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THE COLLIE CONNECTION

Is now available for order Wings e-Press. 

Blurb:

A month before Jennet Greenway’s wedding to Crane Ferguson, disaster strikes.  Jennet stops on a lonely country road to help a motorist in distress, after which she stumbles over a boulder in the fog and loses consciousness.  When she comes to, her beloved collie, Halley, is gone; and so is the car.  Jennet’s frantic search for Halley leads her into mystery and danger and the haunting fear that she may not live to marry Crane.

EXCERT

A strong smell of strawberry hung in the air.  I opened my eyes and saw the pink veins of a jagged boulder and a stream of red jelly seeping out of a soggy doughnut. The lower left side of my face hurt, and the back of my head throbbed, and . . .  Dear God!  The leash!  My right hand lay against the rock’s sharp side, the left under my chest.  Both were empty.

Halley!

I forced myself to sit up, felt the pain migrate to my eyes, and made myself focus.  I must have tripped over the rock and let the leash fall out of my hand. I called Halley’s name and heard the rising panic in my voice.  There was no answering bark, no sound except for the merry chirruping of unseen birds.  I was alone on an isolated road, and the landscape was subtly different.  The fog had dissipated, leaving the world greener and brighter under a warm sun.

How long had I been unconscious?  And where was Halley? I stood shakily and looked at my watch.  The crystal had broken, but time moved on; it was ten-fifteen.  Although every part of my body hurt, nothing seemed to be broken.  One panel of my long denim skirt was damp from the dewy grasses.  Absently I smoothed it, gasping at the tenderness in my hip.

Memories came in a parade o f rapidly-changing images: The Volkswagen.  The driver who thought she’d hit a deer.  My offer to help her.  The brief walk with Halley.  Stumbling over the boulder.  Waking up.

 
Abruptly I switched the memories off, trying to breathe away the nausea that settled deep inside my body.  Halley was gone.  I’d lost her in this godforsaken wilderness.  
I leaned against a willow sapling that grew near the road and scanned my surroundings: Woods too thick to see through on my left side; that deadly slope and treetops that rose up to meet the ground on my right.  Not a car in sight.  No houses.  No sign of life.  A sense of unreality gripped me, a suspicion that the woman had been unreal, only an illusion; that with the wave of a fairy wand, everything had vanished—the fog, the Volkswagen, its driver, and my dog.  It was magic again.  Dark, dreadful magic that had stolen my best friend. I half expected the Taurus to be gone, too, but it was where I’d left it, silver and gleaming in the morning light, with the door ajar. 

 
In my mind I could hear Crane’s voice with his strict deputy sheriff’s tone.  ‘Never get out of your car on one of these lonely roads, Jennet.  No matter what happens.  And don’t forget to keep your doors locked.’

But how could I have driven past a woman who might have been ill, whose car might have broken down?

If you had, you’d be driving up Jonquil Lane now, and Halley would still be in the back seat, I told myself.

Recriminations were futile.  I had to do something.  To make a plan. I remembered the last time I’d fallen two winters ago when I lived in Oakpoint.  I was leading Halley across an unplowed street.  As we were about to step up to the curb, I’d slid on ice hidden beneath the snow and fallen on my back.

Halley promptly lay down by my side, licking my face anxiously.  She wouldn’t leave me of her own accord.  Not then; not now.

A thought slipped into my mind.  Somebody stole her.  The woman in the Volkswagen, the only other person on Crispian Road.

But how unlikely is that?  Logic whispered.  You do her a good turn and she steals your dog?  Besides, she left before you took Halley out of the car.

Did she?

I couldn’t recall hearing an accelerating engine.  Intent on resuming my journey, I’d never looked back.  Concentrating on Halley, yellow flowers, and my doughnut, I’d never even glanced across the road.

I didn’t know the woman’s name, and there as have been no reason for me to notice her license plate number.  What did I remember?

A white blouse with lace on the front and dainty scallop-edged cuffs.  Shoulder-length jet black hair.  The large diamond ring, the gold necklace.  A Volkswagen the soft blue color of a robin’s egg.  That was unusual.  The only Volkswagens I’d seen were a bright lime green.
I was almost certain that, seeing a beautiful, obviously valuable dog, this woman had coaxed Halley into her car, leaving me lying unconscious on the ground.  Still, I called Halley’s name over and over again and listened to echoes in the silence.

What could I do?  Go on home without Halley?  Come back tomorrow with ‘Lost Dog’ flyers?  Try to if ND a black-haired woman in a pale blue Volkswagen who might well have left the county by now?

Whatever I did, the prospect of being reunited with my dog seemed hopeless. Back in my car, I surveyed my reflection in the mirror.  An ugly purple bruise discolored the left side of my face from my cheekbones down to my chin.  At that moment I remembered my wedding shower.  Suddenly it didn’t matter.

