Bitter Rain (Kate Fox Book 3) Page 18

  Sarah thought a minute. “Not much. I’ve had morning sickness pretty much all day, every day.”

  Dr. Brainard appeared to be about the same age as me and Sarah. Pale and thin, she didn’t look all that healthy herself. She wore black capri workout pants and a ratty fleece, slightly damp from sweat, despite all the massive amounts of time she’d been alerted before she got here.

  “One problem is that you’re dehydrated. Even if you can’t eat, you need to drink.”

  Sarah wasn’t taking the abrupt manner very well. “I drink a lot.”

  Dr. Brainard didn’t seem to notice Sarah’s bark. “Sure. But what? If it’s coffee or tea or caffeinated soda, you’re doing more harm than good.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes at the doctor. “I drink plenty of water.”

  “How about chocolate? That’s a diuretic, too.”

  Sarah started to say something, then stopped. Her mouth formed a surprised O.

  Dr. Brainard raised a thin eyebrow.

  Sarah gripped the bar of the bed. “Oh my God. Grandma sent me a box of dark chocolate from Germany. It’s the only thing that’s tasted good for ages. I ate some this afternoon.” She choked. “Did I hurt the baby?”

  “How much is ‘some’?”

  Sarah glanced at me and away, as if embarrassed. “She sent two pounds, and there’s not much left.”

  Dr. Brainard broke into a grin, and her eyes sparkled. I suddenly liked her a lot more. “Bingo.”

  “What are you saying?” I butted in.

  Dr. Brainard laughed. “What you have is stomach cramps from too much chocolate, coupled with caffeine rush and dehydration. You’re fine. The baby’s fine.”

  Sarah’s tears gushed like the recent Sandhills’ weather.

  “Talk about death by chocolate.” I laughed.

  It was too soon for Sarah. “Shut up. And I mean shut up. You can’t tell anyone about this ever.”

  Dr. Brainard and I laughed harder. “I mean it.”

  A clatter of footsteps brought Robert on the run into the room. He didn’t seem to see me or doc but ran to Sarah. He had hold of her hand and leaned toward her before I could swallow my mirth.

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” So much for Sarah’s downplaying. I guess if you tell your husband you’re in the hospital, no amount of lying can calm the panic.

  Sarah sobbed, unable to tell him anything. He gathered her into his arms, somehow keeping the IV inserted into her wrist. “I love you. It’s okay.”

  Sarah buried her head in Robert’s chest and let out all the fear she’d been toting around for the last few hours.

  Dr. Brainard and I backed out of the room. We stopped in the hallway. “Thank you,” I said. “I had no idea eating chocolate could cause this much trouble.”

  Dr. Brainard shrugged. “I’ve seen it before. We’ll keep her here until morning to get some fluids into her. But she’ll be fine.”

  I introduced myself and learned Laura Brainard came from Denver to join Doc Kennedy’s clinic. I welcomed her to Nebraska, and we chatted briefly before she excused herself to go back to her workout.

  I turned for one last look. Sarah and Robert held tight to each other and spoke quietly. Even though Sarah had been my best friend since kindergarten, she and Robert hadn’t started dating until our last year at the University of Nebraska (Go Big Red). Now I couldn’t imagine one without the other. They had the kind of marriage I’d hoped for with Ted.

  Feeling happy for them and sad for me, I tromped out to my car and woke up Poupon so he could take a break. We wandered through the dark parking lot to the wheat field behind, and I forced him to romp, probably doing me more good than him. With the fresh air and smidgeon more optimism, we settled in for the long drive home.

  Halfway home, dark clouds blotted the moon, probably hanging above my house. Rain hung heavy, waiting to break loose again and create havoc, washing out roads, flooding basements. Don’t give me any of that malarkey about making the grass grow, this was a Genghis Khan rain. It wanted to destroy everything in its path.

  The closer I came to Hodgekiss, there was more evidence a good toad strangler had passed. Ditches ran with highway runoff. My dirt road was crossed with thin ravines and deep ponds. I swerved and braked.

  I finally pulled up in front of my old dumpy house and stared in the darkness.

  What the what?

