Snowbound Summer (The Logan Series Book 3) (2 page)

Chapter
Two

Summer Costello.

Nick leaned back in Evie’s
leather swivel chair and closed his eyes. He hadn’t seen her for three years
but the mental image that popped into his mind was vivid. Average height,
around five foot six, but that was the only thing average about her. She’d won
every prize there was at school, and as well as excelling academically she had
been captain of the hockey team and head girl. She’d been popular and
confident, girls wanted to be her, and boys wanted to be her boyfriend.

The last time he’d really had a
chance to speak to her was before she left to go to London. At twenty-two, Summer
had worn her auburn-verging-on-red hair long, framing her face in unruly waves.
Her eyes were a vivid shade of blue he’d never seen on anyone else—her brother’s
were brown. Crushing on Summer’s friends had been a popular pastime of his and Declan’s,
but Summer was always out of bounds. And for her part, Summer had never
reciprocated his interest.

In fact, the very opposite.

Three years ago, the crazy dream
of one day being with her had died forever.

Nick stood up and walked into the
surgery to pack supplies he would need to treat the dog. Ideally, after
sedation he would bring it back to the practice for surgery, but there was
always the possibility that would prove impossible so he also packed the
chemicals needed to put the dog to sleep.

A tinkling sound alerted him to
the fact that someone had entered the building. In the reception area, Evie was
hanging up her coat. Her hair was covered in a fine dusting of snow. She pulled
a pair of slippers out of her voluminous handbag and toed off her boots,
leaving them under the coat stand. “Good morning.” She gave him a big grin. “Hell
of a day out there, huh?” She brushed the snowflakes from her hair, slipped her
feet into the slippers and rounded the desk to flick on her computer.

“Sure is. I guess by the look of
you it’s snowing again.” He opened the door and stared across the car park. His
Land Rover had turned white since he’d arrived three quarters of an hour ago.

“They’re saying on the radio that
it’s going to get worse,” she said. “They were giving that don’t-travel-unless-you-have-to
warning.”

It was the worst possible time to
drive into the mountains.

The bell above the door tinkled
again and both the other vets dashed in.

“I had a call this morning,” Nick
explained as they shed their coats. “A woman has found an injured dog. I have
to drive out there.”

“Where?” asked Alison Cavanagh,
one of the vets.

Everyone knew Summer and Declan’s
parents, and that they had left for Spain a week ago. If Declan had known Summer
was in the house he would have told Nick, so he had to presume she was there
without anyone’s knowledge. He hadn’t asked if she was alone—hadn’t needed to,
at Christmas everyone wanted to be with family, so her boyfriend must be there.

Still, something kept him from
revealing her presence in Brookbridge. “The Land Rover is probably the only
vehicle that will make it up the mountain in these conditions.”

Alison frowned. “The weather is
getting worse, driving into the mountains…” She shook her head. “You shouldn’t
even try it.”

“I have to. There’s an animal in
pain, I can’t just leave it to die. You know me, Ali, I’ll be careful. I have
my phone and a blanket in my car. The Land Rover can handle any conditions, I’ll
be fine.”

“Well, keep in contact,” Alison
said. “Check in the moment you arrive. If this weather gets worse you could be
marooned.”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to
take.”

Once upon a time, being marooned
with Summer Costello would have been on his to-do list, but being marooned with
her and her boar of a boyfriend would be pure torture. “The sooner I get out
there the better.”

*****

Summer was on the point of phoning Nick again—it had been an
hour and a half since she’d made the early morning call—when the distinctive sound
of an engine cut through the silence.

“He’s here,” she said to the
unresponsive dog. “Help is here.”

In the past hour the dog had barely
raised his head from the cold cobbled floor of the woodshed—even when she spoke
to him—and the fight had gone out of his eyes. She’d gotten close enough to
drape an old blanket over him in a vague hope of keeping him warm. The growl
that issued from his throat was a faint and pathetic noise. He looked like he
was staring death in the face and welcoming it.

“Hold on—just hold on a little
longer.” She left the woodshed and walked around the house to the front door.

A tall figure was climbing out of
the Land Rover. The last time she’d seen him Nick Logan had been tall and
skinny. Like her brother, he’d shot up in his late teens. This Nick Logan was
different. He’d grown into his frame, and while he was still lean, he’d
developed muscle. He’d always been a good-looking boy, but now, as a grown man,
he was devastating.

“Hi, Summer.” He slammed the door
of the Land Rover and walked to her. “Good to see you.” He enveloped her in a
warm hug—which should have been no surprise—the Logans were notorious huggers.
He’d hugged her when she left for London eight years ago.

