Page 34 of That Stranded Feeling

I walk around the breakfast bar. Maybe, for the first time in her life, she’s napping on the kitchen floor.

He doesn’t look up from his laptop. “Here somewhere.”

I peer out the window over the sink in case he let her out into the back yard for a pee and forgot.

No sign.

My hands go icy cold and start to tremble. It’s like there’s a ten-ton weight on my chest stopping me from breathing.

“Seriously, Owen.” The voice doesn’t sound like mine, it’s loud and shaky. “Where is she?”

I guess whatever that tone was, and wherever it came from, finally snaps him out of his business trance. Well, partially. His eyes momentarily shift from the screen to me while his fingers keep moving.

“Oh, right,” he says. “I forgot. What with the call and everything. Sorry. Yeah, I let her out when I fetched the logs.”

I race to the back door and peer desperately through the little window in it. “I can’t see her anywhere.”

I shove my feet into the boots on the doormat and grab my parka.

“Not that way,” he says casually. “Out the front. When I went to the woodshed.”

He squints at the laptop and runs a finger down the screen, like he’s examining a spreadsheet.

A searing wave of heat rises within me. “You didwhat?”

I run through the cabin to the front door without taking off my boots, my heart pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest.

Owen finally turns away from the laptop and looks at me. His hands fall to his thighs and his brows draw together, like he can’t grasp why I need any further explanation.

“I was going out to get logs to make a nice fire.” He points at the fire. “She wanted to go out. I saw you let her out by herself yesterday. So, I did that.”

I stop in my tracks.

“Out theback.” I point, arm outstretched, to the back door.

He raises his palms in a what-difference-does-it-make gesture.

“Thebackyard.” I jab my finger harder toward the back door as if that makes it clearer. “Which isfenced. She’s a runner.”

Icy cold blood flows through my boiling hot body.

Owen’s entire body droops and his mouth falls open.

“The front is wide open to the road,” I say, my voice cracking.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You should have said.” He looks mortified. Then a glimmer of hope crosses his face. “The road’s still a mess, though. There won’t be any traffic.”

“But she could be anywhere, Owen. She could have wandered anywhere. And it’s freezing. Did you put her coat and boots on?”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

My poor baby girl, out in the snow. We’ve walked up and down the lane a thousand times, but always with her on a leash. She doesn’t know her way out there.

“How long ago?” My hand is on the front door handle.

“About half an hour,” he says with a grimace.

“Holy shit, Owen.”