looking straight past him.
‘Flossie,’ she said and her voice held all the hope in the world.
Thank you, he breathed to whoever it was who was looking after stranded and stressed gentry in this back-of-beyond place. To have lucked on the owner... He could hand her over and leave.
‘You have Flossie?’ she demanded, her voice choking. ‘Where?’
‘She’s in my car,’ he said, apologetically. ‘I’m so sorry but I’ve hit her.’
‘You’ve hit...’ He heard the catch of dread. ‘She’s not dead?’
‘She’s not dead.’ He said it strongly, needing to wipe that look of fear from her face. ‘She’s hurt her leg but I can’t see any other injuries and her breathing seems okay. I’m hoping the wheel skimmed her leg and nothing else was injured. But the vet—’
‘That’s Hannah Tindall. Yallinghup. I have her number.’ She was already reaching for the phone in her back pocket. ‘I’ll take her straight—’
‘Hannah’s delivering a calf,’ he told her. ‘She should be through in about an hour. The vet at Carlsbrook’s on leave.’
‘You’ve already rung?’ She took a breath and then another. ‘Thank you. I...is she in your car?’ She stepped towards him, past him, heading into the rain.
He was wet. She wasn’t, and Flossie had already shown she was amenable to him carrying her. There was no reason for both of them to get soaked. He moved to block her.
‘Find some towels,’ he told her, gently now as if he was treating two shocked creatures instead of one. As maybe he was. ‘Do you have a fire? She’s wet and I think she needs to be warm.’
‘I...yes. The kitchen... I have the range on...’
‘Go grab towels and I’ll bring her in,’ he said and then hesitated. ‘That is, if it’s okay?’ He looked past her into the hall. ‘Do you have anyone to help?’
‘I...’ She took another deep breath and visibly regrouped. ‘No, but it’s okay. Of course it is. Please bring her in. Thank you so much.’ Her voice broke a little. ‘Oh, Flossie...’
She disappeared, almost running, into the back of the house, leaving the door wide and Bryn thought...what had he just asked her to do?
He wasn’t thinking. The chaos of the last weeks had pretty much robbed him of logical thought.
He shouldn’t have asked for access to the home of a solitary woman late at night. She’d run for towels and left him in the doorway, with total trust.
Trust. There was a word that had been lacking in his life for the last weeks. The days of interrogation, the sick sensation in his gut as he’d realised the extent of his uncle’s dishonesty, the appalling feeling as he’d checked the local media...they’d made him feel as if he were smeared with the same smutty tar brush as his uncle. Yet here he was, in this woman’s home, totally trusted. He should go give her a talk on trust and where it could lead—but she was trusting for a reason and he needed to honour it.
He headed back into the rain, which seemed to be increasing in intensity by the moment, gathered one injured pooch carefully in his arms and carried her inside.
The dog seemed limp, listless. Her bones were sticking out of her ribcage. If the woman hadn’t been surrounded by visibly well-cared-for dogs he’d have suspected neglect but there was no neglect here. As he walked back into the hall she reappeared with her arms full of towels. She dropped them as she saw the dog in his arms—and burst into tears.
‘Oh, Flossie...’ She was sensible though, he thought. She didn’t rush to hug. She came close and touched the dog behind her ear, a feather-touch. ‘We thought we’d lost you. Oh, Grandma...’ And then she hauled herself together, stooped and gathered the towels again and led the way into the kitchen.
It was a great kitchen. A farmhouse kitchen in the very best sense of the words. It was cosy and faded, with worn linoleum, an ancient wooden table and random wooden chairs with cheerful, non-matching cushions tied to each with frayed gingham bows. An ancient dresser took up almost the length of one wall and the opposite wall held the range and an extra electric oven—presumably for days when it was too hot to light the fire. The range was lit now, its gentle heat a welcome all on its own. A tatty, faded rug stood before the range and an ancient settee stood to one side. There were photographs stuck randomly to the remaining wall space, dogs, dogs and more dogs, plus the odd faded family shot. A guy in khaki took pride of place in the photograph display but the dog pictures were edging in, overlapping, as if the soldier’s memory was being gradually overlaid by woofers.
Something was simmering on the stove. Something meaty and herby.
The whole effect was so comforting, so far from the bleakness of the last few days—so reminiscent of home?—he stopped dead in the doorway and had to take a moment to take it in. Which was used to good effect as the woman darted forward and hauled the settee closer to the fire.
‘Put her down here. Oh, Flossie...’
And Flossie gave an almost imperceptible wiggle of her tail, as if she too recognised the kitchen for what it was. A sanctuary, a place almost out of this world. A time capsule where everything in it seemed safe.
He caught himself. Dog. Settee. He walked forward and settled her with care on the towels the woman laid out. Flossie’s tail wagged again as her body felt the comfort of the settee and she looked adoringly up at the woman hovering beside her.
‘Oh, Flossie...’ the woman murmured again. ‘What have you done to yourself?’
‘I can’t see anything obvious apart from the leg,’ Bryn told her. ‘I’m not sure if it’s broken or not.’ It was badly grazed, still sluggishly bleeding. ‘I can’t feel anything else but she hasn’t moved.’
‘It could be shock,’ the girl said. ‘And hunger. She’s been missing for three weeks.’
‘Three weeks!’
‘I know.’ She shook her head. Her fingers were running lightly over the dog’s sides, watching for reaction. ‘She’s a stray, dumped here a couple of months back. People do that—toe-rags. They don’t want an animal so they think, I know, we’ll dump it outside a farm. And of course everyone knows Grandma takes strays in. So Flossie was dumped but she must still remember being thrown from the car. So off she went and I’ve looked so hard...’
The emotion he heard in her voice was for a stray dog she’d only known for weeks?
‘That’s your jacket underneath her,’ she said, seeming to notice the soft leather for the first time. ‘Oh, heavens, it’ll be ruined. I’ll get it out for you... I don’t know... Can I give you something towards cleaning?’ She paused and seemed to regroup. ‘Sorry. I’m not thinking clearly.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m Charlie Foster, by the way. Charlotte. You’re... Bryn Morgan, did you say? I’m very pleased to meet you and I’m deeply thankful for your help, but I can manage now. I’ll ring the vet as soon as she’s available. Once Flossie’s cleaned and fed, though, I’m hoping I might not need her. You’ve done...great. Thank you so much.’
She moved to edge the jacket out but he stopped her. ‘Leave
