Forbidden Falls (Virgin River #9)(3)

Just then, an old truck pulled up and parked behind Noah’s vehicle and a man got out. Noah took him for a farmer or rancher; he wore jeans, boots, a cowboy hat, and walked with a hitch that suggested a sore back. “Got a problem there, bud?” the man asked.

Noah looked at him over his shoulder. “Dog,” he said. “Hit by a car, I guess. And a while ago. But it’s alive.”

The rancher crouched and took a closer look. “Hmmph,” he grunted. He stood. “Okay then. I’ll take care of it.”

Noah waved away the flies and gave the dog’s head and neck a stroke. “Easy now—help’s on the way.” He was still stroking the dog’s neck when the man’s boots came into view beside him, as well as the business end of a rifle, aimed at the dog’s chest. “Might want to move back, son,” the man said.

“Hey!” Noah shouted, pushing the rifle away. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to put that poor creature out of its misery,” the man said in a tone that indicated he found the question ludicrous. “What else you gonna do?”

“Take it to a vet,” Noah said, standing. “Maybe it can be helped!”

“Buddy, look at that dog. It’s emaciated, pretty much starved. That animal was half-dead before a car hit it. Wouldn’t be right to leave it to lie here, dying.” He aimed again.

Again Noah pushed the rifle away. “Where’s the nearest vet?” he asked. “I’ll take it. If the vet can’t help it, he can euthanize the dog without blowing it apart.”

The rancher scratched his chin and shook his head. “Nathaniel Jensen is off 36, just this side of Fortuna, but he’s a large-animal vet. He’s got dogs, though. If he can’t help, he can give you the name of someone who can. Or put it down for you. But, buddy, that dog isn’t going to make it to the vet.”

“How do I get there?” Noah asked.

“Turn left off 36 on Waycliff Road. You’ll see a sign for Jensen Stables and Vet Clinic, and Dr. Jensen. It’s only a few minutes down the hill.” He shook his head again. “This could all be over in thirty seconds.”

Noah ignored him and went back to his truck, opening the passenger door. He returned to the animal and lifted it into his arms, which is when he discovered it was a female. The blood was dried and didn’t soil him, but flies buzzed around the injury and he was pretty sure he’d end up with maggots on his clothes. He was about halfway to his truck when the rancher said, “Good luck there, buddy.”

“Yeah,” Noah grumbled. “Thanks.”

Dr. Nathaniel Jensen proved to be a friendly guy just a little younger than Noah and he was far more helpful than the old rancher had been. He looked the dog over for about sixty seconds before he said, “This looks like it could be Lucy. Her owner was a local rancher, killed in an accident up north, near Redding, months ago now. He was hauling a gelding; killed him and the horse. They never found his dog, a border collie. She might’ve been thrown and injured. Or maybe she got scared and bolted. Oh, man, if this is Lucy, I bet she was trying to find her way home.”

“Does she have family who will take care of her?”

“That’s the thing—old Silas was a widower. He had one daughter and she married a serviceman, moved away more than twenty years ago. Silas’s ranch and stable sold immediately. The remaining animals—horses and dogs—were sold or placed. I don’t think the daughter was even back here for the sale. I could call around, see if anyone knows where she is. But that could take time old Lucy doesn’t have. She didn’t take on any of her father’s other animals. And we don’t even know if this is—”

“Old Lucy?” Noah asked.

“I didn’t mean it like that. She’s not that old. Three or four, maybe. Silas had a pack of ranch dogs. Herders. But Lucy was a favorite and went everywhere with him. She’s a mess.”

“Can you do anything for her?”

“Listen, I can start an IV, treat her for a possible head injury, find the source of bleeding, clean her up, sedate her if she needs it, run some antibiotics, transfuse her if necessary—but you’re looking at a big expense that Silas’s only daughter might not be willing to pick up. People around here—farmers and ranchers—most of ’em aren’t real sentimental about their dogs. They wouldn’t spend more than the animal’s worth.”

“I’m beginning to understand that,” Noah said, pulling out his wallet. He extracted a credit card and said, “I don’t have a phone yet—I just got here and there’s no reception for the cell. I’ll call in or stop by. Just do what you can do.”

“Nothing wrong with just letting her go, Noah,” he said gently. “As banged up as she is, that’s what most people would do. Even if she pulls through, there’s no guarantee she’ll be much of a dog.”

He stroked the dog’s head and thought, No guarantee any of us will be much of anything, but we still try. “Be sure to give her something good for pain, all right? I don’t want her to be in pain while you see what can be done.”

“You sure about this?” Nathaniel asked.

Noah smiled at him. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow afternoon. And thanks.”

The next day, Noah learned that Lucy had a few cracked ribs, a couple of lacerations and scrapes, was malnourished and infested with tics and maggots, and had a systemic infection. She might recover, Dr. Jensen said, but her condition was poor. If she did get stronger, Dr. Jensen insisted she should be spayed. So on top of everything else, poor Lucy was going to have a hysterectomy. He gave Nathaniel Jensen the phone number for the bar next door to the church, in case something came up. It turned out Doc Jensen knew the owner, Jack.