Taken by Storm (2 page)

“H-Homer. . . .” he choked out, “My doggie—”

“Let me get in here and take a look at him,” Colin said gently. “May I?”

The boy’s lower lip quivered, and a huge tear rolled from his eye. Wordlessly, he turned and fled into his mother’s arms.

Colin knelt down on the cobblestones beside the dog. “Easy there, big fellow,” he murmured, setting his bag down and running a calming hand over the animal. Beneath the heavy warmth of its hind leg, he found the femoral pulse beating too rapidly, too faintly; he lifted the slack lip, saw that the mucus membranes were nearly as white as the teeth they enclosed. But it was the dog’s abdomen, huge, hard, and swollen tight as a drum, that gave him his diagnosis.

“When was the last time he ate, madam?”

“A few hours ago,” she said tightly, holding Tommy against her skirts and clutching his hand. “Oh, sir, is he going to—”

“Any vomiting?”

“Well, yes, he tried . . . I made him a big plate of meat and potatoes for supper, then he drank his whole bowl of water, went outside to run and play with Tommy—he does that every night and he’s such a gentle old dog and all the little ones in the neighborhood love him so much—oh, sir, is he going to live? Please, tell us he’s going to live—”

Tommy broke from her side, fell to his knees beside the dog, and wrapped his arms around its big neck. “Oh, Homer . . . Oh, Homer, please, don’t die! Please, please,
please
don’t die . . .” Sobbing, the boy looked imploringly into Colin’s grave face. “Please, mister, don’t let him die.
Please
. . . You won’t let him, will you?”

Colin opened his bag and took out his spectacles. “I’ll do what I can, Tommy. Now, you do
me
a favor and go stand with your mama, all right?”

The little boy’s throat worked, and he ran to obey.

Colin put on his spectacles and once more returned his attention to his patient.

Commotion surrounded him. Traffic stopping in the street . . . carriage wheels grinding against worn cobblestone . . . running footsteps, windows sliding open in the rooms above his head, someone shouting, the hollow clatter of a horse’s hooves. Colin never raised his head, intent on the dog, and the dog only. He passed his hand over its abdomen as the crowd pressed close, some unwashed and rank with sweat, others heavily perfumed, all of them blocking out sunlight, air, thinking space—

“Give the fellow some room, folks!” a man shouted, from somewhere above. “Clear away, get back.
Back
. . .”

The dog stared glassily into space through half-closed eyes, whimpering through its nose in pain.

“Do you know what ails him, sir?” the woman asked, tightly.

“Gastric dilatation. Bloat, if you will.”

“Bloat?”

Colin was already eyeing the hugely swollen abdomen, silently praying that the stomach was not twisted up inside; if it was, the animal was as good as dead. But the woman didn’t have to know that. Not yet, anyhow.

As gently as he could, he answered, “There’s a large amount of gas trapped in your dog’s stomach, madam—if it is not released, he’ll die.” His hands still resting on the mastiff’s side, Colin twisted around, looking up at the anxious faces until he found the man who’d summoned him. “Sir? If you’ll please restrain Homer for me while I attempt treatment . . . Yes, like that. Just put your hands on his neck and shoulders. Good.”

Little Tommy hid his face in his mother’s skirts, crying bitterly. Colin’s chest constricted. He glanced at the woman, and she stared beseechingly into his eyes with that frozen plea he was all too familiar with, that blind faith and hope and trust that the animal lover bestows upon the one person in the world who might be capable of saving their beloved pet.

“Please do your best, sir,” she said quietly. “For my son.”

There was no time to waste. Reaching for his bag, Colin hurriedly searched its depths for the small bottle of rum, a cloth, and the trocar, a short needle that was Homer’s only hope of survival. He lifted the instrument out, keeping his face perfectly blank and his features composed for the sake of the mastiff’s distraught owner. He’d used the fine needle on sheep—but never on a dog.

There was no other choice.

Palming the mastiff’s distended belly, Colin found its highest point. The dog tried to roll into an upright position, but Colin held him down, his voice gentle and soothing. As the crowd went hush-silent around him, he poured rum onto the cloth and cleaned the area. Then he leaned over the dog so the little boy could not see what he was about to do—and pushed the needle straight down into the hard, swollen stomach.

Behind him, the woman gasped.