She was pretty sure she hadn’t
felt anything back then, but being enveloped in Nick Logan’s warm arms,
breathing in his scent, sent a ripple of awareness through her now. So she
stepped back as soon as was politely possible. “Hi, Nick.” Her face felt hot.
Am
I blushing?
She swallowed. “Thank you so much for coming out.”

He and Declan had been friends
forever—he must know she wasn’t expected to be here.

To her relief he didn’t question
her. Instead, he grabbed a black doctor’s bag from the back of the Land Rover. “Where’s
the patient?”

“He’s different this morning.” They
trudged through the snow to the woodshed. The snow was still falling, dusting
Nick’s dark hair with snowflakes. “It’s as though the fight has left him.” Nick
strode along next to her, not touching, but a tangle of awareness spread at his
proximity.

She pulled open the door to the
woodshed, pointing at the hole. “He must have crawled through here somehow.”
For the first time, she noticed a trace of blood on the broken wood.

The dog didn’t look up as they
approached. His eyes were closed.

“He was awake when I left.” Her
gaze focused on the dog’s chest; relief flooded her seeing it rising and
falling slowly.

“Ah, poor fella.” Nick walked
straight to the animal’s side and placed his bag on the ground. He crouched. “How
are you doing, fella?”

The dog’s eyes flickered open,
but he made no noise, probably too exhausted.

Nick reached out a hand and let
the dog sniff him. “Okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He continued talking in a low, comforting tone that made the
tension leave Summer’s body. The dog, too, seemed to relax, mesmerized by the
sound Nick’s voice. Her breath caught as Nick stroked the dog’s head. She wouldn’t
have had the courage.

Slowly, still murmuring, Nick
lifted the blanket and ran his hands over the dog’s flanks. He examined the cut
on the back leg carefully. “He’s in bad shape.” He stood up and took a step
back to where she stood. “You got him to eat something?”

“Yes, he had the steak I was going
to have for dinner tonight.”

Nick nodded. “That fits. He’s
badly malnourished and dehydrated. I don’t think he’d survive the trip back to
the surgery.”

Summer felt a pain in her heart
as though someone had wrapped their hands around it and squeezed. “You mean you
have to put him down?” Her gaze flicked to the dog who opened his eyes and
stared at them.

“No. But I can’t treat him here,
the conditions are filthy and there isn’t enough light. I’ll need the help of
your boyfriend to carry him inside.”

My boyfriend.
“Michael isn’t
here.” She couldn’t bring herself to reveal the truth, that her three-year
relationship had ended four months ago, and she hadn’t seen him since. She
crossed her arms. “I can help you get him inside.”

*****

Nick looked out at the falling snow. Emotions mixed within
him at her pronouncement. Curiosity, that her all-too-perfect investment
advisor boyfriend wasn’t here, and relief that he wouldn’t have to deal with
the city slicker sliding around in the snow in his shiny, black leather shoes. Michael
was the sort of man who probably didn’t even own a pair of jeans—he doubtless
wore a suit five days of the week, and dressed in designer gear every weekend.

From the sarcastic snippets Declan
had furnished over the years Nick had built up a fairly clear picture of the
man Summer had chosen. Haircuts once a week, manicures every fortnight, and regular
manscaping appointments at his salon.

The last time Declan had visited
them in London, Michael offered to treat him to a back, sac and crack wax. When
Declan returned to Brookbridge, they’d laughed their asses off in the pub at
that.

Not having him here was a relief.

He looked down. The dog was
young, maybe a couple of years old. She’d described him on the phone as an
Alsatian, but he wasn’t a pure bred—if Nick had to guess he’d say the dog was
possibly half Labrador or collie as well. His size was intimidating, and the
rope around his neck indicated he’d been tied up—probably used as a guard dog
by someone with something to hide. He knew too well how the lives of many of
these dogs went. They were permanently chained outside, infrequently fed, and encouraged
to snarl and bark at strangers.

Even if he survived the
significant health challenges that faced him, he might never be rehabilitated
enough to become a family pet.

The dog’s eyes flickered open;
the expression in them made up Nick’s mind for him. He looked like hell, looked
as though he’d been living in hell, but he deserved a chance.

“I’m going to sedate him—it will
take a few moments before he’s out and then we can get him inside.” He crouched
at the dog’s side again, took a syringe from his bag and carefully filled it. “Okay,
fella, you will feel better soon.” He located a vein in the dog’s foot and
injected him.

Then he stood up, brushed damp
sawdust from his knees and turned to Summer.

Driving up here, he’d hoped that
the years might have dimmed her beauty. That he might have grown out of the oversized
crush that had tormented him through his teens and early twenties.
Unfortunately, she was prettier than ever. Sure, there were a few more lines on
her face—but they just added character.

