Taking Anna (The Dillon Creek Series Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by J. Lynn Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.jlynnbaileybooks.com

  Cover Designer: Hang Le, By Hang Le, www.byhangle.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Julie Deaton

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7341395-1-8

  For my great-great-grandmother, Anna Cain.

  Thank you for your passion for the written word.

  I caught the bug.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A Note to the Reader

  About the Author

  Other Books by J. Lynn Bailey

  Prologue

  Dillon Creek Echo

  Serving Eel River Valley Since 1878

  As with any small town one might come across, Dillon Creek, California, will draw its visitors in, luring them into their quaint shops. The people, kind and warm and with their festive ways, will make one want to stay just one more day. And they should.

  But beneath the layers of niceties and genuine smiles, those not from Dillon Creek will find the secrets if they stay long enough. There are always secrets. Secrets that protect families. Secrets that live on the outskirts of the minds that keep them.

  What happened on that oddly warm summer night in July seven years ago changed a town forever. No driver named. No charges filed. Remnants of the aftermath—two crosses and flowers on a country road on a blind corner—make it impossible for the families of those deceased to drive past.

  The truth of it is, there always needs to be a scapegoat. Someone to blame when tragedy strikes, somewhere to put the anger, the feelings, the grief, a place needed to put these things because life on life’s terms simply cannot coexist when the misery of the world is far too heavy to bear. It’s easier this way—or so we think.

  And when there are no answers as to what happened on that awful night, fear is the root of what we say, what we think, what we do. Living in a world that is chaotic and loud and full of sadness, the path of forgiveness is hard to find when all we have are two dead bodies of two young boys.

  The truth is, the town didn’t divide like the parting seas, but it quietly and slowly separated like a diverting creek with an erosion problem. It ran on both sides of the street—the Atwood side and the Morgan side—and the residents of Dillon Creek, attempting to pick up the pieces of what was left, felt secretly compelled to choose a side based on loyalty, based on family, based on politics. And not a damn person talks about it.

  It’s hard to imagine life without Conroy Atwood and Tripp Morgan.

  I made the choice not to run the news article in the Dillon Creek Echo about that night, and I still feel it was the right decision for my town, my people. Other news outlets ran it—The Times Standard, The Humboldt Beacon—so I didn’t need to add fuel to the fire with the residents of Dillon Creek. Their hearts were too broken.

  I ran the obituaries instead.

  One day, I hope Dillon Creek will stop quietly squandering the questions about who was driving that night, who was to blame. The outcome of knowing is just that—knowing—isn’t it? It doesn’t bring back Tripp and Conroy, and it only prolongs the healing. But in the case the Atwoods and the Morgans ever find out, I have confidence that they’ll have the ability to feel both sides of the coin—even if the coin might be two-headed.

  —Ike Isner, Publisher of the Dillon Creek Echo Newspaper

  1

  Welcome to Dillon Creek, California

  Dillon Creek Pizza

  Last Tuesday of the Month—Noon Sharp

  June

  “I heard Agnes Coolidge is in the hospital again,” Delveen says, taking a bite of her salad, no dressing and littered with pickled red beets. Her lavender-colored hair is a statement, and she knows it. No right-minded seventy-five-year-old woman has purple hair and lipstick to match—not in Dillon Creek anyway, aside from the diva herself. One can see Delveen Constance coming from a mile away.

  Pearl says, “Well, I heard that Dale Bradford is at her side while her husband is God knows where.”

  Delveen pipes in again, “And I heard that Colt Atwood’s coming back home from that MBA league.” She looks at Clyda, who quietly eats her soup.

  “NBA, Delveen.” Erla rolls her eyes. Erla’s hair is a simple gray but very well kept, not a strand of hair out of place. “Secondly, Dale is Agnes’s cousin. Her husband died three months ago. We told you this last week, Pearl.” Erla grows impatient.

  Pearl takes a sip of her Diet Coke and shrugs. Her round, short, perfectly shaped white curls stick to her head like a helmet. Remnants of her red lipstick stain her front two teeth.

  Mabe sets her glass of beer down, the foam outlining her lip. “The Atwood boy is back home?” Her hair is more salt than pepper.

  Mabe looks at her old friend Clyda, and still, Clyda remains quiet.

  “Shh. Not so loud.” Pearl looks around. “I heard it from Pixie Puckett at the beauty shop when I was getting my hair set.” Pearl gently cups her thin white curls again. “Don’t want to spread any rumors.”

  Absolutely no one is in Dillon Creek Pizza at noon on Tuesdays, except for The Lunch Guys, which consist of Bo Richards, Lance Belotti, Rue Samuels, Ben Taft, and Archie Tander—five retired dairymen who come in every day at noon for the lunch special, which is unlimited pizza, a salad, and a soft drink for two dollars. They’ve been coming in together since the mid-1950s, and Dillon Creek Pizza has kept their price since then, not charging the men with inflation. They talk about family and the world and its issues, but mostly, they play dice. The Ladybugs though refuse to pay less, as they feel everyone needs to make a living wage.