  18

  Already wet, feeling lonely and depressed about Shelly and Carly, and worn to nubbins, what little fortitude I had left withered. I tried to make sense of the disaster in front of me.

  My yard was a sandbox. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t mowed the grass, because now it was buried under a foot of sand that had washed from the hills behind my house.

  How?

  My cottage sat on a slight rise above the lake. It wasn’t supposed to flood from behind.

  In the dark, details weren’t clear, but sand had washed through and over the wire fence separating the wild pasture from my garden and yard. Like a lava flow, it kept coming, spreading across the grass and creeping up to the house.

  I parked on a sandy moraine, the old gravel of the parking area buried. I might as well have been walking along a Mexican beach, except I didn’t even want a margarita. A breeze still carried Nebraska’s spring chill, several degrees colder now since the sun went down.

  I checked the rain gauge nailed to the fence post of my yard. It could register up to five inches, but that puppy overflowed. The old place had been built a football field away from the northern-most hill. In anyone’s imagination, that ought to be far enough away to avoid any wash from a summer storm. But who plans for a five-inch downpour? Far as I knew, Nebraska didn’t qualify as a rainforest.

  Poupon trotted off, not showing much solidarity as I plodded on soggy sand to where my sweet garden had been planted. Not even a tip of a lettuce leaf poked through.

  As bad as the outside looked, my stomach did that flip and sink, like a boat in heavy seas, when I focused on the house. What kind of mess waited for me inside?

  The cement of the bottom step of the porch was buried, not a good sign. Aside from the damp that caused the wood frame to swell, the screen seemed to hang straight and the front door opened without a problem. So at least the house hadn’t been knocked off its foundation.

  I hit the light switch, not surprised it didn’t respond. REA, Rural Electric Association, put in place by Roosevelt so many years ago, was truly a wonder. But out in the great American West, it often cut out. Again, not a crisis, since someone would fix it. In the meantime, I could sleep here. Since I hadn’t stopped at Dutch’s grocery store, I had to get morning coffee at the Long Branch anyway. If it took longer than a day for the juice to come on, I could always stay with Mom and Dad.

  Poupon’s claws clicked on the wood floor as he beelined for the couch.

  I took a little of my irritation out on him. “No dogs on the furniture.”

  He immediately plopped his butt on the floor and gave me a look of surprise. I countered with, “I mean it.”

  I didn’t think dogs could shrug, but it kind of looked like Poupon did.

  I slipped into the heavy evening air to retrieve Big Dick from the cruiser and once back inside, braced myself for the trip to the basement. Along the way, I inspected the eight windows, and they seemed leak-free. No drips from the ceiling in the two tiny bedrooms, the living room, and the kitchen.

  Wincing, I opened the door to the five-foot-wide back porch that protected the basement steps. The pond smell hit me first, confirming my fear. With growing trepidation, I pointed Big Dick down to see rippling dark waves.

  Drat. No, not drat. Damn. Not even. Damn it to hell.

  I perched on the step above the water line and inspected my basement from wall to wall in the beam. Washer and dryer would be toast. I wasn’t an amateur when it came to basements and had taken the precaution to not leave any belongings on the floor. So things like boxes of old tax returns and pictures and all that stupid crap
you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away but didn’t know what to do with were stored on steel shelves. I wasn’t so lucky with other things I’d tossed downstairs intending to put away later. Such as laundry, muddy boots, ice skates, and who knows what else.

  I plucked my phone from my pocket, dialed, and waited for Michael to answer. Lauren picked up instead. “Glad you called. How did the date with Heath go?”

  “Uh. It wasn’t a date, but fine.”

  She giggled. “I knew you’d hit it off. He’s such a cutie, right?”

  It was cranky of me, but I cut her off. “Is Michael around?”

  She sounded hurt, and I immediately felt like a jerk. “He’s in the barn. I’ll take the phone out.”

  I brushed my damp curls away from my face. “Don’t do that. Do you still have that sump pump?”

  “Huh?” I waited while she shifted gears. “What do you need that for?”

  “I take it you guys didn’t get that gully washer. My basement looks like Stryker Lake threw up in it and smells like a pool of Michael’s dirty socks.”

