Mick’s fingers weave into Emma’s wet hair, savoring its dark luxuriance.
Looking up, she finds herself drawn into his smoldering gaze.
“Then I’m going to shoot from the hip. You’re beautiful and I’m going to kiss you.” Leaning forward to deliver on his promise, the peal of his cell phone wrenches them both from his intent. “Who on earth would be calling at this time of night?” He fishes the phone from his pocket, brows furrowed in puzzlement, as caller ID indicates that it’s Niall. He rarely calls, and only if it’s important. “McPherson,” he answers.
Emma hears an indiscernible voice on the other end and watches as Mick’s eyes, moments earlier smoky with intent, register alarm. Then the color drains from his face, baring dread. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, then hangs up. “Hemingway’s hurt. Niall says it’s bad. I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, my God, run. I’ll follow, just go,” Emma urges.
Mick puts on his shoes and bolts out the door while Emma follows as quickly as she can. She’s grateful for her upper-body strength. Like steel coupling rods on an express train of days gone by, her well-toned arms pump rapidly. The wheels of her chair make a hissing sound as rubber speeds over the smooth, wet pathway where subtle walk lights vie with lightning to show the way through the unrelenting rain.
As Mick rounds the corner at a dead run, hip aching, his frantic mind tries to reconcile the scene presenting itself in what seems to him, slow motion. The doorway of the well-lit mudroom looks like a gaping hole in a jack-o-lantern’s smile, with Hemingway’s body silhouetted against the humorless grin.
When Mick squats down, he asks Hemingway, “What is it boy?” His voice thick with concern.
The burly dog turns and gently wags his tail, a poor imitation of his usual enthusiastic greeting.
Mick draws closer to his friend.
The shaft of light from the doorway reveals a blood-sodden coat and an eye that’s swollen almost shut.
First nuzzling Mick’s hand, then licking it anxiously, Hemingway takes Mick’s wrist in his powerful jaws and gently tugs.
“Do you want to show me something?” Mick asks his companion of several years.
Hemingway gets to his feet.
“Niall, throw me a flashlight. Libby, call the police and the vet. Get them both out here. Now!” he bellows.
“Where are you going?” They ask in unison.
“I’m following Hemingway,” he says, catching the flashlight. “I’ve got my cell.”
Hemingway let go of Mick’s wrist and walks away, looking back only once to make sure Mick’s following.
“I’m coming boy. I’m coming.”
When Emma rounds the corner, she sees Libby’s and Niall’s shattered expressions watching an empty space where the dark had just swallowed both man and dog.
“What happened? Is Hemingway okay?” Emma asks between gulps of air, trying to catch her breath.
“Come inside and we’ll talk in the kitchen once we’ve called the police and the vet.”
“The police?” Emma asks, hand-to-heart, wide-eyed in alarm.
“Yes, Mick told us to call them both before he followed Hemingway into the woods.”
Hemingway pants ahead. He turns periodically, his soulful eyes urging Mick to catch up. When they reach the clearing at the end of the forest, he bolts across the expanse, stopping when he arrives at a dark mound on the ground. He turns back to Mick and barks urgently.
Mick ignores the mud sucking at the bottom of his shoes and runs. As he draws closer, he sees Hemingway hovering over a person. A woman in a dress.
Reaching them, he recognizes Cynthia. “Oh, my God!” Dropping to his knees, he checks her pulse. “She’s alive,” he says with relief as much to himself as the big dog. He gets out his cell and calls the main house. “Niall, Hemingway led me to Cynthia. She’s alive, but unconscious. She’s covered in mud from head to toe.”
“What happened, Mick?”
“In this merciless wind and rain, it’s hard to tell, but she’s bleeding.” With great care, he pulls the fabric of Cynthia’s dress away, and continues. “She has a deep gash on her thigh. I don’t think whatever caused it severed an artery, or she would have bled out by now. But still, she’s bleeding a lot. It’ll be impossible for an ambulance to make it out here, and they can’t airlift her in this storm. Bring the ATV to the bluff by the cliffs and hurry!”
Mick’s medical emergency training from his years on the police force kick into high gear. He rips off his shirt and staunches the flow with a shirt sleeve. After containing the wound, he assesses the rest of Cynthia’s body to see if she has any other visible trauma. “Cynthia, if you can hear me, it’s Mick. Help is on the way.”
The rain pelts his flesh, the wind whips his hair, but he’s focused and impervious.
Mindful of inflicting further harm, Mick positions Cynthia so that her wounded thigh is up. He tilts her head back to keep her airway open, knowing that an unconscious person can’t cough or clear their throat. In doing so, her clenched hand falls open, exposing a smooth rock. What on earth? Was she going to use this as a weapon?
Ignoring his own, he sees goosebumps on her flesh. She needs to be kept warm. I wish I’d grabbed my jacket.
As if reading Mick’s mind, Hemingway lays on his side with his back next to Cynthia’s, letting out a tired sigh.
“Hemingway, you probably saved Cynthia’s life. You’re a hero, big fella.” The usual whip-like force of his long tail is replaced by a gentle thumping on the ground.
As he looks at the surrounding area, Mick’s eyes catch a flash of splintered glass, registering a broken bottle several feet away. Careful not to tamper with the scene or touch anything that might be evidence, he makes mental notes and remains where he is.
Head cocked, ears alert, Mick takes Hemingway’s cue and follows his suddenly alert gaze. In the distance, two headlights dance in unison over the
