Page 85 of Almost Rotten

Before I realize she’s in motion, she’s out the door.

She takes off down the steps and into the rain, her footfalls quick as she jogs down the path toward the parking lot.

Chapter thirty-three

Noah

“God dammit,” I snarl. “You scared her away.”

The forlorn look on his face confirms what I already knew. He was shocked, not angry, but he went straight into defensive mode. The man hates surprises. He hates almost all situations where he isn’t prepared and in control.

“I didn’t realize.” He clutches his hair and tugs. “I didn’t know why she was here. What’s wrong—”

“She showed up unannounced,” I say, turning away from him. “Soaking wet and sobbing. I don’t know what’s wrong because you scared her off before I could get it out of her.” I shove my feetinto my boots, then begrudgingly take the time to tie the laces. “I’m going after her.”

Mercer glances back toward his room, one hand drifting to the headset around his neck.

“I… Jesus H. I still have four people in my queue. I have to take my next call. Noah—”

With a surprising steadiness, I stand to my full height. “It’s okay,” I assure him. “Do what you need to do. I’ll find her. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

I throw my coat over my shoulders and shove my arms into the sleeves.

With a groan, Mercer shuffles back to his bedroom door. He turns back, pressing his fists into the jamb. “Bring her back.”

“I’ll try my best.” I slip out the door, ensuring Shiloh doesn’t follow me. I’ve already given her one bath today, and on a night like this, she’ll end up covered in mud. Then I jog down the porch stairs and run headfirst into the rain. It’s the hard, heavy kind that comes down in sheets, soaking me in a matter of seconds.

When I stomp through a deep puddle and water soaks through my boots, I groan. I should have re-laid the loose pavers this summer.

In the parking lot, I spin around, looking for her.

Her car’s still here, but she’s nowhere in sight.

“Sawyer!”

Between the whipping wind and the ricochet of rain on the roofs of the storefront and barn, I can barely hear myself. I highly doubt she can hear me. Or that she would answer.

I inhale deeply and drag a hand down my face, uselessly trying to wipe the water away.

She couldn’t have gotten too far. Not in these conditions. With the storm still raging, maybe she took shelter. Maybe she’s waiting for the rain to let up.

Turning again, I peer over at the dark storefront. It’s locked up for the night. She couldn’t have gotten in. Just as I decide to check the barn, a high-pitched cry coming from that direction snags my attention.

I take off, my heart in my throat.

When I round the corner, she’s there.

She’s there, near the back door of the barn, standing in the rain, tugging on her arm. Another frustrated cry escapes her.

As I approach, I assess her, confused about what she’s doing.

Once it registers—she’s stuck, her shirtsleeve is ripped, and her arm is sticking out at an odd angle—I surge forward. “Easy. Don’t fight it.”

Desperate, pained eyes search mine, another sob racking through her.

“Oh, honey.”

She’s caught in the pricker patch. Squinting, I study the situation. In the dark and with the downpour, it takes me a minute to find the punctured pale skin oozing with blood among the superficial scratches. The pain radiating from her ignites my anxiety further.