As the sinister implication dawns on him, Jason reacts, wide-eyed. He swings the bottle, its jagged edges hissing through the air in an arc, catching Cynthia’s thigh. Slicing through the rain-soaked material, it lacerates the tender flesh beneath.
Cynthia sucks in air as burning pain sears her leg. Falling against the boulder, she presses the wet fabric of her dress against the wound to stop the bleeding.
Wheeling around, Jason squats with both arms out. “Come on you son of a bitch, try this on for size.” He taunts Hemingway, thrusting the broken bottle at the imposing dog.
Hemingway, with well-muscled dexterity, side-steps the weapon, all the while maintaining eye contact as he circles his prey.
Jason springs toward Hemingway’s withers. The serrated glass meets shoulder bone with a resounding shudder as it penetrates hair and skin.
Cynthia falls to a sitting position on the ground where her hands search desperately for a rock. Finding one she can palm, she eases herself back to a weak-kneed, standing position. In her entire life, she’s never seen anything like this. She wishes it was a nightmare but it’s grimly real. She doesn’t know if her uncontrolled shaking is from fear or the frigid cold wafting off her rain-soaked clothing.
What she does know—this is a fight to the death.
Jason reaches a hand up to wipe pouring rain from his eyes. In one swift, powerful lunge, Hemingway’s head catches him in the solar plexus, knocking him off balance. Pinning his opponent to the ground, he fastens his teeth—designed to tear, shred, and grind—on Jason’s right forearm.
“Release the bottle,” Cynthia commands.
Jason’s gray eyes ice over. “Not on your life,” he spits through gritted teeth.
Cynthia looks at Hemingway and nods.
Clenching his powerful jaws, he pierces Jason’s flesh with unrelenting strength until Jason lets go of the broken bottle.
Laying on his back, Hemingway still over him, Jason tries to gain purchase with the soles of his shoes on the rain-soaked, slippery bluff.
Darting a glance at Cynthia, Jason lifts his head while continuing to deliver heavy blows to Hemingway’s neck, chest, and belly—anything in reach. “You’ll pay for this,” he growls at her through anger and excruciating pain.
It’s then he realizes with horror that his head, no longer supported by the ground, is entirely over the precipice. With his good arm, Jason gouges at Hemingway’s eyes. Redoubling his efforts, Jason tries to sit up, succeeding only in sliding yet further past the muddy edge.
Hemingway’s long muscular legs step away from Jason and toward Cynthia. With a hard, wiry outer coat he seems impervious to the downpour. Standing guard in front of her, his broad chest thrust forward, he’s the epitome of courage and protection.
Jason manages to get to his knees, then maneuvers to unsure feet just as a large gust of wind comes tearing from the north. He loses his footing on the slippery edge. Sheer terror consumes his face as he plunges over the cliff.
Spoken only minutes before, Cynthia remembers Jason’s threatening words. “Anything, a gust of wind, could cause you to keel over the edge and plunge to your death.”
CHAPTER 16
“Always write as if you are talking to someone. It works. Don’t put on any fancy phrases or accents or things you wouldn’t say in real life.”
—MAEVE BINCHY
Cynthia crumples to her knees as a searing pain shoots through her thigh like a red-hot bolt. At Hemingway’s gentle nuzzle, she turns and wraps her arms around his neck, sobbing in relief.
He answers with a soft whimper as her hands touch his injured shoulder and pummeled body.
“Thank you for saving my life,” she whispers into his fur. As she pulls away with an iron-like taste on her lips, she realizes that his wiry coat is soaked with a mixture of rain and blood. “We’ve got to get you home.”
Cynthia struggles to her feet. After grasping Hemingway’s collar—as much for support as guidance—they start to make their way across the rock-strewn bluff. With every footfall, a flash of white sparks burst into Cynthia’s vision, a familiar precursor to her recurring cluster headaches, but somehow this seems worse. Please God, not now, she thinks, as panic flirts at the edge of her mind.
She remembers what her doctor said about the correlation between stress, dehydration, and these debilitating headaches. She tips her head back, opens her mouth, and lets the rain sluice over her face, willing the pain away. I’m in the middle of a rainstorm, yet I need to hydrate. Under different circumstances, she’d find it humorous.
With her head tilted back, she drinks in the night sky. Like a vast black sea, its depth is unfathomable.
Hemingway looks at Cynthia—a question in his eyes—when she stops walking. There’s nothing he can do as darkness pulls its velvet corners tightly around the edges of her consciousness and she collapses to the ground.
With his long, wiry-haired muzzle, Hemingway nudges his fallen companion. Puzzled by the lack of movement, he paws the ground next to Cynthia, tips his head back, and lets out a long, doleful cry. A twin to the howling surf of the storm-savaged bay.
Still no movement.
Furrowing his brows, he licks her face, then sits quietly and watches for any sign of motion. Even in the raging wind, his nose catches the metallic scent of human blood. Moving closer he finds the open wound on her thigh.
Infinitely devoted to the people he likes, Hemingway runs for help, blood oozing from the serrated gash in his shoulder, his broken ribs screaming in pain.
As his left hand clings to a small horizontal sill, Jason knows he’s losing his grip on one of the slight projections on the side of the cliff. His right arm dangles at his side. He uses the next flash of lightning to get his bearings. As he looks down, he