  The Lunch Guys are grateful, and The Ladybugs are stiff.

  On the occasion that The Whiskey Barrel, the only bar in Dillon Creek, is closed, Toby Lemon might wander down to Dillon Creek Pizza at noon on Tuesdays to nurse his habit that no one talks about.

  Clyda looks at Pearl. “How would Pixie Puckett know my Colt is coming home?”

  Clyda Atwood raised three sons in Dillon Creek and not a single gray hair on her head—due to Pixie Puckett’s magical ways. Just a head full of flaming-red hair. But no one talks about that either. Colt Atwood is her grandson.

  “Her husband, Tony, saw it on the television just last night. He got hurt or some damn thing,” Pearl says.

  “And why wouldn’t you just ask me, Pearl?” Clyda sets her water glass down.

  “Because you never talk about it.”

  Clyda smiles. Takes a small bite of her pizza.

  Mabe takes another sip of beer.

  Delveen takes another bite of her salad.

  Pearl touches her hair again. “We ought to plan a parade for his homecoming.”

  Clyda rolls her eyes. “Pearl, the boy is a pro basketball player, not a veteran.”

  And Erla says, “I call to order the meeting of the Dillon Creek Ladybugs, Club Number 227.”

  2

  The Whole Town’s Talking

  Anna

  “And that’s when I told Merna she ought to take more vitamin D. Damn woman is so stubborn.” Dorothy sighs. “You think you can talk some sense into her, Dr. Cain?”

  I look at Dorothy from the patient table as I attempt to listen to the heartbeat of her dog, Nibbles. “Well, Mrs. Lovell, my job is solely animals. I’d have her talk to the other Dr. Cain.”

  My father, James, is the local physician in town and has been for the last thirty years.

  “Of course. Don’t know why I was bothering you with all that.” Dorothy shoos the conversation away with her hands.

  Nibbles’s heartbeat is strong, but his stomach is definitely upset.

  “He’s been throwing up?”

  “Yes. And gas. Oh my good word. This little dog can clear a room in two seconds flat.”

  Nibbles, a shih tzu, looks up at me from under the tuft of hair that sits at his brow line.

  “And loss of appetite?” I ask.

  Dorothy nods. “Hasn’t eaten in two days.”

  “Well, I’d say Nibbles has indigestion. Stop
at Wilson’s Grocery on your way home and grab some canned pumpkin. No additives. No sugar. Just plain old canned pumpkin. Two teaspoons in the morning for two to three days, and if that doesn’t solve Nibbles’s troubles, give me a call.”

  “I sure will. Thank you, Dr. Cain.”

  Dorothy takes Nibbles from the table, and they exit the patient room. I follow them out.

  “Tell your mother hello and that we missed her at cribbage last week,” Dorothy says as she makes her way to the front counter.

  “I will.”

  Dorothy meets my assistant, Kimber, for payment.

  “Laurel’s in room two with Strait.” Kimber looks up at me from the front counter.

  They knew it was coming.

  I knew it was coming.

  Strait was her eldest son, Conroy’s, dog. Strait is a seventeen-year-old black tri Australian shepherd. Named after George Strait. All of the Atwoods’ dogs are Australian shepherds, and all five are named after country singers—with the exception of Colt’s dog, Tupac.

  I open the door to room two and see Laurel and Strait. Her red-plaid flannel top, blue jeans, and black rubber boots—not for mud, but cow shit—is a signature outfit for Laurel. Her short bob is tucked behind her ears.

  She could work any woman out of a job. She raised five boys. Helped her husband, Daryl, run the ranch, and still had time to volunteer in our class when Colt and I were at Dillon Creek Elementary. Recently, I heard she’d opened up the Atwood Ranch as a wedding venue.

  “Hey,” I say and look at Strait lying there on the table, barely breathing.

  Her eyes fill with tears. “I told him to hang on.”

  I quietly shut the door behind me. I walk to the table and touch Laurel’s arm.

  Laurel doesn’t cry. I know she’s here because neither she nor Daryl has it in them to put Strait down with a bullet.

  It’s been seven years since Conroy and Tripp died.

  And still, I feel it, the grief, like a pain that flares up for a bit. Rears its ugly head. Then absorbs back into my flesh, only to arise on another day when Conroy and Tripp’s memory somehow comes alive again.

  I can only imagine what Laurel feels.

  Quietly, I push the stethoscope through his long black chest fur and listen at several places.

  “He’s barely getting around these days, Anna,” Laurel whispers.

  I nod and look into her baby-blue eyes that shine like crystals, even when she’s sad.

  “Daryl couldn’t do it. Took him out to the barn … but he couldn’t pull the trigger.”

  Laurel Atwood doesn’t allow a single tear to fall, as if she keeps them, controls them.