Tears burned in my eyes, obscuring my vision as the fog had earlier.  Automatically, I started the car and drove out onto Crispian Road. ‘Never drive when you’re upset,’ Crane would have said. Once again, I didn’t see another option.  Somehow I had to track down the black-haired woman.  When I found her, I’d find Halley.

Snowhedge

An autumn sun burned down on Greengrove Farm, flooding the charred skeleton of the kennel with harsh morning light. The fire had swept through the structure with the fury of an avenger on a mission. In the end, only the main house escaped with minor damage to the veranda. It hadn’t been the arsonist’s target.

I stood on layers of crushed leaves and scorched vegetation, allowing myself one last look at a dream in ashes.

The home of Larkspur Collies was as dead as the dried stalks at my feet, as dead as the point of this sad, sentimental stop on my way out of town. Impatiently I blinked away the tears and walked back to my car, eager to begin the long drive north to Maple Creek before anything else happened.

I had a plan: All of my possessions packed and a road map of Michigan in the glove compartment. A place to go, my black collie, Romy, in the back seat of the Taurus, the puppies in a safe home.

It felt like running away, but that wasn’t accurate. Call it a strategic retreat or moving on or, simply, a temporary job in another county. Burning bridges? That too. However I chose to describe my leave-taking, I knew I’d never return to Greengrove again.

I pulled the keys out of my jacket pocket and opened the driver’s side door.

Now, hurry. Out of here.

A familiar old Chevie turned off the main road and rattled up the drive. Romy woofed and stuck her head out the window as Marsha Vernon, the farm’s owner and my former landlady, brought the car to a stop. She stepped down carefully on the gravel drive, using her umbrella as a walking stick.

“Susanna! I wanted to see you before you took off.” The sunlight sparkled on her coral earrings and the silver glints in her hair.

“I’m just saying goodbye,” I said.

“I’ll never understand it.” Her voice broke as she looked away from the ruins. “Who would set fire to a kennel?”

“The same monster who torched those stables in Essex and killed six horses.”

“That lowlife Tag Nolan. I hope he burns in hell.”

“Or the judge throws him in jail for a couple of decades.”

“I wish you’d change your mind and stay,” she said. “It’ll take a little time to rebuild, but by spring, you girls can be up and running again.”

I kept the bitter edge from sharpening my tone. “That won’t happen. Amy has a new partner, and I’ve already accepted a job upstate.”

“Oh, too bad. You two worked so well together. You were my best tenants. I was hoping . . .” She peered into the back seat, stroking Romy’s head, frowning. “Where are the puppies? Did you sell them?”

Frosty, Cherie, and Cindy. My two blue merles and my tri. I’d pulled them out of the flames while waiting for the pokey Fire Department to arrive, herded them to the house, and watched the blaze devour the kennel. In the end, the entire structure, even the sign cut in the shape of a collie, was gone.

But I was fortunate. My dogs were alive and Larkspur could rise again some day. Only not here and not with Amy Brackett. The tears were close again. Too close.

Susanna, don’t you cry, I thought. It’s going to be okay. Better than okay. The Kentwoods and their dogs are survivors.

“I dropped them off at a kennel yesterday,” I said. “It’s only fifteen minutes from where I’ll be staying. My new employer doesn’t mind if I bring one dog with me, but not four.”

“Then I guess we’ll see each other at the shows.”

“In Lakeville at Fairoaks, the week after Thanksgiving. I’ll be there.”

“Well . . .” She hesitated for a moment, then hugged me. “Take care of yourself, Susanna. Have a safe trip to wherever you’re heading.”

I promised to do that and said goodbye. She turned away and walked slowly up to the silent house, stabbing at the gravel with her umbrella tip.

As I inserted the key in the ignition, a twinge of pain raced down my right arm and came to rest on my fingers. I stared at my hand, at the heirloom diamond ring I always wore, at nails glossy with shell pink polish.

Not again. Not today when I had miles and miles to drive.

The burns had healed; there was no medical reason for discomfort and only the slightest trace of redness on my skin. Still, sometimes my hand hurt. When it did, my imagination yanked me back to the night of the fire. Smoke poured into my lungs again, and flames licked at my clothing. Inside the barn, the trapped dogs screamed. Panic closed its fist tightly around my throat. I couldn’t breathe through the acrid mist, couldn’t call their names, could hardly make my feet move. But I had to.

I have to save them!

I gripped the wheel and waited for the images to dissolve and the pain to subside. Romy whined softly. I glanced toward the house. Marsha had gone inside, and the ruins of Larkspur lay still and black in the sun.

Quickly I turned the ignition key and drove out to the road. Coming back to the farm had been a mistake. In approximately twenty-five minutes, with light traffic, I should reach the I-75 entrance ramp. By late afternoon I’d be settled in a borrowed country house a hundred miles away from the memories, far from the faint smell of smoke that seemed to linger in the air.