psalm mentally, kneading Gino’s ruff as he sloughed off his grogginess.

      The poignant words touched her with their talk of sheep and oppression. Enemies. The poem was an aged song of lament and pathos. It helped smooth the dent to her self-worth, gouged deeper by Craig Macklin’s disdain. How she wished…

      Nope. She wouldn’t go there. Refused to go there. Craig Macklin was entitled to his opinion, no matter how unreasonable it might be. Craig’s reticence toward sheep was no secret among the local herders. The vets worked things out between them, leaving Hank the man to consult for sheep and goat problems.

      By default, being a shepherd and a Slocum gave the younger veterinarian a two-fold reason to avoid Sarah, a task he did well. Knowing his grandmother’s circumstance, Sarah understood why, but wished she didn’t bear responsibility for her half brother’s actions.

      But she’d get nowhere feeling sorry for herself. No way, no how. She led Gino to the scarred pickup. The old Ford wasn’t snazzy like Craig’s polished 4X4, but it had a certain dignity in its aged finish, a little rough around the edges. Like me, she noted, shifting to allow Gino access.

      The thought made her smile.

      The memory of Craig’s face erased it. The tall, handsome, sandy-haired vet usually steered clear of Sarah. At community functions he looked around her, avoiding eye contact. His animosity toward Slocums was unspoken but obvious.

      She had never sought his help in a farm crisis. Today was an aberration.

      Craig Macklin knew his stuff, though. In her years of farming, she’d never heard a complaint against him, and North Country farmers were not easily appeased. His thick, sturdy hands had been firm but gentle as he treated Gino.

      She stopped by the local grocery before heading to her sister-in-law’s home in Potsdam. Leaving Gino sleeping in the cab, she approached the front door.

      No one answered her knock. She leaned on the bell with more force than should be necessary, if it were working. Obviously not.

      Unlocked, the door swung inward with ease. She stepped in, her nose telling her the whole place could use a thorough cleaning. Her eyes took time to adjust to the darkness Rita called home.

      “Rita? It’s Sarah. I’ve brought things.”

      No answer.

      Sarah shifted the sacks and pushed through the antique swinging door between the rooms, its warm russet grain a comfort.

      The kitchen was empty of people, but littered with debris.

      Sarah grimaced, shifted piles of mail and old newspapers, then set the groceries on the table before she headed upstairs, calling Rita’s name. A glance out the landing window showed Gino still asleep on the bench seat of the F-250. The driver’s-side window was cracked open, but she didn’t dare leave him long untended. A good dog, but young. He could get into mischief without direction.

      Calling Rita’s name once more, Sarah crossed the upstairs hall and twisted the knob on her sister-in-law’s room. “Reet? You sleeping?”

      A slight movement revealed her sister-in-law’s presence on the bed. Sarah stepped in, reached for the light, then rethought her choices. “I brought a few things. Where are the kids?”

      “Movies. Liv took them.”

      “Nice. What did they go to see?”

      Rita shifted, then rolled, a pillow clutched to her chest. “Some animated thing.”

      Sarah blinked. There was no animated movie playing in town. Did Liv take the car? Drive to Canton? She was two years shy of her license but she’d pulled some interesting deals recently. Sarah scanned the driveway through the nearby window. “Is the car in the garage?”

      Rita’s old-fashioned garage was behind the home, not visible from this angle.

      “In the drive.”

      Sarah bit back words of recrimination. Obviously Liv had taken off with the car and the kids, with Rita clueless as to their whereabouts. Dear Lord, she prayed, trying to ignore the dank smell of despair. The room reeked of hopelessness. Loss of faith. A keen smell, the mix of body salts, sweat and sour breath.

      “Come downstairs, Reet. I’ll make us a quick supper.” Then I’ll tackle my niece, she promised silently, her anger rising. Couldn’t Liv see her mother’s desperation, the depression that seized her?

      Of course she could. In her own adolescent way, Liv was trying to fill the shoes her parents vacated. The same thing that pushed Sarah to buy a farm on Waterman СКАЧАТЬ