  I listen to Strait’s lungs. His breaths are shallow, and I know he’s approaching his time real soon. Laurel knows it, too.

  I take off my stethoscope and put it around my neck.

  There are some times in life that don’t deserve words. The brevity of it all, the spent moments, the love shared, the smiles—that’s the life our dogs give us. And for just a minute, we think they’re human. The truth of it is, our dogs know our hearts just by one simple glance. Strait, I’m convinced, is a human in a dog’s body.

  I gather the necessary tools in the cupboard so that Strait can cross over the rainbow bridge and run into Conroy’s arms again.

  I fill the appropriate parts of the needles with the fluid needed and walk back over to Laurel and Strait. “This won’t hurt him, Laurel. It’s just going to put him to sleep. It might take a few minutes, but he’ll be relaxed and calm, okay?”

  Laurel doesn’t need to be asked if she wants to stay in the room or not. I know she wants to be here with Strait when he takes his last breath.

  With the sedation drug in my hand, I gently insert the needle into the muscle of Strait’s back leg.

  Strait’s eyes, one blue and one brown, slowly start to close as Laurel strokes his fur. He doesn’t have fight or resistance. He’s just tired.

  Breathe, Anna, I say to myself as my eyes start to burn, thinking about all the memories Strait has given us.

  When he chased a mountain lion up a tree that was stalking a calf.

  When Conroy broke his leg and Strait laid at his feet until Conroy could get around again.

  When Colt and I wandered off at age seven on the property and Strait wouldn’t leave our side until Daryl found us hours later.

  And when Conroy died, I think a piece of Strait died, too. I think he’s hung on for so long because he knew Laurel and Daryl needed him.

  Strait is fully relaxed. I take the clippers and shave off a tiny patch of fur, and then I insert the needle with pentobarbital.

  Quickly, Anna. Just like a bandage. The quicker it’s ripped off, the better.

  Sometimes in life, we have to be the ones to let go. Make the hard decisions.

  I slide over a stool to Laurel, so she can sit at eye-level with Strait.

  It’s more than letting go of Strait; she’s also letting go of part of her son again.

  “I’m going to give you a few minutes with him, okay?”

  Laurel looks up at me. “Can you stay, Annie?”

  Annie.

  She’s the only person who calls me Annie—with the exception of my family, the Atwoods, and Tess.

  I pull over another stool and sit with her as she loses a piece of her son and her heart just one more time.

  It’s been several years since I’ve been to the Atwood Ranch.

  Since Conroy and Tripp died.

  Since the night Colt and I made love.

  Since Colt and I went our separate ways.

  The ranch holds many memories of us and our families in good times and in bad. I think the only way to capture the raw beauty of our area is by air or being among the redwood trees, inside them, between them.

  The Eel River Valley is surrounded by mountains of redwood trees. Not surrounded in a way that makes you feel claustrophobic, but in a way that gives you just enough space between the sky and trees that you could escape—if you wanted to.

  I did. Once. For college and veterinarian school at the University of California, Davis.

  But I was lured back by Joe East. It’s really all his fault.

  He said, “I’m retiring, Anna. I want you to take over the practice—and not because of your fancy education, but because you’re the right person for the job. Your compassion and empathy and bedside manner are three of the most important qualities you must have for this job.”

  I agreed to come back for a few weeks. Work side by side with Dr. East. That was just over a year ago. I went back to Davis, California, only to collect my things. My dad and mom along with my brother and sister—Adam and Amelia—and of course, Tess, my best friend, came down to help me move home.

  But Dillon Creek has always been home.

  As my truck snakes through the dairy land, green fields peppered with fence line, I know each piece of land and who owns it.

  The Atwood Ranch takes about three minutes to get to by car from town if you don’t get stuck behind a tractor or a cattle truck and more than forty minutes if it’s the dead of winter and we’ve had more than ten inches of rain in two days, which is common in Humboldt County.

  The Atwood sign sits on two redwood posts just off Grizzly Bluff Road.

  The Atwood Ranch

  I take a deep breath and take a left. The old 1992 Ford I drive was inherited when I bought the business from Dr. East.

  Strait’s ashes are in a simple sterling silver urn next to me. Off to the left is the ranch. But the place looks great.

  The Atwood residence is a two-story white house with black shutters, circa 1894, but Laurel, along with a team of contractors, restored it when Colt, Tess, and I left our separate ways and went to college.

  Three big new Fords are parked in front of the house—belonging to Laurel, Daryl, and Colt’s older brother, Calder.

  My phone rings. It’s my older brother, Adam.

  “Yo,” I answer.

  “Dad said you were at the ranch?”

  “Yep.” I stare up at the house.

  “Tried calling you at the office. Kimber said that you had to put Strait down?”

  I roll my eyes. Kimber has many wonderful attributes, but patient confidentiality isn’t one. Another problem is, Dillon Creek is a real small town, and talk gets loud. But the thing is, I like Kimber.