Waiting Out the Storm. Ruth Herne Logan
Great guard dogs, good bonders when housed with a flock at an early age. Smart. Independent. Faithful, not easily cowed. Willing to go their own way, awaiting no man’s guidance.
As he observed the dignified profiles of dog and woman, Craig couldn’t help but see how well they suited one another.
Chapter Two
Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and forgettest our affliction and our oppression? Sarah finished the words of the forty-fourth Psalm mentally, kneading Gino’s ruff as he sloughed off his grogginess.
The poignant words touched her with their talk of sheep and oppression. Enemies. The poem was an aged song of lament and pathos. It helped smooth the dent to her self-worth, gouged deeper by Craig Macklin’s disdain. How she wished…
Nope. She wouldn’t go there. Refused to go there. Craig Macklin was entitled to his opinion, no matter how unreasonable it might be. Craig’s reticence toward sheep was no secret among the local herders. The vets worked things out between them, leaving Hank the man to consult for sheep and goat problems.
By default, being a shepherd and a Slocum gave the younger veterinarian a two-fold reason to avoid Sarah, a task he did well. Knowing his grandmother’s circumstance, Sarah understood why, but wished she didn’t bear responsibility for her half brother’s actions.
But she’d get nowhere feeling sorry for herself. No way, no how. She led Gino to the scarred pickup. The old Ford wasn’t snazzy like Craig’s polished 4X4, but it had a certain dignity in its aged finish, a little rough around the edges. Like me, she noted, shifting to allow Gino access.
The thought made her smile.
The memory of Craig’s face erased it. The tall, handsome, sandy-haired vet usually steered clear of Sarah. At community functions he looked around her, avoiding eye contact. His animosity toward Slocums was unspoken but obvious.
She had never sought his help in a farm crisis. Today was an aberration.
Craig Macklin knew his stuff, though. In her years of farming, she’d never heard a complaint against him, and North Country farmers were not easily appeased. His thick, sturdy hands had been firm but gentle as he treated Gino.
She stopped by the local grocery before heading to her sister-in-law’s home in Potsdam. Leaving Gino sleeping in the cab, she approached the front door.
No one answered her knock. She leaned on the bell with more force than should be necessary, if it were working. Obviously not.
Unlocked, the door swung inward with ease. She stepped in, her nose telling her the whole place could use a thorough cleaning. Her eyes took time to adjust to the darkness Rita called home.
“Rita? It’s Sarah. I’ve brought things.”
No answer.
Sarah shifted the sacks and pushed through the antique swinging door between the rooms, its warm russet grain a comfort.
The kitchen was empty of people, but littered with debris.
Sarah grimaced, shifted piles of mail and old newspapers, then set the groceries on the table before she headed upstairs, calling Rita’s name. A glance out the landing window showed Gino still asleep on the bench seat of the F-250. The driver’s-side window was cracked open, but she didn’t dare leave him long untended. A good dog, but young. He could get into mischief without direction.
Calling Rita’s name once more, Sarah crossed the upstairs hall and twisted the knob on her sister-in-law’s room. “Reet? You sleeping?”
A slight movement revealed her sister-in-law’s presence on the bed. Sarah stepped in, reached for the light, then rethought her choices. “I brought a few things. Where are the kids?”
“Movies. Liv took them.”
“Nice. What did they go to see?”
Rita shifted, then rolled, a pillow clutched to her chest. “Some animated thing.”
Sarah blinked. There was no animated movie playing in town. Did Liv take the car? Drive to Canton? She was two years shy of her license but she’d pulled some interesting deals recently. Sarah scanned the driveway through the nearby window. “Is the car in the garage?”
Rita’s old-fashioned garage was behind the home, not visible from this angle.
“In the drive.”
Sarah bit back words of recrimination. Obviously Liv had taken off with the car and the kids, with Rita clueless as to their whereabouts. Dear Lord, she prayed, trying to ignore the dank smell of despair. The room reeked of hopelessness. Loss of faith. A keen smell, the mix of body salts, sweat and sour breath.
“Come downstairs, Reet. I’ll make us a quick supper.” Then I’ll tackle my niece, she promised silently, her anger rising. Couldn’t Liv see her mother’s desperation, the depression that seized her?
Of course she could. In her own adolescent way, Liv was trying to fill the shoes her parents vacated. The same thing that pushed Sarah to buy a farm on Waterman Hill instead of south of Albany like she’d planned. Rita and the kids needed sensible family around, and that was a scarce commodity in the North Country.
Sarah grasped Rita’s hand. “Come on, Reet. Come down and talk to me; I’ll straighten up the kitchen while we chat.”
“Go away, Sarah.”
The response brought Sarah’s chin higher. “Won’t work, not with me. That’s the one part of Slocum that bred true. I’m stubborn as an ox and you need to eat. Embrace the sunshine. It’s almost spring, Rita. Let’s go down together. Please?”
Rita clutched the pillow tighter. “I can’t. I need to rest.”
All you do is rest, thought Sarah, impatience rising. That’s all you’ve done for over a year.
“You can. You have to. Liv, Brett and Skeeter are counting on you.”
“Not anymore.”
“Reet—”
“Sarah, I’m tired.” Rita’s gaze shifted to the curtained window. She blinked as if the shade-mellowed light hurt her eyes. “So tired.”
The first months following Tom’s death had seemed almost normal. Rita had gone on, looking neither right nor left, as if everything were okay.
But then the insurance company rejected Rita’s claim because of a two-year “no suicide” clause. It had been eighteen months since Tom changed companies.
His smaller policy was intact, but the monetary value was minimal compared to the loss of his income. He had developed a retirement portfolio of stocks and mutual funds outside of his illicit investments, but they were inaccessible to Rita because Ed Slocum’s name was included on the portfolio. Without Ed’s blessing, the fund’s worth remained out of reach until retirement. Twenty-plus years, give or take. And Ed had no intention of divesting the portfolio, regardless of Rita’s financial situation.
Rita had crashed with that realization. Just slid right down into oblivion. Rita, who made eyes widen and mouths water with some of the most beautiful and innovative cakes and pastries the area had ever seen, now lived in a hovel, with ovens that hadn’t been fired up since… Well, probably since the last time Sarah cooked a meal.
Watching the prone figure, Sarah felt overwhelmed. How do I help her, God? How do I ease her out of the pain, out of the darkness?
No answers came in the fetid room. Rita lay still, eyes open but unseeing, wrestling demons Sarah could only imagine. And had no desire to.
A scramble of feet and voices headed toward the kitchen a short time later. The door burst open. Gino, comfortably ensconced on the back porch, ambled to his feet, watchful and curious.
“Hey, Aunt Sarah!”
“Hey, yourself, Skeets. Come here.” Arms wide, Sarah enfolded