It was a shame she was such a
bitch.

While she stared at the dog, he looked
closer. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and didn’t even seem to have brushed her
hair, which was unusual for Summer—she’d always put great stock in looking
good. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she seemed to have lost
weight since the last time he’d seen her.

“Let’s go inside. We need to
prepare the kitchen.”

“Okay.” She cast a last look at
the dog. “I hope he makes it.”

“We should give him a name.”

She smiled. “I think you’ve already
done that—I reckon his name is Fella.”

She talked away as they walked to
the house. Summer had always been blessed with the ability to talk to anyone,
anytime, and make them feel special. She excelled at charm—when it suited her. “I’d
forgotten that you were training to become a vet,” she confessed. “When I lived
here the veterinary practice was around the back of Main Street—the vet was
Patrick Jackson I think.”

“He retired. My partner and I
took over the business.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the
news, but she didn’t comment. She pushed open the back door into the kitchen.

The warmth made his cold hands
tingle. “You lit the wood-burning stove?”

“I thought that would be
sensible. The heating is on, but if the power goes out…”

“Good.” He walked to the heavy
pine table, and started to clear it. “Have you an old oilcloth or something we
can cover this with? There’s likely to be blood.”

Her face went pale, but she
straightened her shoulders. “I’ll get it. What else do you need?”

Nick thought for a moment. “A
bowl for hot water. An old cardboard box and a couple of blankets.”

“And a bowl for some water for
Fella to drink?”

“Not right now—I’ve brought a
drip to rehydrate him and he won’t be taking anything by mouth for a while, but
later, yes we’ll need one for water and one for food.”

She hurried from the room, and he
shoved the table closer to the range.

Chapter
Three

Worry that had been a constant companion since she’d found
Fella eased as Summer pulled open drawers in the storeroom off the kitchen
where her mother kept all manner of odd things. When items were worn, they made
the journey from the house to this room, and when they were completely beyond
use, they were put out into the garage. Both her parents were borderline
hoarders—letting go of stuff was difficult for them. When the garage got too
full, they hired a skip and had a clear out. The garage was big enough that
that event only happened every five years or so.

A gold colored trophy lay on top
of sheaves of paper in the first drawer. She picked it out, and tested its
weight in her hands. When she was twelve, the trophy she’d won at school for
being the fastest sprinter had seemed a lot heavier. The papers underneath
looked familiar too. She leafed through them. First in the regional spelling
bee. First in debating. A couple of rosettes from the brief few years she’d
taken up horse riding.

She shoved them back in the
drawer, closed it, and opened another.
This is more like it.

A carefully folded piece of worn
oilcloth was shoved into the drawer, along with a bolt of material, an offcut
from her mother’s homemade curtains. She pulled out the oilcloth and opened it
out to see if it would be big enough.

Satisfied, she folded it again,
and shoved it under her arm.
Now, what else?
He’d said a cardboard box
and a couple of blankets, presumably to make a basket for Fella. She glanced
around. She could do better than that. A huge plastic dog basket was stacked up
against the side of the room—something that should by now have been relegated
to the garage—their old dog, Seb, had been dead for at least ten years. It was
stacked with empty plastic ten-liter water bottles.

She moved the bottles to the
floor, and struggled to ease the basket from behind a couple of old, broken
down chairs, and tossed the oilcloth into it.

She would have to check upstairs
for the blankets.

“How are you getting on in there?”
Nick stuck his head in through the door.

“I’ve found these.”

“Great.” He took the basket and
oilcloth. Their hands brushed, and a tingle raced up her arm. He stared into
her eyes, and awareness of him spread like honey on hot toast.

Summer swallowed. “I’ll just grab
a couple of blankets.”

“That can wait. The snow is
getting heavier. We need to move Fella now.”

The prospect of carrying an
unconscious dog seemed impossible.

“I’ll need an old board and a
wheelbarrow.” Nick smiled. “I guess we should check the garage.”

Of course. He knew her parents as
well as she did—when he hadn’t been in his own house, he’d been in hers. He
walked to the keys hanging on hooks at the side of the cooker, and instantly
selected the right one. “Come on.”

She followed him to the garage,
where they found an old board—that had formed the side wall of the house her
father had made for chickens years ago—laid it out on the wheelbarrow, and
started back across the yard to the woodshed. “We’ll move him, and then I’ll
bring in my stuff from the Land Rover.”

