A Little Crushed (12 page)

* * * *

“So?”

Jim sat on the edge of the stage, deep in thought. “I’ve given her till tomorrow to reconsider. Silly girl.”

“Silly?” Max shook his head. “I’d say troubled. Poor kid, and I can’t believe I said that. She’s caused me nothing but headaches since I got here. Seriously, Jim, I know you want her in this production, but I have enough experience of Miss Harding to know she will not back down.”

“Nonsense. I will not be dictated to by a pupil—troubled or not. Strange, though. I’ve never known her to be quite so disrespectful.”

“I think it’s safe to say I bring out the worst in her.”

“So it would seem. Anyway, enough of
prima donnas
. Fancy a beer?” He looked around the hall, as if expecting spies to crawl out of the woodwork.

“Oh no.” Max stepped away, laughing. “I refuse to have your wife’s wrath rain down upon my head. I get enough of that from Fiona.”

Jim grunted his accord. “A woman’s wrath is a frightening thing.”

Rebecca cursed herself for her stupidity. Not only was walking alone in the rain so clichéd. It was also damn wet. Arms wrapped around her waist, she tried to generate warmth, but her red fleece provided little protection. Of course, the easy solution would be to turn for home, but when did Rebecca Harding ever choose easy? Not only had she disappointed Mr. Hurst, but she’d turned down the starring role, something she’d dreamed about for, well, since ever. One more thing to hate Mr. Jackson for.

Replaying the scene in her troubled mind, she conjured up a vision of him. For a moment, she thought she’d detected a hint of softness in his expression, but then it was gone. She kicked out at a soda can left on the river-side path. She ought to turn for home. A ton of history homework awaited her, but it was hard to concentrate on pre-First World War Europe. Emotionally she was in turmoil: discontented with her world, confused, all she wanted was to be left alone. A fat tear of self-pity rolled down her cheek, and she wiped at it, furious with herself. But others quickly followed it. Why did he make her feel this way? She was soaked to the skin. Her tummy rumbled. It was Monday; apple pie day. Time to get over herself and quit the Greta Garbo act. She was just about to break into a run and head home, when a faint whine stopped her in her tracks.

For a moment, she thought she’d imagined it. Against the noise of the fast running river and the rain, it was hard to hear anything clearly. Straining hard, she listened and then heard it again. Her heart stopped. Rocking and bobbing precariously in the churning waters, was an old wicker basket from which the whining came, growing stronger and more frantic. Heart pounding, Rebecca kicked her feet free from her heavy boots and without a moment’s hesitation, jumped in the river.

She gasped in shock as the icy-cold penetrated her bones, numbing her body. Rebecca was a strong swimmer, but the rain-fed raging current proved entirely different to the lazy meandering waters of high summer. She went under several times, coughing and spluttering, as she swallowed mouthfuls of brown water, but she kept on. Treading water, she pulled her arms free of her water-logged fleece and hurled it on to the bank. Her lungs ready to explode, she managed to reach the basket and grab hold of it. With a renewed burst of energy, she kicked for the bank.

The effort nearly caused her to pass out, but through sheer willpower, she reached the muddy edge and tried to haul herself and the basket up onto the side. Mud slipped away beneath her fingers, and twice she slithered back into the water.

Sobbing with relief, cold, and exhaustion, she finally made it. Her arms and legs ached, but ignoring her own discomfort, she opened the basket. A howl of anguish burst from her already tortured lungs. A little brown and white terrier stared up, shivering and sodden, eyes white with pain and fear. Lying next to her were four tiny puppies, no more than two or three days old, their eyes still closed.

The lid crumbled in her hand, sodden and useless. Frantically searching around for some sort of shelter from the elements, tears of helplessness streamed down her face. “Hang on, girl,” she coaxed the dog as she pulled off her jumper, trying to fashion a makeshift cover over the basket. It was a waste of time. It was raining too hard, and she was left colder than ever, shivering in nothing more than a T-shirt. The little dog did not move, staring up at her with frightened eyes. Rebecca stroked the brown head and felt it tremble, and then she moved her hand to the puppies. They were cold and lifeless. “Oh please, don’t be dead.”

Wiping the rain and tears from her mud-spluttered face, she reached in her pocket for her mobile, but luck was not with her. It must have fallen out in the river. Remembering the public phone booth on the roadside, she jumped to her feet.

