Part 8 (2/2)
”I don't think so,” she replied, giving Sam's arm another jerk. ”Come on; keep moving.”
Sam shrugged away from Anne's grasp. Another battle lost. Okay, fine, she thought, she'd walk to the neighbor's d.a.m.n cabin. Maybe she had promised to cooperate, but she had to draw the line somewhere. Anne was taking complete control of her life, and she'd had enough of that from her father and Jackson. Anne wouldn't win the next fight. With a sense of purpose that she hadn't felt for a long time, Sam took a firm step. The other woman followed.
As they approached the cabin, two dogs rushed toward the chain-link fence surrounding the cabin, startling Sam. She stopped while the dogs danced around barking. Behind them, back in the far corner, she spied another dog, cowering next to a tree. Two black ears lay flat against its head while it stared at the world with haunted eyes, as if at any moment it expected a blow to fall. Pink patches of skin showed along its haunches, and even at this distance, she could see the poor thing's ribs. She thought of Alice's pampered poodles. This dog had never been pampered in its life.
The dog's eyes suddenly locked onto her, and in an instant, her mind flashed back to the parking garage, and she saw herself on her knees, begging for her life. Humiliated and afraid to move-just like that dog. It's not fair-no living creature, not even a dog, should ever experience that kind of terror. Her breath caught in her throat as the dog's eyes seemed to plead for help. The blood rushed to her face and all the anger bottled up inside her burst. She hadn't been able to save herself, but maybe she could save this dog. With determined steps, she limped past the fence and headed toward the small deck that extended from the front of the cabin.
”What are you doing, Sam?” she heard Anne call from behind her, but she ignored her.
Grasping the railing, she hauled herself up the steps, one at a time. She crossed the deck and pounded on the front door. From inside, she heard the soft strains of a saxophone.
Suddenly the music stopped and a man wearing jeans-no s.h.i.+rt, just jeans-answered and stepped out on the deck. Above his narrow waist, dark hair trailed across his tan chest. From what Sam could see, and she could see quite a bit, he didn't have an ounce of fat on him.
”Yes?” he said as his dark brown eyes questioned her.
Shaken by the vision of a half-dressed man standing in front of her, Sam felt her words die in her throat. Then she remembered the dog with the frightened eyes and her anger flared again.
”You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she lectured, jabbing a finger at the man. ”That poor dog out there. He needs help, and-”
”It's not a *he'; it's a *she.' Roxy. And I know she needs help,” he interrupted, studying Sam. ”You're not from around here, are you?”
Sam squared her shoulders and glared at him. ”We're not talking about me-we're talking about that dog. And if you don't take better care of her, I'll report you to the ASPCA.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the side of the door. ”Go ahead.”
Her eyes narrowed. ”You don't care if I turn you in for cruelty to animals? They'll fine you and take your dogs away.”
”I know.” Straightening, he reached into his back pocket. ”Here's my card. You want to make sure you get my name right when you turn me in,” he said, and handed her the card.
In the shade of the porch, she squinted to read the words.
The blood rushed to her face again, but not in anger-in embarra.s.sment.
The card read Greg Clemons, Animal Behaviorist, Scott County Animal Rescue League.
”You-you,” she stuttered.
His mouth curved in a smile. ”Yeah, I foster abused dogs-”
Sam turned away before he could say anything else, but he reached out and, touching her arm, stopped her.
”Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarra.s.s you. I was only yanking your chain a little. Truthfully, I admire your pa.s.sion,” he said with laughter in his voice. ”Would you like to meet Roxy?” He looked over at Anne and waved.
”No, no, thanks,” Sam said, jerking away from him. Putting her head down, she hurried across the porch. She heard Anne cry out to be careful, but in her haste, she missed the first step. With a squeak, she pitched forward, and thudded to the ground at the base of the steps.
Her right leg crumpled beneath her and both Anne and Greg rushed toward her. Rolling over on her bottom, she pulled up into a sitting position.
Crouching, Anne ran her hand gently down Sam's ankle. ”Are you hurt?”
”I'm fine,” Sam replied.
Anne looked up at Greg. ”Nothing feels broken, but it's starting to swell.”
”I said, it's okay,” Sam argued as Anne and Greg helped her stand. A small groan escaped as she tried to put weight on her ankle.
”Wait right here,” Greg said, holding up both hands and backing away. Turning, he ran to the house, leaving Sam leaning on Anne. A moment later, he returned, now wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt and carrying keys in his hand. He hurried up to Sam and scooped her up as if she weighed nothing.
”Wait-stop.” Hating this stranger's closeness, Sam struggled against him. ”Put me down. What are you doing?”
”Taking you to the emergency room,” he answered, and gripped her legs tighter. ”You need an X-ray.”
Sam squirmed harder. ”No! No hospitals!” she cried with a helpless look back at Anne.
Anne came up even with them and placed a hand on Greg's arm. ”Wait. I'm pretty sure it's not broken. It's probably just bruised. Why don't you take her inside and I'll give Dr. Miller a call? See what he has to say about bringing her in.”
With a shrug, Greg reversed his position and carried Sam inside his cabin. Striding over to the couch, he deposited her on it, propping up her legs.
”I'll get an ice pack,” he said, turning away and heading for the small kitchen off the living room. Anne followed, dialing her cell as she went.
Alone, Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. How could she have been so stupid? Yelling at a complete stranger then taking a header off the porch. If her father and Jackson found out about this, they'd have a fit. Looking down at her legs, she was more concerned about her father and her fiance's reaction to her fall than she was her ankle.
Her attention s.h.i.+fted to the small living room. A large sound system dominated the wall to her left and, in the corner, sat a basket full of what appeared to be chew toys. At least those dogs weren't forced to spend their entire lives outside, Sam thought, spying several dog hairs littering the couch. Plucking at one, she turned as Greg and Anne entered the room.
”Well?” she asked, her eyebrows lifting.
”Dr. Miller said to wrap your ankle and ice it,” Anne answered.
”No X-ray?”
”Not now. But he'll want to see you if there's much swelling or if it isn't better by tomorrow.”
Sam breathed a sigh of relief. ”It will be,” she said, swinging her legs off the couch. ”I think you're making a lot of fuss over nothing.”
She made a move to stand, but before she could, Greg swept her off her feet.
”Not again,” she cried, pus.h.i.+ng against him.
”I'm driving you back to your cabin,” he stated flatly as he carried her toward the door.
”I can walk.”
”That's not a good idea,” Anne said from behind them. ”Dr. Miller wants you to stay off of that leg as much as possible.”
”But I can walk to the car,” Sam argued, squirming in Greg's arms.
”You heard Anne,” Greg said, his tone short. ”And, lady, if you don't stop wiggling, I'm going to wind up dropping you.” He leaned his head closer to Sam. ”Then your ankle won't be the only thing that's bruised.”
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