Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

A pile of lumber of all shapes and sizes lays scattered over the dirt floor. Beneath it, splayed out on his back, eyes closed, a bloody gash on his forehead, is Roy.

“Oh my God.” It’s not a heart attack but it could prove just as fatal.

With shaky hands, I dial 9-1-1. Meanwhile, Oscar limps over and prods Roy’s face with his wet nose, emitting a high-pitched whimper. It’s the most doglike I’ve seen him behave yet.

“Don’t need no damn hospital,” Roy croaks.

I startle but then sigh with relief that he’s alive. I give dispatch directions to send an ambulance as I visually assess the situation. Above us, where I’m guessing Roy stored all this wood, the brackets have snapped, their jagged ends jutting out. It all must have tumbled down on top of him.

Roy is lucky to be alive.

He scowls at Oscar, who is now licking his face. “Go on, get. Don’t need that, either.”

When I end the call, I’m able to focus on trying to dig him out. “Let me see if I can get these off you.” I begin lifting and shifting boards, some of them taking all my strength to maneuver. But there’s an enormous beam across Roy’s chest, the one that seems to be keeping him pinned. It’s propped up on either side by other fallen pieces of wood, saving Roy from its full weight.

“Don’t bother,” he warns, wincing.

“I’ve gotta at least try.” My shoulder and arm muscles strain as I attempt to lift it. It doesn’t so much as budge. “Maybe if you can help lift it from underneath—”

“My arm’s broken. Probably a bunch of ribs, too. God knows what else.”

“Right. But you don’t need a hospital,” I say under my breath. Obstinate fool. “Toby should be here any minute.” I wish Jonah were here, or at least reachable. We might need him, too. I don’t know if Toby can lift this on his own. “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I breathe.”

“Okay, just … stay still. We’ll get you out of here soon.” I settle down onto the floor, leaning in to inspect his forehead, noting, from the corner of my eye, the gun that’s propped against the wall.

His aged blue eyes watch me keenly.

“The bleeding seems to have stopped, at least.”

He grunts, looking to the broken brackets above. “Must have been that quake yesterday, loosenin’ something. Went to pull a board down and it all came tumblin’.”

I have no idea if the same quake that made the community center hall’s clock crooked would have the power to do that, but clearly, something went terribly wrong. “You’re lucky it didn’t kill you.”

“Who knows. Still might.”

Uncomfortable silence hangs as we wait, the minutes dragging too slowly. I survey the vast space, because there’s nothing more I can do for Roy, and I’m curious. The barn is huge but crammed—the front half of it a maze of countless tools and saws, of spindles and discarded wood fragments, of boards clamped together on sawhorses. Piles of sawdust have been swept into piles, over into the corners. The smell of damp wood mixes with the stench of the goat pens in the back. I see no finished furniture, though. There’s a ladder off to the right that stretches upward to a loft above, where hay four bales high forms a half wall at the edge.

“Why’d you come?” Roy asks, breaking the silence, his gruff voice strained from pain.

“Oscar led me here. He wouldn’t stop barking outside my door. I figured something happened. You know, another heart attack, maybe.”

“Let me guess, that busybody told you all about that.”

I can only assume he means Muriel. I don’t bother correcting my source of information. There’s no need for Toby to earn Roy’s wrath today.

Both dogs haven taken sentry positions at the barn’s entrance, Oscar easing onto his injured haunches gracelessly, his sharp gaze outward, his ears perked.

“You’re lucky Oscar survived that trap.” If he hadn’t come to get me, how long would it have taken for someone to find Roy out here, buried under a pile of wood? Does he have anyone in his life?

Would anyone miss Roy Donovan?

“What? You want a medal for comin’ to my rescue?”

I sigh heavily, loud enough for him to interpret it for what it is—annoyance.

“Joy from the diner woulda’ come lookin’ for me, eventually,” he says after a long moment. “She buys my eggs. I’ve never missed a week. When I didn’t show up on Friday, she would’ve come lookin’.” It almost sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself of that.