She stumbled along the path to the main road, tripping over her feet in her haste to reach the phone, and still the rain poured.

God was definitely against her. She stared in disbelief at the cut phone cord. “Stupid kid bastards...” She banged the receiver down again and again, her nerves approaching breaking point. Hands buried in her hands, she wept, tears mingling with the steady rain. She’d never felt so alone and helpless in her life.

She looked up as Mr. Jackson’s BMW screeched to a halt at the kerb side, and he jumped out.

Now she really was dreaming. Yes, that was it. It had to be.

“Rebecca? Christ, girl, what the hell are you doing? Are you insane?”

Breath coming in painful gasps, she tried to calm herself and focus on the man who held her arm in a firm grip. “The phone…” Her teeth chattered from shock and the icy cold. “It’s broken. They cut the cord… I lost my mobile in the river… They’re going to die, and I’ll never forgive myself. And don’t shout at me. Don’t you dare shout at me.”

“Rebecca, calm down! I want to help you, but you’re not making any sense.”

Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she grabbed him by his sleeve and led him off the path and back to the spot where she had left the wretched little dog and her puppies.

* * * *

Max dropped to his knees, oblivious to the mud and water seeping into his expensively tailored suit.

“You poor little thing.” Gently, he stroked the brown head. He felt sick. He abhorred any form of cruelty to animals. “Where did you find them?”

“In the river. I couldn’t just leave them, so I jumped in, and…oh God…please let them be all right.”

Mouth open, he glanced behind at the murky waters. His stomach clenched at the thought of the tragedy that had so nearly occurred, but it was not the time for pointing out the folly of her actions. “Come on, we need to get you to the hospital, and then take these poor little mites to a vet.”

“No.” Rebecca shook her head. “No hospitals. There isn’t time. Please. I’m okay. The dog first.”

“Rebecca—”

“If you don’t take them, I’ll walk there.”

Even in a crisis, she challenged him. Her stricken look melted his heart. He recognised so much of himself in her. “Okay. We’ll do it your way but not in this. The basket has had it.” He took off his jacket, lifted out the mother and pups and wrapped them in it. It crossed his mind that Kate would kill him. She’d bought him that suit.

Holding the precious package against his white shirt, he signalled Rebecca to follow. “We’d better hurry, and fetch your bloody shoes. God your feet must be numb from cold. You’ll end up with foot rot.”

Struggling for breath, her whole body trembling, she pulled on her boots. “I don’t care.”

Max doubted she cared at all.

She stumbled and tripped at his side, half-running half-walking to keep up. When they reached the car, he caught her dubious stare.

“It will clean,” Max said, hoping it would; he loved his car. “Get in.”

She slid into the passenger seat, and Max carefully placed the bundle on her lap. She cradled it to her, attempting to generate some warmth. He knew it was a futile exercise. He’d spent enough time around animals on his mother’s farm to know the dog’s condition was not good.

“You’ll have to direct me.” Max slipped behind the wheel, and turning the ignition on, he leaned across to direct the fan of hot air onto her.

They drove off, Rebecca stroking the dog through the folds of the jacket, talking to her, willing her not to give up the fight.

Max turned into the quiet lane behind High Street and ignoring the No Parking sign, pulled to a halt right in front of the veterinary surgery.

Peering out of the window at the line of parked cars, Rebecca chewed on her lip. “It will be packed, and Miss Pringle, the receptionist, is a dragon. She doesn’t allow queue jumping.”

“Don’t you worry about her. Hey…” Without thinking, he pushed a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I’m a colonial peasant, remember.”

Sure enough, Miss Pringle crumbled under his well-practised menacing stare. She hustled them into a consulting room, much to the consternation of a blue-rinsed old bat.

“But my poor Froufrou has been waiting for hours.” She regarded Max from over the top of half-rimmed glasses whilst clinging to a yapping Yorkie festooned with pink ribbons.

Max steered her out of the room. “I suggest you go and stick Froufrou in the microwave.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Rebecca stifled a giggle.

Mr. Thurley looked up, surprised and probably relieved, Max guessed, to see them in place of the bad tempered Yorkie.

Quickly filling him in, Rebecca placed her bundle on the examination table.

