Part 7
The wind worked at the cabin for hours before the heavy rain reached it. Boone moved between the door and the north wall, listening. Fern settled by Owen’s boots, while Tucker put his front paws on the sill and received a spray of water through a gap in the frame.
He came down offended. Owen wiped the sill, checked the phone, and waited for the next interval.
He visited the shed about every twenty minutes. On the first check both lambs stood dry in the straw; on the second, the ditch was carrying water away as it should. He returned to the cabin and hung his wet shell beside the door.
Before the third check, a sharp crack cut through the wind. The heavier impact came a moment later.
Owen put on the reflective shell and headlamp. He brought the dogs out in their harnesses, keeping their leads in hand as he crossed the yard. The lamp showed a fallen tree beside the shed, its trunk clear of the roof but heavy branches driven through the entrance.
The auxiliary gate hung from one hinge. A branch had forced it against the holding gate, tearing the latch from its frame and crushing the extra panel. Briar stood inside, bleating at the rain.
Willa was gone.
Owen moved Briar into the undamaged inner compartment and secured both latches. Wool clung to a splinter at the broken entrance. He looked beyond it, called Willa’s name once, and heard nothing through the trees.
He tried Glen’s number. The call failed, and the second attempt did not connect either. He sent a text: Lamb out. Starting at the shed. If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, get rescue moving.
For several seconds it stayed unsent. Owen stood beneath the eave with rain running off his sleeve and watched the screen until the delivery confirmation appeared.
He returned for the equipment laid beside the door. His work harness went on under the shell, the radio into its chest pocket. He carried rope, the spare training line, and a first-aid pouch before taking the three leads again.
Tucker put his nose to the broken gate. A hoofprint remained in the mud, and farther out Owen found another tuft of wool. The dog followed the ground along the runoff ditch, stopping to smell where the water had disturbed it.
The ditch curved north. Owen kept to its higher edge, outside the marked crack, shortening Tucker’s lead whenever he pulled too hard. Boone picked his way beside them, while Fern stayed close to Owen’s left leg.
A bleat reached them between gusts.
Owen stopped and turned his head to place it. Below a stand of cedar, his lamp caught cream-colored wool against a steep bank. Then it found the opening beside Willa, where there should have been earth.
She stood on a narrow shelf, unable to turn without sending dirt down into the hole. Water ran around her hooves. Owen could see old timber below her and a darkness his lamp did not reach.
He backed the dogs uphill. Boone’s line went around the thick cedar trunk, and Fern’s was secured there too, with room for her to stand back from the edge. Tucker’s loop lay around a projecting root beside it; Owen checked the line before turning toward the lamb.
He secured his own rope at the tree. The harness took its weight as he moved down from above, keeping clear of the channel cut by the water. Willa saw him and tried to shift toward his voice.
“Stay there,” he said. “I’m coming to you.”
He lowered himself onto one knee. There was wool almost within reach, a muddy shoulder he needed to get an arm around. He stretched his fingers toward it and felt the first touch of her coat.
Something cracked beneath his knees.
The shelf tipped. Owen slid, struck roots with his shoulder, and felt his rope tighten through the harness. At the same time, the bank beside Fern broke away and carried her down along its edge.
He saw Boone above the tree root, barking. Then a wooden support struck his lower left leg and stopped him.
For a moment all he could hear was water. His light pointed into his own sleeve; he freed the arm and brought the beam back across the chamber. He had fallen perhaps ten feet, into a sloping junction rather than straight down a shaft.
His left ankle was pinned by the old timber. Willa had reached a shelf across from him. Fern scrambled to her feet on the near bank, her long line pulled tight above the harness that had checked her fall.
“Fern. Here.”
She came the short distance to his shoulder. Owen felt along her legs with his free hand, checking where she put weight. She was shaking, but she stood on all four feet.
He checked himself next. Air moved in and out, his arms worked, and he could feel his toes. He tried once to draw the trapped leg free; the timber shifted slightly and brought a spill of loose earth down beside his hip.
He stopped pulling.
The radio gave him static. He called again, holding it toward the opening, but could not raise anybody from below the bank. He set his headlamp to flash, giving the people he hoped were coming something more to see.
Willa bleated. Mud fell from the shelf beneath her rear feet, and she braced herself against the bank. Owen could not reach her from where the timber held him.
Above them, Boone’s bark stayed in one place. Tucker’s moved.
Owen lifted his head. The smallest dog appeared at the torn lip, his lead dragging behind him. The root beside the cedar had pulled out when the bank went; Boone remained secured around the trunk, but Tucker was loose.
Owen called his name. Tucker leaned forward, ears changing position as he tried to see into the flashing light.
The command belonged to easy afternoons, Glen working across the enclosure with treats in his pocket. It had never meant darkness, rain, or a trip down the hill. Owen had no other thing he could send.
“Find Glen.”
Tucker barked down at him.
Owen made himself point toward the southern trail. He could hear his own breathing catching between the words. “Tucker. Go find Glen.”
The folded ear vanished. Claws scraped above the opening, and the barking moved away through the trees. Owen kept his hand raised after there was no dog left to see it.
To read the rest of the story – CLICK the NEXT button 👇👇👇