Page 33 of Love Bound

The white caps are building to a froth. Shivering, I step off the rock and make my way to the stable.

Inside the stall, I make sure the little window on the other side is latched tight. It's then that I feel Salty nuzzle me and I turn around. Instead of standing off to the side, his back to me, one hind leg cocked, he's facing me, closely, and then he steps closer, rubbing his head and neck on my leg.

"Hey, Salty. You're not salty now."

He nickers softly and thrusts his head right next to mine and I can see the little tree pattern in the liquid of his eye.

When I reach to pet him, he stomps a foot, swings his head around, and then stops so I can fondle his fetlock. Ever so slowly, I climb in the manger and let him smell me, the oats, the hay, and I try to show him the linkages between all three, delivering a message: you are safe. The wind is really kicking up and rain pings so hard against the thin metal roof, it’s hard to hear anything else.

Sniffing, his hot, green breath blows my hair and I breathe into his nostrils. My heart opens a little. He might actually make it, and I am so glad Cory gave him a name.

Back inside, I brush the hay from my hair and put on the glass kettle to make another cup of coffee. I love mornings like this—dark, damp, a storm breaching, and the house warm and snug. After throwing another log in the woodstove, I peer out the window at The Inn.

Finn's truck is loaded with crap. Wood. Cement bags, which he better get out of there before they turn to giant, gray rocks. And then I see an extension ladder up against the side and a rope dangling from the roof. The ubiquitous blue tarp snaps and buckles like a torn sail.

What the hell?

I peer closer. He's busy prying shingles off. My metal roof starts pinging loudly with ice as it hits and then begins a cacophony. Between the wind howling and ice coming down in splintered sheets, the best thing to do is read.

Curling up on the sofa, I sip coffee and open my current exercise, an article by Jane Goodall about her first years in Gombe. But I can’t concentrate. I go to make a second cup and am relieved to see Finn is off the roof. Finally.

He's gone, but something makes me linger at the window. It's grown so dark that the light plays tricks. The tarp flaps back, revealing what looks like a large hole in his roof.

I don’t breathe. I wait a minute and then move quickly to the next window off the front room for a better view. And I can see it: the edges of a large, ugly hole in the roof.

Jesus.

Bile comes up in the back of my throat and I stop myself from panicking. He must have uncovered the hole and went inside to put up a temporary patch because it’s so freaking bad out there. I wait maybe three minutes, the longest minutes ever, to see if he appears.

But there's nothing filling the black hole. And now I can see the pieces of wood, ragged and splintered, pointing down.

Shit.

My brain kicks into gear. Flying down the stairs, I hit the bottom, pulling on my boots as I cross the floor and fling myself out into the wind, pieces of ice bouncing off my arms and back.

It’s fucking freezing. Running down my embankment and up The Inn's, I cover that space in seconds. I pound on the door, but no one comes. This can't be good, it can’t be good. Pushing the door open I stand there, in the hallway, in the dark, dripping, ice melting.

"Finn!" I yell.

Nothing.

I move to the foot of the front stairs. "Finn!"

Nothing.

I calculate quickly which room he might be in. There is no real attic. It was converted years ago to accommodate more quarrymen and turned into living quarters.

Attic floor.

Tearing open the door to the third floor, I fly up the stairs not stopping to yell, my heart pounding so hard it hurts in the back of my throat. It's already colder. There's no heat up here.

Running down the hall, I crash into one room—it's dark and drippy. Immediately I recalculate, skip the next door, and then a rush of freezing air hits me before the scene and time slows down.

It’s the storage room, where Geo crammed everything we didn’t want, from old dressers to clothes to plumbing supplies and skis.

And there, his back against an old trunk, is Finn—holding his right side, blood trickling down the side of his neck, and a dark ugly stain soaking his windbreaker.

Immediately, I try to channel Devon. This is her area, emergency treatment. I try to get my head around it.