“I told you I would load him,” Karl said in his slight German accent.
She lifted her chin in defiance. “He’s my horse.”
“Well, you almost killed your horse. And yourself along with him!”
The tension in his rising voice was spooking the horse. Karl shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Scheisse.” When he spoke again, his voice was low but it vibrated with emotion. Spearing her with his gaze, he said, “You know he’s afraid of the trailer. What were you thinking? You can’t just expect him to walk straight in. You have to guide him to it. Very slowly. Give him the chance to see that it’s not some dark, terrible cave but a place he can tolerate. Help him past his fear. Walk him past the trailer, over and over, each time closer and closer.”
“I know that, but we don’t have all day,” she exclaimed. “We’re evacuating now. My mother wants to leave.”
Karl’s face set. “It’s going to take as long as it’s going to take.”
Elise didn’t have time to reply. Nor did she have to. A pale-yellow, vintage Mercedes drew close and slowed to a stop near them, crunching gravel. The driver’s-side window slid down, and Elise could see her mother’s face in the shadows.
By classic standards, Gerta was a striking woman. Her patrician features were elegant and fine, like the horses she bred. Her skin was unblemished and so pale that her blue eyes appeared as chips of ice. Her blond hair was perpetually smoothed back into a chignon, as slick and polished as wood. No hair would deign to slip out of its tight hold. But her perfection was broken by the downward curve of her nose, like the curved beak of a hawk. It was the Voelker nose, her father’s nose, one she was proud to have inherited. She knew the power the strong profile lent when she lifted her nose in disdain.
Elise knew immediately that she had seen the entire humiliating scene.
“Get in the car,” she ordered Elise in her clipped, German-accented voice.
Elise tightened her lips and, ducking her head, walked around the car to slide into the backseat. The door shut with a muffled sound.
In the front, she saw Gerta’s gaze flicker to Karl. Her lips pursed in annoyance. “You,” she ordered the trainer, speaking in German. “Get that beast into the trailer. I’ll meet you at Freehold Farm. Understood?”
Karl nodded and drawled in English, “Yes, ma’am.”
Gerta stared at the young man as the dark window slid back up. She slowly pulled away from the barn; on hitting the road, gravel spun as the engine purred and the great Mercedes sped off toward the north.
* * *
August 20, 4:00 p.m.
Tryon, North Carolina
Cara sat in a rocker on the expansive deck of David Wyatt’s mountain home. A soft, sweet-smelling breeze caressed her cheek and ruffled Hope’s soft hair, the child a comforting weight in her lap. The massive log house stood in the middle of a clearing of soft green grass, a breathtaking view of the Blue Ridge Mountain range just in the distance. The mountains lived up to their name as a deep, purpling dusk settled over the valley, their looming shadows cast in blue light.
The vista was so different from the ocean view Cara usually enjoyed from her deck on Isle of Palms in South Carolina. They both had their own unique charm, though, she decided, on the island the air tasted of salt. Here, the heady scent of freshly mowed grass filled every corner of the house, and tonight there was an added note of rain in the air, sweet and moist. She leaned her head back against the chair, sighing in pleasure.
She pushed on her foot, bringing the rocker into a lazy swing. The trip had been a wonderful time of reconnection. She and David had been dating for only a year, yet they were so compatible, so easy together that she felt she’d always known him. Cara was also very fond of David’s daughter, Heather, her husband, Bo, and their son, Rory. She’d known Heather before she got acquainted with David, and the woman was both friend and daughter to her. Little Rory was nearly the same age as Cara’s two-year-old daughter, Hope. They played so well together. It was a joy to hear their laughter over the silliest games. This time away in the mountains had been filled with conversation, good meals, great wine, and laughter. The only shadow on the vacation was the worry of a storm building in the Caribbean.
She heard the house door open behind her, followed by a heavy footfall. A moment later she felt a firm yet gentle hand on her shoulder. Cara looked away from the mesmerizing view to smile at David.
His face was tanned from a summer spent sailing off Dewees Island, his home in South Carolina. There was a new tension in his face, however, a worry flashing in his eyes that had her sitting straighter in her chair.
“Cara,” David said, and took the chair beside her. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.” His voice sounded strangely calm, which usually meant that what he had to say was serious.
“All right,” she said, trying to sound casual. “What’s up?”
“I just heard the latest weather report.”
Cara swallowed the lump in her throat. They’d been monitoring the weather ever since they’d heard a storm was heading toward the southeastern coast. If she’d been in her home on Isle of Palms, a vulnerable barrier island, she would have been glued to the weather reports. Islanders didn’t take hurricanes lightly. The TV would be blaring 24/7 once a hurricane formed somewhere in the Atlantic. They were like sprinters at the starting line, poised to spring into action.
In the mountains, however, one felt detached from coastal storms. They seemed so far away. When she lived in Chicago, Cara had been only vaguely aware of the hurricane reports. But since she’d returned to the coast of South Carolina sixteen years earlier and a hurricane had hit during that first summer home, she’d learned to pay attention. Here she’d once again grown complacent. Now David’s comment slammed the reality into the forefront of her mind. Her heart started beating rapidly.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s the hurricane. It’s getting tightly organized.”
Though he kept his voice calm, Cara involuntarily wrapped her arms tighter around Hope.
David, always perceptive of her emotions, added in an encouraging tone, “It’s still far out there, of course. It’s hitting Puerto Rico now. It could lose strength when it goes over the island.”
She heard the door open again and, looking over her shoulder, saw Heather and Bo step out to join them on the porch. Their tense faces were grim.
“You heard?” Heather asked Cara, jiggling Rory in her arms.
Cara nodded. “Just. God, I hate hurricane season. Have they pinpointed where it’s headed?”
Bo leaned against the railing, tucking his fingertips into his jeans. “I just checked Weather Underground. The cone has it heading straight up the southeastern coast.” He paused. “Charleston’s on its path.”
“Damn,” Cara said on an exhale. She had endured too many Category One storms on the island, as high a category as anyone with any survival instinct would endure. Now, at the first alert, she leaped up and began making preparations and laying in supplies. Even high on a mountaintop, her fight-or-flight instinct was kicking in. She wasn’t on the island and didn’t need to flee. Yet with so much at stake on the island, she knew she couldn’t stay put. Cara would put up the good fight.