The Best Next Thing

“She’s absolutely filthy,” Miles said, his focus on the pathetic little pup.

Mr. Hollingsworth! She corrected herself sternly. But she had been finding it difficult to think of him as such since he had invited—commanded?—her to call him by his first name that afternoon. It was like a niggling ear worm that she couldn’t rid herself of.

Miles. Miles Henry. Miles H.

Miles smiles for miles.

Ugh. So frustrating.

“She has fleas and I’ve already removed a couple ticks the size of apple seeds from her ears. I fear there may be more.”

“No doubt, there will be more. But once you hand her over to the SPCA, I’m sure they’ll take care of the problem.”

“There’ll be no talk of handing her over to the you-know-what right now, Mrs. Cole,” he said, with a pointed look at the top of the dog’s head. His unspoken implication that the scruffy, shivering, miserable looking bag of bones could understand them, was both ridiculous and oddly sweet.

His flash of whimsy confused her, and she wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Besides,” he continued, sounding self-conscious in the face of her silence. “We probably won’t be able to get her out to a vet for a couple of days yet.”

“More like a week.”

“A week?”

“That’s usually how long it takes to get the road into town operational again. We won’t be very high on the priority list after a massive storm like this. I’ve been following the news, there are already reports of widespread flooding in the informal settlements and wind damage in town. Emergency and municipal services will be stretched thin. Nothing we can do but wait. Especially if we’re not in any immediate danger.”

“This is untenable. How the hell can you stand to winter here alone?”

“I don’t mind it.”

“You should. At the very least you should have asked for a raise. Or danger pay or something. I had no idea it was this bad out here in winter. Floods and fucking wild animals. Jesus.”

“It’s not always like this. We’ve had a couple of dry winters recently.”

“And fires. You were here for that fire a few years ago.” He sounded shaken, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him before now.

“Yes.” Her reply was matter-of-fact, and he looked as if he was about to say something. Likely ask her for details. He hadn’t asked when it had happened, he had probably—rightly—assumed that because she hadn’t mentioned it at the time, it hadn’t directly affected them. But her anxiety and stress had been very real, and she could see the dawning realization in his eyes as he stared at her in absolute horror.

“That must have been terrifying.”

“We were unaffected.”

“The bushveld around this place is a tinderbox during a drought…it could have gone up in seconds.”

“It didn’t.”

“Did you and Amos stay in town during the worst of it? In case of evacuation?”

“We were ready for that possibility.”

“But you remained here?”

“You should probably finish bathing that dog. Her shivering is getting worse.”

Her words diverted his attention to the pup. He made an apologetic sound to the mutt and swooped her up in a hand towel. Not any old towel, mind…but one of the premium 600 thread count white Egyptian cotton towels Charity put out only when the Hollingsworth family and their guests were in residence. Charity tried hard not to wince.

She attempted to school her features into impassivity, but knew some of what she was feeling must have crept into her expression. Fortunately, he was wholly focused on the dog, and it allowed her some time to beat back the cringing horror she felt as she watched the beautiful, soft and fluffy towel go black with grime.

“I’m sorry.”

His apology took her by surprise, and she lifted her gaze from the towel to meet his eyes, which were now unflinchingly trained on her. Okay, so maybe she hadn’t hidden her dismay quite as effectively as she had hoped.

“That’s fine, I’m sure it’ll wash out after a good soaking in some bleach and detergent.”

The mystified expression that crossed his face, told her that she must have misunderstood the reason for the apology. The man usually kept his every thought and feeling on lockdown, so Charity was unsettled to suddenly find herself able to read his expressions so clearly.

“What?”

“The towel?”

“What?” he repeated, the impatience layered into the question was a lot more in keeping with the man she thought she knew.

“What was your apology for?”

“For not contacting you after the fires to find out if you and Amos were okay. I assumed, because I didn’t hear from you, that things were fine.”

“They were fine.”

“I should still have enquired. And I’m sorry for not knowing how dire things can get here during winter. Nobody should work in these conditions. Perhaps I should consider shutting the house down during winter. You could come in once a week or something to keep things ticking over, but staying here during the worst of it is ridiculous.”