Lindsay McKenna - High Country Rebel

“It’s okay, Zeke,” he rasped, opening his eyes. He’d never been so damned weak. Not even when he’d been wounded in the field had he felt like this.

“Talon?”

The woman’s voice again. He barely turned his head in the direction of the sound. “Yeah?”

“How are you doing?” Cat demanded, guiding the SUV around the last curved corner that would lead to the Bar H.

“I’m not dead, yet,” he rasped.

A good sign, Cat thought. As sick as he was, Talon was being a smart-ass. “I’m taking you to the Bar H. Miss Gus remembers you. I can’t get you to the hospital where you belong. I’m a paramedic. Miss Gus is going to let you stay in her bedroom and I’ll do what I can to help you. Okay?” Cat gave him a quick glance. His eyes were red rimmed, the gray color glowing with fever, his black pupils large. His face bathed in sweat.

“Miss Gus?” His mind wobbled.

“Yes. She remembers you. You’re Sandy Holt’s son?”

“Yeah, I am,” he managed. Barely able to lift his fingers, he grazed Zeke’s wet, damp head. “Look,” he choked out, struggling to breathe, “you need to know about Zeke, here. He’s a combat assault dog. He’ll bite anyone who gets near me. You need to give the command ‘allow’ to Zeke. Then he’ll consider them as a friend instead of an enemy. I can’t have him biting Miss Gus or anyone else....”

Cat nodded. “Okay, I can do that for you. You just rest, Mr. Holt. You’re in good hands.”

Talon heard the sudden emotion in her voice. “What’s your name again?”

“Cat. Cat Edwin.”

Nice name. Cat. Yeah, with those slightly tilted blue eyes of hers, she looked like a cat. Maybe more a lithe, strong, lean beautiful cougar. Closing his eyes, Talon felt the darkness pulling him down again. “I...” And he lost consciousness.

Cat licked her lower lip, worried. The man’s skin had a gray tint now. It meant he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. A very bad sign. God, Sandy Holt couldn’t lose her son, not when she was fighting for her own life. Cat’s heart pounded anxiously.

She could see the entrance to the Bar H through the thickly falling snow. Wind gusts were pushing the snow sideways. Blizzards took no prisoners.

As Cat drove down the long, graveled driveway now covered with a foot and a half of snow, she saw the enormous main two-story log house appear out of the white stuff. Griff McPherson, now owner of the Bar H, stood in the driveway next to the house. Standing around six foot one, he was bundled up in a sheepskin coat, red knit muffler around his neck, cowboy hat and jeans. He had dark hair and green eyes. Val McPherson, his wife, stood on the porch, the screen door open, a worried look on her face.

Cat pulled up as close as she could. She climbed out, calling, “Griff, don’t open that door!”

Griff halted halfway around her SUV, a puzzled look on his face. “Why?”

Cat hurried through the snow and came up to him. “Talon has a combat assault dog with him. I have to open the door myself or he’ll attack you.”

Grimacing, Griff’s brow rose. “How do we get Talon out of there, then?”

Cat clumped through the snow and struggled over to the passenger-side door. “Come and stand over here, behind me. I’ll open the door and give the dog a command. It’s supposed to make Zeke think you’re a friend instead of an enemy.”

Griff nodded. “Okay,” he said, worried.

Cat opened the door. Zeke immediately growled, his gaze fastened on Griff. “Zeke, allow,” she told the dog in a firm voice. To her relief, she saw the Belgian Malinois relax. She turned to Griff. “I’m getting the dog out of here first so we can pull Talon out.”

“Will Zeke attack Val?” he demanded.

Cat scowled. She noticed a leash trailing off Zeke’s collar. “Probably. Hang on, I’m going to grab his leash and keep him with me so he can’t go anywhere.”

Griff nodded and walked around the SUV, calling to his wife, telling her to stay in the kitchen with Miss Gus because the dog would bite. His wife nodded, closed the porch door and disappeared inside.

