Page 71 of The Vet from Snowy River
‘I’m listening.’
‘You’re right, I am a journalist. At least, I used to be. But then I messed up my job and my life and my aunt’s security in a really bad way, and the thing is, Josh, soon, like in just a few weeks, I might have to go to pri—’
A buzz went off in her jacket pocket. The café had run out of milk, she thought. Or the fridge was leaking, or old Mrs Lim had wandered in wearing her pyjamas again and was asking for help finding her way home.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered as she checked her screen. The call wasn’t from the café, but the number was local. No reason to suppose the city journalists had followed her up here to harass her about the lawsuit.
‘Vera De Rossi,’ she said, bringing the phone up to her cheek.
‘Vera. It’s Wendy Boas from the nurses’ station at Connolly House. We have you listed as next of kin for Jill De Rossi.’
Oh no. No, no, no. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Your aunt’s had a fall. It’s likely she had a stroke, but we’ll let the doctor confirm that. I think you should come over if you can.’
‘Of course. I’ll be right—’
Crap. She couldn’t be right there. She was on some fool’s errand up a mountain on horseback, and she hadn’t travelled here in her own car.
‘I’ll be there as soon as possible.’ Back to Hanrahan; find car keys; roar down the highway to the outskirts of Cooma as fast as the speed limit allowed. ‘Maybe two hours, hopefully a bit less, I don’t know. How is Jill? Is she talking?’
There was a short silence, into which Vera managed to squeeze half a dozen ugly scenarios.
‘Not talking, no. She’s breathing well, and she has good colour, but she’s non-responsive. We’re keeping her warm and comfortable, and the doctor’s expected in the next few minutes.’
‘What about an ambulance?’
The nurse—Wendy, wasn’t it?—was kind, but firm. ‘The doctor will decide the next step. Now don’t rush here in a fluster; we have one of the duty nurses sitting with Jill, holding her hand. She’s not alone, so—’
Vera didn’t hear the next bit; her brain had stumbled on the nurse’s words: she’s not alone.
Jill wasn’t. But she, Vera, would be if this was to be Jill’s end. Alone. And lonely. And who would be there to hold her hand?
She choked back a sob. ‘Thank you, Wendy. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘We’ll be waiting for you.’
Her fingers felt numb as she stuffed the phone back into her pocket.
Josh was frowning at her. ‘Vera?’
She swallowed the numbness down. ‘That was the hospice calling. My aunt—I have to go.’
He reached over as though to touch her hand and she lurched away, Calypso snorting as she jerked on the leather straps in her hands.
His hand paused. ‘Come on. I’ll take you back down the mountain. You think you can canter on that old slug-a-bed they’ve given you?’
This morning, she would have said no. ‘I can do it.’
His outstretched hand closed into a fist and he gave her a friendly rap on the leg. ‘I’ll lead. Calypso will know to keep up. You ready?’ Yeah. She was ready.
Josh clicked his tongue and drove his heels into the sides of his horse, who grunted in surprise before obliging him by breaking into a run. Josh hauled on Calypso’s bridle as his horse sped past, urging the pony to keep up.
‘Keep the reins low,’ he said as they raced down the track. ‘Calypso knows what to do. We’ll be back in Hanrahan in no time.’
It wasn’t quite no time. It was about sixty minutes of time—racing helter-skelter back to the horse stud, rushing through Mrs LaBrooy’s efforts to hug Josh and force him inside to the tea table she’d set up, and waiting while she bundled him up a slice of apple pie. Josh had flung the lavender he’d collected at a startled groom and told him to tie it on a post in Buttercup’s stable, then they’d shot off out of the car park so fast gravel spit out behind the wheels of the truck.
Josh had tried to talk to her as they drove down the mountain. Kind words, comforting words, but she’d shot them all down. Worse, she’d been curt with him, and all he’d done was be a stand-up, all-round saint …
