“Churchill?”
The whites of his eyes bulge in his mud-covered face, and whatever he’s struggling against is making it worse. He’s not getting anywhere.
All thoughts of being murdered vanish as I scramble down the bank, slipping quicker than expected thanks to the rain switching from drizzle to downpour, and rush to him as quickly as I can. Thick squelchy mud sucks me in like quicksand, along with one of my trainers.
“Shit and fuck.”
Trying not to scare Churchill so he doesn’t hurt himself more, I approach him as calmly as possible.
“Hey, Churchy, it’s okay.” I don’t know if he remembers me—and in all honesty, given the amount of toast I’ve fed him recently, I’d be insulted if he didn’t—but his struggling seems to slow once I’m close enough to stroke him. “Shhhh. It’s going to be okay.”
His head pokes through the hedge, and his body appears to be in the field on the other side, but it’s hard to tell. Taking the torch and peering down, it’s nearly impossible with all the rain hammering my face, but as I crouch, I think I can make out barbed wire looped around his foot and back leg. There’s so much of it I can’t tell where it begins or ends. But given the amount of blood pouring down him, I’d say it was a lot.
“Oh buddy, how’ve you gotten yourself into thismess?” His cry in response nearly sets me off too, especially when his head leans into my hand as I stroke him. “It’s okay. I’m going to help you.”
It doesn’t take my long-forgotten girl guide skills to figure things out.
I need something to cut the barbed wire, I need enough muscle to lift a fifty-kilo goat, and I need a car.
But mostly, because I know I can’t do this alone, I need a vet.
I pray I have enough cell reception to google the number for Valentine Nook vets, and when I do, I add another, hoping it’ll be my lucky night and someone else will answer.
But it’s not, and they don’t.
CHAPTER 14
Hendricks
“Are you sure that’s what you heard?”
“Yes. She was talking to Benson. She’s leaving at Easter. Back to Australia.”
I knew this would happen. I don’t even know when, over the past few weeks, I’d convinced myself it wouldn’t. Story is leaving again.
“But I thought she was staying until the end of the school year.” Miles picks out a piece of cucumber from the salad and tosses it in his mouth. “That’s what Clare said.”
“Your intel is wrong.”
“It’s not wrong.”
“Milo. I heard her with my own ears. She’s going back to Australia at Easter.”
“Why were you up at Benson’s office anyway?” Lando interrupts before Miles and I start arguing again.
I take a deep breath, then another, but they’re ineffective. What I want is a drink, a large glass of vodka, tequila, or whiskey. Anything. But I’m on call. Therefore, I’m drinking sparkling water. Just how myfucking day is going. I barely drink anyway, but on the one night I really need something to take the edge off, I have to abstain.
My teeth crunch together as I grit out the word. “Sienna.”
Lando looks from me to Miles and back. I can’t bring myself to continue. I’m too furiously swiping bread around my bowl of bolognaise and stuffing it into my mouth. If my mouth is full, then maybe it’ll give me a second to calm down before I punch a hole in the wall. Or cry.
“Sienna’s been calling him. We don’t know why. Hen called Arthur this morning, and Arthur’s not heard from her or the solicitors. He was seeing Benson because he wanted to warn the school in case Sienna showed up?—”
“What? Is that likely?”
“Who knows. I don’t even know if she’s aware which school Max attends.”
They both turn to me, and I shake my head.
