“What do you think? Will it get here tomorrow night?” asked Hannah. Her voice rang with worry but she was trying hard to remain upbeat.
“Most likely. Tropical-force winds at most,” Charles answered. “Nothing like this,” he said, gesturing to the television report. “It probably won’t be as strong as what we’ve got right now. Not to worry. It’ll be nothing.”
The wind gusted, whistling at the windows and rattling the branches of the shrubs outside. Outdoors something fell over, clattering loudly. With a sudden burst, a deafening rain pounded on the roof. Everyone turned to watch rain fall in sheets outside the windows.
“That doesn’t sound like nothing.” Elise brought her wineglass to her lips.
Charles tried to make light of it. “It’s the rain bands passing through. It comes and goes. See?” He pointed upward. “The rain’s already slowing.” He smiled like the Cheshire Cat. “For now.”
“Gerta shouldn’t be alone in all this at the barn,” Angel said, a frown creasing his face.
“She’s safe down there. It’s dry and warm. And built like a tank,” said Charles.
“But she can’t get back in all this rain. With her leg, you know?” Angel argued. “She walked. Her car is still up here.”
“She walked?” Grace’s face puckered in worry.
Elise’s face clouded. “What if she gets stuck down there?”
“She can go into my loft,” said Karl. “It’s very comfortable. I’ll text her and tell her that.” He pulled out his phone, paused, and then looked up. “There’s no service.”
Grace groaned and put her hand to her cheek. “Not again. I swear, the Internet goes out if a mouse farts up here.”
“Let’s be fair,” Charles said, “it’s pretty bad out there. We should all stay put until this blows over.”
“I’m going to pick her up,” Angel said decisively. He looked to Hannah. “Where are the keys?”
She looked at him questioningly but didn’t argue. “In my purse.”
“I’ll be right back,” Angel said as he trotted out.
* * *
Angel slipped into one of Charles’s rain jackets that hung by the door. He found Hannah’s keys and headed out. No sooner did he leave the house than the rain came pouring down again. Ducking his head, he ran for the Audi. He was drenched by the time he got into the driver’s seat. The rain pounded the small car like a drum. Even with the windshield wipers going full tilt, he had to crawl along the driveway at a snail’s pace. He leaned far forward over the steering wheel, squinting and reaching up to wipe the condensation on the windshield with his palm. He couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of him. He cursed the crazy weather.
Somewhere between the house and the car, the rain slowed again. He blew out a sigh of relief. He could see the road, even though there was thick fog. Still creeping along, Angel turned at the fork onto the driveway that led to the barn. The fog swirled and the rain was beginning to pick up again. As he rounded the bend to the parking area, out of nowhere a woman leading a horse appeared in the headlights. He stomped on the brakes, coming to an abrupt halt that jolted him forward.
“Madre de Dios!” he shouted, and slammed his palm on the steering wheel. His heart thumping, he leaned forward and peered through the clicking windshield wipers in fear he might have hit her. He was stunned to see that the woman was Gerta Klug, looking like a drowned rat. And the horse was Butterhead.
Swearing in Spanish, he turned off the engine and leaped from the car. He had to squint to see her. Gerta was soaked to the skin.
“What, are you crazy?” she shouted at him. “You almost hit us!”
Angel’s gaze was hungrily studying Butterhead. She looked sickly, with her head lowered and her wet mane flattened against her body. Reaching out, he took the lead from Gerta.
“What are you doing?” His tone was accusatory.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m walking your horse.”
His eyes widened. “Is it colic?”
“Yes,” Gerta said, “I believe it is. I tried to call the vet but there is no service.”
Angel understood all now. In a rush he recalled how Butterhead had been acting off this morning, but he’d attributed it to all the stress of travel. He’d let her relax and didn’t put her through her morning exercises. She hadn’t looked bad when he’d brought her back to her stall from the pasture—but he hadn’t taken the time with her that he usually did. Guilt washed over him as he realized he’d not paid attention and missed the signs.
His gaze returned to Gerta. She hadn’t missed them. She’d caught the symptoms. And she’d been out walking Butterhead, in this horrible storm. With her bad leg. She might have saved Butterhead’s life.
When he was this upset, his mind worked only in Spanish. He began talking rapidly to Butterhead in soothing tones as he led her back to the barn. Gerta followed more slowly. Her limp was far more noticeable. His gaze swept over Butterhead, noticing her tired gait, as well, and the drooping of her head. His heart beat fast with worry. If anything happened to her, he thought, he couldn’t bear it. His fear was a testament to his love for the horse.
“Jesu Christo, how long have you been walking in this rain?”
Gerta’s voice was haughty. “Not more than half an hour. To good results. She had a bowel movement,” she announced triumphantly.
He stopped and turned. “Ella caca?” This was an important sign that the worst was over.
“Twice!”
“That is such good news,” he exclaimed. “Fantastic.” He turned and led Butterhead into the barn. Once inside he saw the fresh hay and water. Gerta had done her job well. He walked the tired mare into her stall, then hurried to the tack room to fetch a stack of towels. He began toweling off his horse, rubbing hard to get her circulation going. When he was done, he put his ear to her gut and was rewarded by the strong sound of vigorous gastric activity.
When he felt sure Butterhead was well and resting comfortably, he came out of the stall and closed the door. He turned to see Gerta standing in the hall, pale and unmoving, as though frozen. Angel went still and looked at her. Really looked at her.
Her white blouse clung to her breasts, revealing soft, creamy mounds and the slender straps of her bra. Her blond hair had slipped from its hold and drooped, soaking, to her shoulders. And her face. Water dripped down her cheeks along with mascara. As his gaze traveled down her body, her soaked jeans revealed where the socket of her prosthesis came to the groin, just below her hip. She was shivering and stared back at him with wide, voluminous eyes.
He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.
His voice softened. “Now it’s your turn.” Angel went to grab two of the towels and carried them to her. He dropped one to the floor and reached out to wrap her in the other.
Gerta stepped back, eyes hard. “Don’t touch me.”
“Shh,” he said, and gently placed the towel on her head. “You need help too.” He carefully rubbed her hair dry, the towel covering her head. When he moved it from her face, her blue eyes stared back, bulging with restrained fury, her nostrils flaring. He smiled and dabbed delicately at her face, wiping away the mascara. She continued to glower as he continued to smile, amused by her spirit.