  She thought a moment. “I’m sure we loaned that to Twyla and Bud when they had that leak at the Long Branch.”

  “Okay. Hey, thanks for dinner the other night. It was delicious.”

  She giggled again. Apparently we were still friends. “You guys make the cutest couple.”

  I started up the steps, already tired out and with a long way to go before the day ended.

  Ten minutes later I pushed into the Long Branch. Most of the tables were full. Must have been a program at the school, maybe awards night or Baccalaureate. Since Bud had hired the wife of the new guy at the feed store, Twyla stood behind the bar in a fine mood. Waiting tables tended to ruffle her fur, so until another waitress turnover, she was in tall cotton.

  I headed straight for her and plopped on my favorite bar stool. From the mirror over the bar, I spotted a few regulars and diners scattered around the tables. A good Sandhiller would stop and say a few words to friends and neighbors. Especially if they happened to be an elected county official who might want to run again. I’d reached my social limit for the day, though.

  Twyla saw me coming and tossed a bar rag toward the cash register. It landed on a coffee can, which I assumed held donations for the Dugans. I’d be sure to take it off before I left.

  Twyla reached for the cooler under the bar. She brought out a bottle of beer with a logo I didn’t recognize. “Got this new microbrew from a place in Ogallala. Try it out.”

  With a flick of an opener, she popped the top and set the bottle in front of me. Twyla rested her hip on the bar. “So, you’ve got a flock of ganders pitching woo. Who’re ya gonna settle on? I got my vote, but I’m not going to tell.”

  I took a draw on the beer to keep from baring my teeth. The cold bubbles hit my mouth with a burst of hops that could choke a bull. I coughed with my lips clamped and swallowed.

  Twyla waited a second, and when I didn’t answer, she shrugged. “Keep the mystery alive while you can. So, how’s Sarah?”

  Sarah would be irritated word got out. “Going to be fine. Nothing wrong.”

  Twyla accepted that. “I didn’t figure I’d get details from you. You’re like your dad that way, keeping information to yourself. Sarah’s lucky to have you in her corner.”

  That seemed overly mushy coming from Twyla. I wanted to save us both from embarrassing tenderness. “Lauren said you’ve got their sump pump. Can I borrow it?”

  Twyla lifted an unlit cigarette to her lips and stuck it in the corner of her mouth. She glanced at the ceiling, though I doubted the pump hung there. “Let’s see.” She swung her head toward the back of the bar, where it opened into the kitchen. “Bud! Where’s that ol’ sump pump?”

  Nothing.

  “Bud!” That siren could wake a sleeping teenager, but it didn’t have any effect on Bud.

  Twyla spun around and stomped to the kitchen. “Damn it, Bud.” There was more, but I turned my attention to the hoppy goodness in front of me.

  Someone slid onto the bar stool next to mine. “Are you here for supper?”

  I looked up at Josh Stevens next to me. If I had to talk to anyone, Josh would be better than most. In fact, I actually brightened to see him.

  I returned his grin. “Just stopped in to talk to Twyla. What are you up to?”

  He set a half-filled bottle of the same microbrew in front of him. “On my way from branding cleanup for Shorty Cally. Thought I’d get sandwiches for me and Dad so I don’t have to cook.”

  My muscles unwound a click or two. “How’s Enoch?”

  He took a pull on the beer, and his face fell. “He’s going to that lost place more and more. I’m not sure how long I can keep him home.”

  Josh’s MO seemed to be a caretaker. Loyalty and protection almost got him thrown in jail for murder a few months back. “Sorry to hear that.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll figure something out. Why don’t we get a bite to eat?”

  I wouldn’t have minded relaxing here and having another beer with Josh, talking about nothing over a greasy burger and fries. That’d be fine. If I didn’t have a drowned house to resuscitate.

  Twyla stomped back out stuffing a French fry in her mouth. How someone could live on the grease and dubious nutrition of the Long Branch food and stay so skinny is a question for the sphinx. She eyed me, stopped for a rocks glass, and filled it with one, two, three fingers of Jack Daniel’s, taking her time.

