How To Rescue A Family

It had been the wrong call, obviously. Ryan should have seen this awkward conversation coming. He was a journalist, for God’s sake. Anticipating conflicts was part of what made him good at his job.

“Dillon won’t read aloud,” he finally said.

“Mr. Carter.” Mrs. Matthews lifted a brow. “Does Dillon speak at all?”

A heaviness came over Ryan all of a sudden, as if the simple act of standing required more energy than he could muster. “No, he doesn’t.”

The problem wasn’t physical. According to his pediatrician back in DC, it was just a temporary manifestation of grief. It wasn’t permanent.

It couldn’t be permanent.

“I see.” The teacher’s voice grew soft. Soothing. “It’s important for me to know exactly what’s going on so I can figure out how to best help your son.”

“Right. I’m sorry. I’d just hoped...” He’d hoped once Dillon was in a new place, with new people, he’d be ready to open up and start over. He’d hoped leaving behind the only home his son had ever known and bringing him to Spring Forest had been the right call. Most of all, he’d hoped that it wasn’t too late to be the kind of father Dillon needed.

The kind he deserved.

“I guess I thought he’d be happy here.” Even just a little bit.

“We’ll do our best to make sure he is,” she said, sounding far more certain than Ryan felt.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced at the window one last time, only instead of catching another glimpse of the inside of the classroom, his gaze snagged on his own reflection in the polished glass. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago. He looked every bit as tired as he felt.

He also looked like a pompous jerk standing in the school hallway dressed in his overly formal bespoke suit and Hermès tie—a pompous jerk who had no idea how to help his own kid.

“I took him to see a therapist a few times before we moved here, and she said the most important thing we can give Dillon is patience. At home, I’ve removed all pressure for him to speak. As soon as he says a word, even if it’s just a whisper, I’m to offer him gentle encouragement. Other than that, I’m just supposed to let him know that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. That’s the only concrete advice she could give me.”

Mrs. Matthews gave him a curt nod. “Then that’s what we’ll do here at school as well. From now on, I won’t call on him to read aloud. During reading circle, I can send him to the library where he can read quietly on his own so he won’t feel pressured in any way. And if I notice him whispering or speaking in class, I’ll be sure and reward him—nothing too over the top, so he won’t be singled out from the other kids. Maybe a sticker or a baseball card? Does this plan work for you?”

Ryan nodded. “It does. Thank you for your help. It means a lot.”

Dillon’s school in DC hadn’t been so accommodating. Ryan had considered homeschooling, but there was no way he could juggle that with his workload at the Post. Their only option had been a completely new start.

New town, new school, new life.

“Of course. If you wait here, I’ll tell him you’ve come to take him home. The bell will be ringing in just a few minutes.” The teacher turned toward the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. “And Mr. Carter, try not to worry. We all want what’s best for Dillon. He’s a lucky little boy to have a father like you.”

Ryan nodded his thanks as a dullness spread throughout his chest, blossoming into a familiar regret.

He’s a lucky little boy to have a father like you.

If only that were true.

* * *

As soon as Amanda turned her red 1967 Chevy pickup onto Little Creek Road, dread tangled into a hard knot in the pit of her stomach. A third of the large oak trees along the old country road were down and the ones left standing had been stripped bare of their leaves. It looked like something straight out of a horror movie had come along and taken a machete to the forest, severing the top right off every white oak in sight.

Something horrific had come to their town, of course. The tornado that ravaged Spring Forest had touched down exactly a week ago.

Amanda had called to check on Bunny and Birdie the morning after the storm, so she really shouldn’t have been surprised by the extent of the damage. But hearing about it and seeing it were two entirely different things.

Her hands shook on the steering wheel as the memories of that awful night came back to her—the deafening roar as the twister spun down Main Street, the horrible way her apartment windows had rattled in their frames, the cool press of the bathtub’s porcelain against her cheek as she curled into a ball and did her best to ride out the storm. It was terrifying, and all in all, Spring Forest’s modest downtown area had fared pretty well. She couldn’t imagine how scared the Whitaker sisters must have been, not to mention the poor helpless animals in the shelter.