The needle pierced the stomach wall. Fluid, sunset-colored and fetid, shot from the top of the trocar, spattering his cheeks, his brow, his spectacles; he blocked out the sudden, overpowering stench and the alarmed murmur of the crowd, aware of only the malodorous fluid bubbling out of the trocar and the pent-up gas escaping the dog’s stomach in a frenzied hiss.

At his side, the man was staring at him in shocked horror.

Please, God, let the stomach wall be healthy
, Colin thought, desperately—for if it were not, the organ would burst inside the abdomen and the resulting peritonitis would surely kill poor Homer.

The moments crept by.

The crowd held its collective breath.

He laid his fingers against the inside of the dog’s hind leg, checking its pulse once again. Counting. Feeling his helper’s gaze upon him, searching his face for some sign of encouragement, hope, promise.

Come on, big fellow
, he thought, holding the needle in one hand and stroking the dog’s heavily muscled neck with the other.
Don’t bow out on me now. Come on, Homer . . . make little Tommy happy . . .

He shut his eyes, oblivious to the bits of gravel driving into his knees, the sunlight against the back of his neck, feeling only the dog’s ribs moving steadily beneath his palm, up and down, up and down. Long moments went by. The crowd around and above him had gone deathly silent. The hiss of the escaping gas dropped in pitch, then faded out, and gently, Colin withdrew the needle.

He risked a glance up and saw some fifty anxious faces, all staring down at him, all expecting nothing short of a miracle, and he was suddenly terrified of failing them all.

Just as he had failed the many men who had died that night he’d made the single worst decision of his life.

He looked away—and it was then that he saw her. A petite young woman, refined and elegant, sitting astride a deep-chested bay stallion and staring directly into his eyes. Her hair was stuffed beneath a wool cap, breeches molded her shapely thighs, and only the fine arch of her brows, the clarity of her skin, and the hint of a bosom beneath her coat belied the fact she was not the lad she appeared to be. Her head was high and her dark eyes were smiling, as though she secretly shared his success; she gave the faintest of nods, and in her gaze he saw more than just blind faith in his abilities—he saw complete, unflagging confidence that he would succeed in saving the dog.

Suddenly flustered, Colin’s gaze shot back to his patient.

And then, beneath his hand, he felt it. The slowing and strengthening of pulse and the return of spirit, the defiant rush of blood, of promise, of life, through veins and arteries and heart.

He forgot the woman on the horse.

“Yes!” he said through clenched teeth, bending anxiously over the dog as the crowd closed in and their shadows fell over the both of them. “Come on—what’s your name, big fellow?—Homer. Come on, Homer,” he urged, stroking the dog’s thick neck and gazing intently into its half-shuttered eyes. “Come awake for me, Homer . . .”

The dog whimpered and stirred. Its foreleg jerked, the huge paw scraping the cobblestones, its whimper becoming a harsh cry deep in its throat as full consciousness began to return, and with it, pain. The crowd murmured excitedly, their voices rising in a sudden, thunderous din; the little boy’s sobs caught, held—and then the mastiff’s eyes opened, and it lifted its huge, noble head to regard the man who had just saved its life, its dark eyes looking deeply, gratefully, into those of the veterinarian.

Colin smiled.

The dog’s tail thumped once, twice, on the cobblestones.

And the crowd went wild.

“
Home-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-r!
” Tommy shrieked, tearing himself from his mother and plunging to his knees at the mastiff’s side.

His head ringing with that elated screech, his ears filled with the cheers of the crowd, Colin stood up and passed a wrist across his brow. People were clapping him on the back, congratulating him, jabbering excitedly amongst themselves. He took off his spattered spectacles and turned to speak to Tommy’s mother—but her fond gaze was on her son, who was bent over the dog, sobbing into its fur, embracing it and hugging the big body ecstatically.

“Oh, Homer!” Tommy cried, sobbing happily. “Oh, Homer, Homer,
Homer
!”

Colin dropped the spectacles into his pocket, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and gazed down at the happy pair as the boy’s mother moved to stand beside him. “I think,” he said with a helpless grin, “that Homer here will live to eat many more atrociously huge meals—though I would advise against them.”

He looked up then, toward the woman on the bay stallion—but the spot where they had been was empty.

His guardian angel was gone.

# # #

“I want that man.”

Daniel and Simon, walking on either side of Shareb-er-rehh’s hooded head as they hurried away from the cheering crowd, came to such a simultaneous stop that the action might’ve been choreographed. The two grooms stared up at her.