His expert eye at once took stock of the situation. “Twenty-five years I’ve been a vet and still the extent of people’s cruelty never fails to amaze me.”

“Can you do anything?”

Max felt Rebecca’s pain. She wasn’t stupid; she could see the bitch’s condition had deteriorated.

Mr. Thurley shook his head. “The puppies are dead, I’m afraid, but I think you already knew that. I’ll do my best to save the mother. That’s all I can promise. We don’t know how long she was in the water, or what state her lungs are in. Go home. You look terrible. I promise I’ll call you as soon as I have news. Now shoo. Let me get on with my job.”

Max led her back to the car. She looked so small and helpless, and once again, that bizarre need to protect her overwhelmed him. Without a word, she slid into the passenger seat.

“Are you okay? You ought to go to hospital. Still…” He leaned over and put his hand to her forehead. “I’m no expert, but I don’t think you’re running a fever. Come on. Let’s get you home.”

“No.” She hung her head. “My parents will go ballistic. They worry so much. I don’t want them to see me like this. Can I wait here a bit and dry off or…”

Her distress was real. For a moment, Max didn’t know what to do. Playing nanny wasn’t exactly his forte. Turning the key in the ignition, he gunned the engine. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Go?” She sat up, confusion in her eyes.

“My place. We need to get you cleaned up.”

* * * *

With a growing sense of awe, Rebecca studied him as he drove the powerful car through the incessant rain. He’d been so incredible; so tender whilst comforting the little dog, the compassion in his eyes so very real. Goodness, how wrong she had been about him.

Rebecca shuffled in the leather seat, suddenly aware of his masculine presence. Since that day, confined spaces scared her, but with him, she felt safe. As he stared ahead, lost in his own thoughts, she studied his profile, and her heart skipped a beat. He was, by anyone’s standards, a very handsome man. She drank in the classic profile: the sharp planes and strong jaw; and with a jolt, she saw what Emma had always seen. He really did have the most beautiful mouth.

As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned to her and smiled. His green eyes were, for once, not hard and condemning but gentle and kind and…sexy. She turned away, so confused.

“Not that far now.”

Breaking into her alarming train of thought and displaying all the confidence of Lewis Hamilton, he turned the powerful car into a cul-de-sac.

Rebecca sat up. “This is where you live? That is so weird. I mean, I only live around the corner.”

“I know. I’ve seen you walking your dog. The incorrigible Wally, I presume? Does he still try to ‘shag’ Mrs. Blair’s poodle?” Pulling up in front of a time-weathered Victorian detached house, he killed the engine.

Rebecca giggled; she couldn’t believe he’d remembered, but then, of course he would. It was when their private war began.

“You’re kidding me.” She pressed her face up against the window. “You live here? Goodness, this place was empty for years. All the neighbourhood kids used to sneak in through the broken back door to play. It was our den, but it creeped us out. We thought it was haunted.”

“Well, if it is, I feel sorry for the ghost. I’m a terrible snorer.” Leaning over, he opened her door, assaulting her senses with his tangy cologne. “Hurry up. It’s going to piss it down again.”

With her heart on near shut-down, she ran for the porch. The afternoon was too surreal for words.

Shaking the water from his hair, Mr. Jackson unlocked the heavy wood front door and bustled her into the hallway. “Wait here.”

Shivering, Rebecca took in her surroundings, awed at the transformation to her old hunting ground. Most of the interior walls had been knocked down, and the result was a cavernous space of warmth and light. Whoever had done the interior design had to be a genius.

“Okay.” He was back, clutching a pile of fluffy lemon towels and an over-sized bath robe. “I’ve started running the bath. Second door on the right. Just dump your clothes outside the door, and I will throw them in the washer-dryer. You can put this on.”

He held out the robe. It was his. It still held his scent.

“Not quite your style, no doubt, but it will keep you warm.”

Rebecca couldn’t explain it. His caring words made her want to cry all over again. Trembling from cold and some weird and wonderful emotion she couldn’t quite explain, she took the robe from him. Her cheeks felt on fire. There was something strangely intimate about taking a bathrobe from him.

“Go on then.” Arms folded, he studied her, amusement curving his mouth. “You’re going to grow scales in a moment. I may have to donate you to medical science.”