“Okay,” he said, “bring the dog out.”

Cat was hoping like hell the military-trained dog wouldn’t chew off her arm as she reached for the leash. Zeke thumped his tail, looking at her with a happy expression, pink tongue lolling outside of his black muzzle.

So far so good. Cat tugged on the leash and Zeke lifted his front legs, leaped over Talon’s thigh and landed in a snowbank.

“Good boy,” she murmured, patting Zeke’s head. Wrapping the leash around her fist several times, Cat pulled the dog aside so Griff could get in there to help Talon.

“Your turn,” she told Griff, moving back from the opened door.

Griff moved in and hauled Talon out. He grunted as he took the man’s full weight. Cat quickly got involved, heaving one of Talon’s long arms across her shoulders. Between them, they dragged him up the porch stairs and into the house.

The warmth of the woodstove hit Cat. Zeke obediently walked at her side, his head swiveling toward the kitchen as they passed it.

And then Cat saw Miss Gus, her silver hair like a halo around her head. The woman was at the kitchen sink. Val stood next to her in a protective gesture, partially in front of her, a concerned look on her oval face.

“The bedroom’s ready,” Miss Gus hollered.

“Great,” Cat grunted. “Thanks...” Talon Holt was heavy and two inches taller than Griff. Together, they got him into the room.

Griff maneuvered him to the bed. “Cat, can you get that door shut?”

Cat released Talon and quickly did as Griff ordered. He didn’t want Zeke out wandering around. “Got it,” she said, breathing hard. She took Zeke aside and said, “Sit.” The dog did. “Stay,” she ordered, hoping he knew the command. He did, fortunately.

“Damn, he’s soaking wet,” Griff muttered, getting Talon’s long legs straightened out across the bed.

“He’s in bad shape,” Cat agreed, breathing raggedly. “Listen, can you get my medical bag out of the Cherokee? It’s on the backseat.”

Standing upright, Griff took off his gray Stetson, hitting it against his thigh. “Yeah. Be right back.”

The door closed. Cat gave one look at Zeke, who was sitting, fawn-colored ears with black tips up, alert. He hadn’t moved, which was good. She quickly went to work, shucking the wet clothes off Talon’s body. Her fingers were shaky as she moved Talon around to haul off his jacket. Griff came back with the medical bag.

Zeke thumped his tail. Griff gave the Malinois a narrowed-eyed look as he set the bag on the bed. “Need some help stripping him?”

“I do,” Cat huffed. “He’s heavy.”

“He’s a big man,” Griff muttered. He got out of his sheepskin coat and threw it and his hat on a nearby overstuffed chair.

Together, they stripped Talon of every article of wet clothing. Cat had seen a lot of naked people in her time and tried not to look too closely at Talon. His flesh was cold and nearly gray. She got out of her jacket and dropped it onto the floor, grabbing her medical bag. As Griff layered several blankets over him, she listened to his lungs through the stethoscope.

“Damn,” she muttered. “Griff? Get at least six pillows and pile them under his shoulders and head? He’s got so much fluid in his lungs that he needs to get his upper body lifted up or he’ll drown in this shit.”

“Got it.” Griff left and closed the door.

Cat heard the thunk of his cowboy boots along the wooden floor. She listened closely to both of Talon’s lungs, trying to ignore the powerful breadth of his chest. She ran her fingers gently across his naked shoulder. He was hypothermic. Her heart twinged as she saw his ribs. He was pathetically thin for his height and body build. Why was he starving? When she pulled some skin between her thumb and index finger from his tightly muscled forearm, the skin stood up. It didn’t immediately snap back down, which meant he was severely dehydrated. How long had Talon gone without food and water? She took his temperature and it was a 105°F, an indication his body was fighting hard to survive the infection. His pulse was pounding erratically, his blood pressure too high. All indicators of major war for survival taking place within his body.