*****

Even though Fella was emaciated, he was still a big dog, and
it took a lot of effort to pick him up and place him on the makeshift
stretcher. But they made it. She placed a hand on Fella’s neck as he pushed the
barrow to the back door, only letting go to open the door for him. She was
getting attached. Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested they give him a name—if he
didn’t make it, she’d be devastated. He’d seen this reaction before. People who
saved animals and brought them to the vets always thought that the hard part
was over, now the animal would receive medical attention and be saved.
Unfortunately, sometimes there was nothing they could do.

He gritted his teeth, and pushed
down the negative thoughts. He’d try everything to save this dog. Already, he
was living on borrowed time—Fella had been starved almost to death, somehow
escaped from whoever had tied the rope around his neck, and Nick suspected
Fella had been hit by a car at some stage last night.

He deserved a break. A break Nick
would do his best to deliver. “Okay, I’ll take his shoulders, and you lift his
back,” he advised. They’d done it once, they could do it again.

She moved into position, and
slipped one hand under the dog.

“Lift.”

Together, they got Fella onto the
kitchen table.

“Stay there with him. I’ll be
back in a moment.” He pushed the wheelbarrow out into the yard, and tramped
through the snow to the Land Rover.

When he came back, she was
standing in exactly the same position as when he left. One hand on Fella’s
neck. There was a trace of sadness in her expression, and for a moment he
feared the worst. “How is he?”

She turned, and an unsteady smile
wavered at the corners of her mouth. “He’s still alive.” She looked at the
things he was carrying. “Can I help?”

“I can manage. I brought a bag to
rehydrate, but I forgot to bring a stand.” He’d been in such a hurry it was
inevitable that he’d forget something.

“Maybe...how about the coat stand
from the hall? It has hooks on it.”

“Yes, that’ll work.”

She dashed out into the hall and
came back carrying the iron coat stand that Declan had bought his parents as a
Christmas present years ago.

“Set it up over there.” Nick pointed
to the spot where he needed it. Then he went to the sink, and started to scrub.

She filled a bowl with hot water
as he dried his hands and put on latex gloves. The first thing he would do was
insert a line for the drip, and then he would examine that leg.

“You might want to leave for a
while.” Not everyone was able to watch a dog being operated on, and the last
thing he needed was her fainting.

“Don’t you need me to help?” She
stood her ground. “I’m not going to faint, if that’s what you’re frightened of.”
She looked offended that he’d even think it. “I’ve done my fair share of
dissecting.”

“Yes, but those animals and birds
are dead, aren’t they?” He grinned. She had spent nine months in the top Cordon
Bleu school in London—he had no doubt she could reduce a cow to steaks without
batting an eye, but dealing with living creatures was different.

“You need me to help.” There was
stubborn determination in her voice. “I’m up to it. What do you need?”

I need to stop being so bloody
impressed by you.

“Attach the bag onto the coat
stand hook while I insert the line.” She picked it up, and did as he asked.
Nick breathed in deep, and focused his attention back to his patient.

She stood at his side as he
inserted the line, shaved around the cut with the razor he always carried in
his surgery grab bag, cleaned the wound, and put Fella’s dislocated leg back
into the correct position. To his relief, the bone wasn’t broken, but it would
be badly bruised—Fella wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. He sewed up the
deep gash in the animal’s flesh, and disinfected it. “We should get him into
the basket while he’s out,” he said. “We don’t want him trying to climb off the
table when he revives.”

While he was stitching Fella, she’d
found blankets and set the basket near the wood burning stove. Now, she helped
him maneuver the large dog into the basket, which he more or less filled.

“How long before he wakes up?”

“It could be a while,” Nick said.
“The anesthetic is powerful, and he’s exhausted, once he comes around, he’ll be
groggy and fall asleep again quite quickly.”

Summer poured the pink-tinged
water out of the bowl and washed it. Threw away the pieces of lint and other
detritus that littered the table, wiped down the oilcloth, and took it off the
table.

She folded it again and again,
until it was a small parcel. “In that case, how about a cup of tea?”

“Sure. I need to make a call
though first.” Nick walked to the coat he’d thrown on a chair, put it on, and
retrieved his cell phone. “I’ll check conditions while I’m at it. Excuse me for
a moment.”

Fat flakes of snow drifted in the
air, too light and unsubstantial to do anything more than float. When he’d been
a kid this had been the sort of snow he’d liked best. The type that stuck to
your clothes and hair, converting you to a walking, talking snowman.

Today, his feelings were very
different. Above, a swirling vortex of snowflakes filled the sky. The tempest
of the previous night had blown itself out, but the snow just kept coming. He
looked down. The path he’d tracked from the Land Rover earlier had practically
filled in, his footsteps now just faint indentations in the tight packed snow.
His speed increased until he reached the car, jerked open the door and climbed
inside. He punched in the practice’s number.

