Home > Past Due (Debt Collection #3)(3)

Past Due (Debt Collection #3)(3)
Author: Roxie Rivera

Almost forty minutes into my descent, I was alone on the trail, with no sounds of hikers approaching from the rear. The trio that had passed me was at least seven or eight minutes ahead. Surrounded by the soft natural sounds, I almost didn’t notice the strange whine.

I stopped and strained to hear the sound over the rustle of leaves. As the wind moved across the trail, it brought something else with it—the smell of decomposition. It was a stomach-turning mix of rot and sweetness that took me back to the first time I had cleaned out a mobile home after Spider evicted a tenant. The summer heat and an abandoned cage of guinea pigs left behind a horror I would never forget.

Steeling my stomach for the very worst, I followed the smell and the faint whine off the trail into the scrubby underbrush. With every step, I doubted my decision. If I got hurt off the trail, the odds of someone finding me weren’t very good, but I couldn’t ignore the sad little whine that grew louder the more I walked.

I gasped when I hit a patch of slick grass and loose rocks. My foot slid out from beneath me, and I fell hard, slamming my bottom against the sharp rocks. The momentum of my fall sent me sliding down the steep mountainside. I slipped at least twenty feet, my poor butt and the backs of my thighs bearing the worst of it, and finally stopped when I hit a large boulder.

“Seriously?” I shouted in frustration, not quite believing I had just done exactly what I had feared would happen if I stepped off the trail. Wincing, I sat up and checked myself for broken bones or bleeding. My bottom would have a terrible bruise, but that seemed to be the worst of it.

A squeaking bark followed by the same high-pitched whine interrupted my catalog of injuries. I got to my feet, using the boulder for balance, and skirted around the side of it to find the source of the terrible smell and the sad whine. There, in the dirt and underbrush, was a puppy.

I covered my nose and mouth with the sleeve of my shirt and fought the violent roll of my stomach that threatened to make me sick. The mother dog, some kind of shepherd mix, had died giving birth. Dried and congealed blood covered the grass and stone. Flies buzzed around the aftermath of the failed delivery. I bit back a gag as I saw the pathetic, tiny bodies of three dead puppies near the female dog’s hind legs.

The surviving puppy was bigger than the others, but it was obviously struggling to stay alive without nourishment or heat. Unable to leave it there to die, I opened up my backpack and pulled out the extra hoodie I had packed on top, in case my jacket got too wet or wasn’t warm enough. The puppy didn’t try to run when I crouched down to scoop it up. If anything, it looked relieved.

I tucked the dirty little thing into my hoodie and wiped away some of the mud and blood sticking to its coat. After a good wash, it would probably look much like its mother with a dark muzzle and face and lighter gray fur on its body. It was a sweet puppy, all squeaks and mewls as I tried to give it a little water. When it couldn’t figure out how to lap it up out of my palm, I dipped a clean sleeve of the hoodie into the water and offered it to the puppy like a makeshift bottle nipple. It latched on and suckled water, and I smiled at my success.

But what now?

Deciding I would take the puppy with me to the café and try to find a veterinarian or shelter, I bundled the puppy up against my chest and climbed back to the trail. It wasn’t easy to do it one-handed, especially with the steep incline, but I managed it. By the time I reached the trail, I was panting and sweating. So much for taking it easy!

The puppy fell asleep, and I cuddled it closer as I trekked down the mountain. The idea that it might not survive long without proper nourishment had me moving more quickly. I wanted to give the puppy the best chance to survive, especially after falling and nearly breaking my neck to find it.

When the small café came into view, I breathed out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t just for the puppy, but also for myself. I really needed to use the bathroom and refill my water bottle, maybe even get a bite to eat. After, I silently reminded myself. You have to find somewhere to take the puppy.

As I drew near the café, I tried not to judge it too harshly. It wasn’t much more than a couple of ramshackle buildings with water coolers and ice chests. There were some folding chairs and tables, most of them already occupied with my fellow hikers. Still, it was a safe place to rest and all of the other cafes had been staffed by kind, hospitable people.

A grizzled older man with a scowl and wiry gray hair stepped in front of me. He gestured to the bundle against my chest. “What you find?”

“A puppy?” I moved closer to show him the sleeping fur baby cuddled in my arms. “His mother died on the trail. There were other puppies that didn’t make it.”

He seemed to understand most of what I said. English proficiency was more common among the younger generation, but just about everyone I had met so far in the country spoke a little or understood enough to communicate with me. He nodded and pointed toward the ground, seemingly telling me to stay there.

He turned back toward the café and disappeared into one of the lean-to structures. When he came out, there was a younger man trailing him. Maybe his grandson? The boy looked like he was in high school and wore a Post Malone tour shirt.

“My grandfather says you found a dog?”

“Yeah, up on the trail.” I showed him the puppy. “Is there a vet nearby? Or a shelter?”

He looked at me like I was crazy, and I realized how stupidly out of touch I sounded. We were on the side of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere. Of course, there wasn’t a veterinarian nearby!

“No, but the dog—the mama—she belongs to Agnesa. She’s a sheep farmer, and she has lots of dogs.”

“Is her farm a long walk from here?” If I could return the puppy to its rightful owner, that would be the best option.

“Not far,” he said, gesturing in a direction off to his left. “Maybe an hour walk?”

“Can you give me directions?”

He glanced at the sky. “It will be dark soon. You should go back down the mountain with the rest of the hikers.”

“Will you take the puppy to her?” I held it out to him, and he made a face.

“I’ll get you some directions.”

“Thank you.”

A pair of female hikers who had passed me earlier in the day walked up as I waited for the directions. The blonde with beautiful green eyes and a perky ponytail asked, “Do you want us to hold the puppy while you get some water?”

“Do you mind?” I asked, grateful for their help.

“Not at all!”

“I’ll be right back,” I promised and carefully handed over the sleeping puppy. True to my word, I quickly handled my most pressing needs and returned to the small group that had gathered around the puppy. “Thank you!”

“It was my pleasure,” she said, her accent a curious blend I couldn’t place. “You’re American?”

“Yeah.” I held out my hand. “Marley.”

“Anna.” She gestured to the blonde girl next to her. “Ella, my sister. We’re from Denmark.”

“I was in Denmark a few weeks ago. I toured most of the museums in Copenhagen.”

Before I could ask them what part of Denmark they were from, the boy returned with a piece of paper. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at me. “Her place is easy to find. My grandfather wrote her a note, just in case.”

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