“What do you mean, you
want
him?”

Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn tugged her cap down over her brow and urged the stallion on. Again, she relived that silent drama: the veterinarian down on his knees in the street, his dark blond head bent over a mastiff, the dog’s tongue hanging out to rest lifelessly upon the cobblestones. Again, she saw the concentration in that intent, handsome face, the hair falling unheeded over his brow, the blood spraying his spectacles, and he never flinching, never faltering, never losing that expression of purposeful intent. The steady hands, the muscles beneath his rolled up sleeves, the horror she’d felt at seeing that needle plunging into the dog’s swollen abdomen—

“My lady?”

And the dog. Coming back to life as though raised from the dead. Lifting its massive head to look up at its savior, and the humble gratitude in its dark eyes before the happy shrieks of the little boy, the thunderous cheers of the crowd, had drowned everything out.

She would never forget it, not as long as she lived.

“I said,
I want
him,” she repeated, glancing behind her. There was no one following them, but even so, she couldn’t help but feel nervous and vulnerable out here in broad daylight where anyone might recognize her. . . or, Shareb-er-rehh. Though a hood covered his noble head, and leather cups concealed most of his wide, intelligent dark eyes—the right one ringed with white and giving him a perpetual look of curiosity and coltish wonder—she was taking no chances. The stallion’s blood was impeccably blue, his existence the result of four decades of careful planning, his worth—as the last and only male heir to his heritage—beyond value.

A horse like Shareb stood out.

A horse like Shareb would be easily recognized.

The sooner they were out of London, the better.

“I need to get Shareb-er-rehh to Norfolk, and I need an escort who is capable of ensuring his health along the way. I want you two to follow him, find out who he is and where he resides, and report back to me. We’ll need to convince him of my need for his services in as discreet a way possible—
without
telling him of my identity or the bounty on my head.”

“But my lady, what if he refuses?”

‘Do what you must to convince him. I cannot take no for an answer.” She gave them both a stern look. “You both have served my family well, but don’t make a muddle of this.”

“But my lady,
we
can escort you to Norfolk, keep you from harm, make sure your brother doesn’t recognize or find you along the way—”

“Yes, but you cannot cure a sick or injured horse. That man, obviously, can.” She reached down and nervously touched the stallion’s neck. “It’s not wise for me to tarry out here in the open, so I’m off to my hiding spot. Report back to me in an hour, and don’t forget Shareb’s pastry and ale. I wish to leave London tonight—
with
the veterinarian.”

# # #

Night had long since fallen outside the livery where Colin ran his practice. As was his habit, he strode the length of the barn, carrying a lantern and looking in on each horse before closing the place up for the night. A small office and two stalls at the stable’s far end were his to use in exchange for veterinary care for the owner’s horses, and now, both of those stalls were empty—the last one on the left, painfully so.

He looked at it for a long moment, his fingers tightening around the lantern’s wire handle. Poor Old Ned, who’d served him so faithfully these past three years . . . sickly, in pain, and chronically lame, he was one animal Colin had
not
been able to save.

“I miss you, old boy,” he murmured, gazing sadly at the empty feed bin, the empty water bucket, the empty confines of the stall. Around him, the other horses abruptly stopped munching their hay, listening. He reached out and ran his fingers over the door’s worn edge, where a few white hairs still clung. “Miss you like hell.” Then he turned away and continued on, the chronic ache in his right leg warning him of impending rain.

The past weighed heavily on him tonight, despite the day’s triumph. Ned. Orla. And other memories . . . memories that had nothing to do with horses, and everything to do with the life he’d once led. A life of glory, of honor, of distinction, of pride.

Of loss.

He took a deep and steadying breath, the quietness of the stable making him feel all the more alone. It was best not to think of the past. There was nothing to be found there but pain.

But the animals around him sensed his sorrow, and every horse in the stable turned its head to watch him as he passed, their quiet, soulful eyes dark with love and adoration that Colin never noticed. The livery’s owner had long since gone home, the two stable hands off for the night to drink themselves into a stupor at the Blue Rooster. As usual, they had invited Colin to join them; and as usual, he had politely declined. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people; he just wasn’t a gregarious man, a trait that he’d first become aware of back in his Royal Navy days, when, alone in his cabin and cut off from the rest of the ship, he’d found a haven in isolation where others of his rank had often complained of finding it a self-imposed prison.