“Evie. It’s Nick.”

“How’s the patient?” Just like
the rest of the people in his employ, Evie was hardwired to think of the
patient first.

“Well, I’ve stitched up his leg,
and he’s in recovery. I had to put in a line—he’s dehydrated.” He couldn’t even
see out of the windshield, cocooned in a bright, white soundless world. “There’s
no way I can transport him today, he’s too weak. I’ll have to stay the night
here.”

“Where is it you are exactly?”
There was curiosity in her tone.

“I’m at Declan Costello’s parents’
house.” He crossed his fingers. “They have someone housesitting while they’re
in Spain.”

“Oh, okay. I hope you have plenty
of food in. This doesn’t look as though it’s going away any time soon.”

She was right. “I’ll call you
tomorrow.” He flicked off the phone and sat for a moment in the cold.
Stuck
alone overnight with Summer Costello. Definitely not a good idea.

*****

Summer watched Nick’s tall figure stride out toward the car.
It was hard to reconcile the confident capable man with the quiet teenager she
remembered. Since the moment he’d arrived, he’d effortlessly taken charge,
telling her exactly what he needed to do the operation on Fella.

He knew exactly what he was
doing, and his calm focused approach to the task at hand had been extremely
impressive. She’d caught herself just staring at him on more than one occasion
as he cleaned the dog’s wound and expertly sewed it up. Obvious care had
overlaid all of his actions, and Fella couldn’t have been in better hands.

Across the yard Nick climbed into
the car and brought his cell phone to his ear.

Who is he calling?
Probably a girlfriend. Maybe even a wife. She hadn’t noticed a ring, but it was
highly likely that with his job he didn’t wear one. Her forehead wrinkled as
she tried to remember what Declan had told her about his best friend in recent
times. She couldn’t remember talk of a wedding—a Logan wedding was always
unforgettable, she was sure if Nick had married she would have heard all about
it.

With a puff of frustration she
turned away from the window to flick on the kettle. The state of Nick Logan’s
love life was none of her concern.

Summer wiped down the kitchen
table and placed two mugs, a jug of milk and the sugar bowl on it. Her rumbling
stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten all day. It was lunchtime now so she
opened a can of soup and set it on the stove to heat.

By the time Nick pushed the door
open a few minutes later, she’d transferred the hot soup into bowls and placed
a couple of pieces of toast on plates.

He shed his coat in the doorway
and brushed off the flakes of snow outside the back door then slammed the door
behind him. He was carrying a couple of bags, which he placed on the kitchen
counter. “You told me he ate your steak so I brought you another. I brought one
for me as well—the cooking is up to you.”

He pulled out a wrapped packet. “The
anesthetic may make him feel sick and apart from that steak Fella may not have
eaten for a while. It’s likely his digestive system is in uproar so we should
start off with something basic to eat rather than the dog food I brought.” He
held up the package. “Chicken. If we just boil this he should be able to handle
it.”

“Sure. Leave it there and I’ll
cook it after we eat.” She found a couple of linen napkins, slid them into
napkin rings, and placed them next to the bowls. Waved at the table. “Come eat,
before it gets cold.”

He sat. “You’re the only family I
know who uses these.” He slipped the napkin from the ring and turned it around
in his big hands.

“I bought them when I was
seventeen. And these table mats too. I’d been watching all these cooking
shows—the Galloping Gourmet was my favorite and at the end of every show he
invited someone from the audience to sit down and taste what he’d cooked. It
was always presented beautifully.”

“I remember you were always into presentation.”
There was the hint of a double meaning in the way he said the words.

“Presentation matters.”

“Not as much as you might think.”
He shook out the napkin and placed it over his knees. He picked up the spoon. “Substance
is more important. You can make a table look as pretty as you like, but if the
food doesn’t taste good, no amount of prettying it up will make a jot of
difference.”

He dipped a spoon into the soup
and tasted it. “Now this is a win—in both aspects.”

“Well, it’s canned.” It was pretty
difficult not to extrapolate Nick’s philosophy on food into the area of humans.
Michael had always been perfectly presented—the male equivalent of a table set
with fine china, sparkling silverware, placemats, napkins and crystal glasses.
But at the end of the day he left a bad taste in her mouth.

“So, you made your phone call.”

“Yes—I let Evie know where I am.”

Evie.
So he has a
girlfriend.

“I’ll have to stay the night.
Fella isn’t well enough to travel, and a lot of snow has fallen since I
arrived—the trip into town would be treacherous. With any luck, the council
will send out a team to salt the road tomorrow.”