  She finally sauntered over, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Bud took the damned pump to the house. He thinks it’s in the shed.”

  “I can go find it,” I said.

  She shook her head, her dark hair flapping back and forth. “A hound couldn’t find a dead rabbit in that shed. Bud’ll bring it tomorrow. You sit tight and eat. Bud’s got some good hot beef sandwiches tonight.”

  Josh brightened, maybe thinking there was hope for dinner after all.

  My phone rang, and I pulled it from my pocket, only half-irritated to see it was Jeremy.

  He sounded chipper, as always. “It’s a lovely day in the Sandhills, don’t you think?”

  “If you like the rain.”

  “It makes the grass grow.”

  Here we go again. “What do you need?”

  All charm and sweetness. “What makes you think I need anything?”

  I waited.

  “Okay. Yeah. The alternator went out on my pickup.”

  My diving vacation spun further away. “How much?”

  He hurried to assure me. “No. I got this covered.”

  “Then why are you calling me?”

  He sounded hurt. “Jeez. You’re so hard.”

  “And?”

  He huffed. “Okay. Can I borrow your car for a few days while mine gets worked on?”

  I burst out in disbelief, “Elvis?”

  He sounded like a little boy. “Well, I can’t really drive the cop car, can I?”

  I shook my head. “Elvis is like my child. I’ve had him almost as long as I’ve had you as a brother, and I think I like him better.”

  “Ouch.”

  I didn’t feel bad.

  He tried again. “I promised Bill Hardy I’d break that colt and help him get his hay machinery ready. I can’t let him down.”

  My fight woke up. “Hardys live twenty miles from town.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I need wheels to get there. It’s not like I’m taking the car to Broken Butte to cruise Main. It’s a job.”

  No. Not Elvis.

  He sounded desperate. “I really need the job. Especially if I have to pay for a new alternator.”

  Damn it. I sighed. “Okay.”

  All happiness and sunshine. “You’re the best. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  He’d known I’d say yes. “I just picked it up. Man, your place is a mess.”

  “Maybe you could help me clean it up?”

  “I’d love to, but the
job. Starts really early.”

  He hung up, and I turned back to Josh, who gave me a silly smile.

  Oh, what the heck. I needed a new plan, and a girl’s got to eat. “Sure. Hot beef sounds great.”

  Twyla gave Josh an expectant look. “Two?”

  His mouth ticked up. “You bet.”

  When Twyla left, he leaned on the bar and gave me his whole focus. “What do you need the pump for?”

  The beer and company relaxed me some. “Basement sprung a leak with that last toad strangler.”

  “Are you heading back out to your place? I could help.”

  Wow. “That would—” Something wrapped around my middle and weighted on my shoulders. High-pitched squealing startled me, and before I could pull my gun, which wasn’t my first reaction, I glanced in the mirror above the bar.

  Louise’s youngest boys, twins Zeke and Mose, continued their ambush, making gun noises and yelling in their eight-year-old outdoor voices.

  Louise stomped through the glass door and positioned herself behind me. She clapped her hands, like Thor’s thunder. “Mose. Zeke. Stop that.”

  Amid their “aws” and “mans,” they let go.

  I ruffled their messy heads. Louise had strict rules, which included homework and an early bedtime on school nights. “Are you little dudes here to eat?”

  Louise folded her arms and watched the boys, avoiding eye contact with Josh. He’d helped her out of an embarrassing situation a few years earlier, and she’d never been comfortable with him since. “We’re on our way home now.”

  “Mom said we could stop to give our money tonight.” Zeke dug a fist into his jeans pocket.

  Mose copied him. “Yeah. We saved a whole bunch.”

  Zeke pulled out a handful of quarters and dimes. Mose produced a neatly folded five-dollar bill. They held them out to show me. Zeke gave a solemn nod to his brother’s treasure. “Dad changed our money into dollars at the gas station. I got the leftover money, and Mose gots the big dollars.”

  Josh gave them an appreciative grin. “Wow. That must have taken you a long time to save up.”

  The boys looked adorable in their seriousness. Mose spoke for them. “It’s from chores and birthday money.”