Her eyes filled with tears just thinking about it.

Get a grip. You’re fine. Everyone is fine.

Still, she’d feel better as soon as she got a glimpse of Tucker, her favorite dog at Furever Paws, and made sure he wasn’t traumatized. Not that she’d be able to tell, exactly. The little Chihuahua/dachshund mix—or chiweenie, as Birdie and Bunny liked to say—was notoriously standoffish. Amanda’s nickname for him was Grumpy. Which, now that she thought about it, would also be a suitable moniker for Ryan Carter.

Was it weird that she seemed to be attracted to cranky men and equally cranky dogs?

Probably. But at least she was consistent.

Consistently ridiculous. She maneuvered the truck into the shelter’s gravel parking lot, and rolled her eyes. So what if her tastes were a bit...odd? As she’d told Belle again and again, she didn’t have time for either a pet or a boyfriend, so it really didn’t matter how cranky the mysterious Mr. Carter could be. The grumpier, the better. If he looked right through her when she handed him his coffee, he’d be easier to ignore.

Except he hadn’t looked right through her on the street earlier. On the contrary, he’d focused on her with such blinding intensity it had made her head spin a little. For a minute, she’d thought he might be flirting with her. He’d even been charming, in a serious, formal sort of way.

I never lie about coffee.

Was she supposed to laugh at that? She had no idea. She only knew that all the butterflies in North Carolina had seemed to gather in her tummy at once, making her feel all fluttery and wonderful.

And then his hint of a smile had flattened into a straight line and he’d left before she could process what was happening. Perfect. Just perfect.

She climbed out of the truck and slammed the door a little harder than necessary. Why was she even thinking about Ryan Carter when Furever Paws was right in front of her looking seriously worse for wear?

The fence surrounding the property was flat on the ground, and the roof of the main shelter building looked as if the entire right side had been pried off with a can opener. The damage definitely looked worse than Birdie and Bunny had let on. Much, much worse. Even with good insurance, how long would it take before everything was fully restored?

As she stood surveying the destruction, she caught a glimpse of a gray flash out of the corner of her eye. She whipped her head around, but no longer saw anything. Just trees swaying in the breeze and branches scattered in every direction. She squinted, peering into the tree line. The other day, she could have sworn she saw a stray gray dog trotting past the window at the Grille. But when she’d gone outside to try to lure it indoors, it had been nowhere to be found. Sometimes she wondered if she was seeing things.

Amanda turned and held her breath, bracing herself as she pushed through the building’s glass double doors. Thankfully, the inside of the shelter seemed to have fared much better than the outside. Other than a few buckets placed strategically around the lobby to catch rainwater, things looked generally the same as they had when she’d shown up for her volunteer shift last week. Just damper, although the industrial-sized fan whirring in the corner seemed to be doing its best to dry things out.

“Afternoon, Amanda.” Hans Bennett, the shelter volunteer manning the front desk, waved and called out to her above the hum of the fan.

“Hi, Hans.” She waved back, and as she approached the counter, she spotted a kitten nestled in Hans’s lap.

Of course.

In the epic dogs versus cats question, the older gentleman was firmly on the side of the felines. Since he’d retired and doubled down on his volunteer hours at the shelter, he’d become a virtual hero every kitten season when the shelter was always bursting with frail, furry bodies that needed to be bottle-fed round the clock.

“Who’ve you got there?” she asked, nodding toward the little ginger tabby napping on Hans’s khakis.

“This here’s Lucille Ball.” He grinned and rubbed the tip of his pointer finger along the kitten’s tiny cheek.

“Lucille Ball? Cute. Let me guess—Birdie and Bunny let you name her.” Hans was nothing if not nostalgic for times gone by. He was the president of the Spring Forest Historical Society and had a thorough knowledge of the area’s involvement in the Underground Railroad back during the Civil War. Amanda couldn’t help having a soft spot for him.

“They did. As I’m sure you can tell, they’ve got their hands pretty full at the moment.” He cast a knowing glance at the ceiling.

Amanda followed his gaze and shook her head. “This is bad. Has the insurance company sent anyone out to take a look?”