High Country Hearts

When he’d worked for a Flagstaff property management business in college, he’d seen far worse. Whoever had done this was an amateur by comparison. At least here cement hadn’t been poured down the toilet to harden.

But it was a mess nevertheless. Feathers from sliced-up pillows floated around like snowy confetti and the contents of salt, pepper, coffee and sugar containers covered the floor in a gritty coating. If he’d have been smart, he’d have done the in-town errands himself and assigned Olivia to tackle the cleaning. Or rousted out his part-time assistant manager to wield the mop and vacuum, even if it was his day off.

On his drive out to Timberline, he’d rechecked the other vacant cabins. Found another “tagged” overnight. A back door window pane had been broken where they could reach in and unlock the door. Like here, coffee packet contents had been strewn about along with sugar and salt. Not trashed as badly as this one, but so much for hopes that they’d seen the last of the hooligans.

He’d told Olivia he suspected kids were the culprits. But he couldn’t be certain of that. He didn’t like to think it might be the beginning of something more serious. These cabins farthest from the Singing Rock lodge hadn’t been occupied for the past month or more. Had they become handy hideouts for adults with more criminal intent?

The muscles in his upper arms tightened at the thought of walking blindly into another situation like the one of a month-and-a-half ago. He hurled a battered foam pillow to the growing pile of debris, the abrupt, fierce motion momentarily easing the tension in his shoulders.

“You’re letting yourself get spooked, bud,” he muttered aloud. Hadn’t Paul and Rosa shown him around the property when he’d come for the interview a few weeks ago? He’d ventured out this way on his own since then, too. None of those times had there been evidence of recent occupation. No telltale signs or scents that might accompany alcohol or drug use. Drug manufacturing.

No, it had to be those kids. Well-intentioned teens who feared that tree thinning and the related loss of the thick undergrowth between the pines would reduce ground cover for small animals. Admittedly, it would for a time. But it also served as a safeguard against a massive conflagration. He’d been witness to the devastation caused by lightning or abandoned campfires in mountain country. Hundreds, thousands or even hundreds of thousands of acres of pristine ponderosa pine forest reduced to charred rubble. Nothing remaining to harbor any animal, feathered or furry, for a good hundred years or more.

He could handle the kids. But the thought of adult trespassers gnawed at his mind. Only weeks ago, when he’d walked out of the interview with a job offer, Canyon Springs seemed an answered prayer. Ideal for raising his precious two-year-old daughter, Angela.

Sweet Angie.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he recalled her wispy brown hair. Soft, flawless skin. Big gray eyes focused trustingly on him, her tiny hand cradled in his.

His hands fisted. He’d protect her with his dying breath.

Had it just been a few weeks ago as he’d lain in bed awaiting the blare of the alarm clock, that he’d meditated on the comforting realization that for the first time in a long time he’d listened for and heard God’s voice? Had obediently walked through the door he believed God opened. But now his decision seemed tainted. Criminal activity shattered the illusion of safety.

He glanced at the open door as his ears picked up the crunch of gravel from an approaching vehicle. The sound of an engine shutting off. The slam of a door.

Olivia. How could she be back so soon? It wasn’t even nine o’clock. He took a deep breath.

“Rob! Rob!”

A prickling sensation raced up his spine at the desperation in her voice. He launched himself out the front door.

“Hurry, Rob!”

Olivia jumped up from where she knelt beside a shivering and bloodied Elmo. She took a quick step toward the cabin, then halted. Swung back toward the whimpering animal whose soulful brown eyes focused on her. She dropped again to her knees beside the crouching pup, its tail wagging a halfhearted greeting. And then Rob was there beside her.

“What happened? Did you hit him?”

What kind of assumption was that? “No, but it looks like someone did.”

With gentle fingers, Rob inspected the pup, cupping its head and lifting it slightly as he bent to get a better look at the damage. “He’s got quite a cut here. Look at the dried blood. And it’s still oozing.”

“Is he going to be okay?” She gave Elmo’s flank a reassuring pat.

With a yelp, the pup’s head jerked toward her, eyes filled with pain. She yanked her hand back, but the good-natured dog didn’t snap at her.

“Looks like that cut isn’t his sole problem. We need to get him to a vet.” He glanced at her as his bloodied hands stroked the little lab. “I hate to move him, but he’s lost considerable blood. Could you run back in there and grab a sheet? There’s an old one in the pile on the middle of the floor.”

She nodded and staggered to her feet. Inside she found the wadded-up fabric and pulled it free. Raced back to Rob’s side.

“Spread it out next to him. Then fold it in half. I’ll see if I can lift him onto it without hurting him too much.”

She did as she was told. Still on his knees, Rob carefully gathered the whimpering pup into his arms and lowered him onto the cotton cloth.

“You’re getting blood all over you.”

Rob swiped at the front of his now-stained T-shirt, then brushed his hair back with a forearm, leaving a crimson streak across his forehead.

“Let’s get this wrapped around him. Then I’ll carry him to the Jeep. I’ll drive. You hold him.”

She nodded, watching in apprehension as he swaddled Elmo in the sheet and lifted him into his arms. The pup didn’t struggle, but she wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or bad.

At the open-topped Jeep Wrangler, Rob nodded toward the passenger side of the vehicle. “Hop on in and buckle up.”

She obeyed, then he gently lowered the pup onto her lap. Its pitiful little face turned to keep a watchful eye on Rob.

“Got him? He’s an armful.”

“He’s really shaking, isn’t he?”

“Probably in shock.” Rob took her hand and laid it against the pup’s sheet-swathed shoulder. “If you can press firmly right about here, maybe that will slow the blood flow.”

Then he gently pushed her knee out of harm’s way and slammed the door. Loped to the other side and climbed into the driver’s seat. His countenance creased as he glanced at her. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded in apparent approval as he started the engine, then backed the Jeep enough to swing it around and head for the rock-and-dirt road that wound through the Singing Rock property. Acutely aware of gravel crunching under the tires and the sun dappling through the pines overhead, she adjusted her hold on Elmo as his warm body continued to shiver in her arms. “I wonder what happened to him?”

“No tellin’.” Rob eased the vehicle around a sharp corner. “Maybe something fell on him. He’s rather accident-prone.”

“Is he?” She glanced down at Elmo and gave him a gentle squeeze, praying he’d be okay. “Poor little guy.”

The pup lifted his nose and swiped a tongue across her chin. She glanced up in time to see a smile tug at Rob’s lips. Where was her camera when she needed it? Record that one for posterity.

He nodded toward the pup. “Looks as if he thinks he’s found a friend.”

“For life,” she said, bracing her feet as they jolted along the rutted, winding road. Passing by another of the property’s cabins, its guests relaxing on the porch, she marveled at the day’s turn of events. When she’d awakened that morning, never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined she’d be on a rescue mission with an injured dog that wasn’t hers. Or with Rob McGuire, for that matter.

He wasn’t hers, either.

Yet.

She directed her smile at Elmo. “Hang in there, Rob’s going to save you.”

Halfway across a creek that snaked through Singing Rock’s acreage, the Jeep jerked to a halt on the weathered bridge. Rob stuck his arm out the window, motioning to a muscular, Western-hatted man picking his way along the edge of the water, a fishing pole and tackle box in hand.

“Brett!”

The man, dressed in jeans and a collarless blue knit shirt, waved back with a broad smile. But when Rob crept the Jeep to the other side, it must have registered that the tone and gestures weren’t of a happy nature. The man swiftly hopped across the rocks, then scrambled up the embankment, apprehension evident in his features.