Running From the Storm (19 page)

So where did that leave her?

After a moment’s thought she realized that her best bet was to go cross-country and head for the small village of Hallfield. The pub there—the Hallfield Arms—was run by a pleasant middle-aged couple who would almost certainly let her use their phone to call a taxi.

Hopefully, the upper reaches of the river would be free from flooding, and she knew from past hikes that she could get to Hallfield either by crossing the Old Mill bridges, or going another quarter of a mile or so to Darley Bridge.

Her spirits rising a little, she turned and headed across the park.

CHAPTER TEN

THE sky was growing appreciably lighter now, which made things easier, and in a little over fifteen minutes she was approaching the picturesque cluster of estate cottages.

The small hamlet—at one time a tight-knit community complete with a small chapel and a pub—had been deserted, unlived-in for years, and was in danger of going to rack and ruin if it wasn’t rescued soon.

Until then she had tried not to think about Zander, but now she found herself wondering what he was doing, what his reaction had been when he had discovered that she’d gone.

Trying to push his image out of her mind, she skirted an overgrown patch of ground that had once been the central green and dropped down to a track that ran alongside the river, swollen now and carrying with it a load of debris.

She soon found the going was treacherous, wet and slippery with mud, with an obstacle course of deep puddles that meant she had to pick her way with the greatest care.

Hurrying had caused a painful stitch in her left side that over the last half-mile had grown worse, but she bolstered herself with the thought that she couldn’t have too far to go.

Then, turning a bend, she saw that she had reached her goal. A little way ahead, where a woodland trail that ran back in the direction of the manor joined the track, the river divided, forming a narrow island with a humpbacked stone bridge on either side to connect it to the outer banks.

The Old Mill stood on the island. Once a thriving concern, it had supplied the entire estate with flour produced from crops grown on the nearby farms. It pre-dated the cottages by more than a century and had been semi-derelict for years.

Part of the upper storey had been built out above the millrace, and the wooden structure sagged precariously over the water, its once sturdy timbers splintered and broken.

The huge waterwheel—its rotting paddles covered with green slime—was being pounded and smashed by the surging water, which triumphantly carried away its spoils.

Crossing the river at that point was a daunting prospect. A raging torrent of water carrying a mass of debris and tree branches, was thundering downstream, battering the foundations of the mill and the crumbling stone of the bridges.

Going on up to Darley Bridge would add quite a bit to her journey, but, looking at the tumultuous scene before her, she decided it would be preferable.

She had walked some distance when she saw that up ahead, where the river formed a low-lying S bend, it had breached its banks. The track and the approaches to the bridge itself had disappeared, and brown, swirling water stretched for as far as she could see.

Trying not to panic, she faced the fact that if she wanted to get to Hallfield her only option was to cross the river at the Old Mill.

As quickly as she could, she retraced her steps. When she approached the mill once again the noise became deafening but, whipping up her courage, she was just about to cross the first of the cobbled bridges when a movement caught her eye, different from that of the rushing water.

A tall, bare-headed figure had just emerged from the woodland trail and was striding up the track in her direction, cutting off any possible retreat.

Her heart racing, and galvanized into action, she hastened over the bridge and glanced back. He didn’t appear to have seen her, but she could hardly expect to get across the second bridge without attracting his attention.

A moment’s thought convinced her that her best option was to stay out of sight until he discovered it wasn’t possible to go on and turned back.

But where could she hide?

The island, cropped by the local sheep, was covered with short, scrubby grass and offered no chance of concealment. The only place she could hide was the mill itself.

Up close, she could see that the derelict building leaned drunkenly and the huge, half-open door hung loosely on its hinges.

Venturing inside, she found it was a complete shambles. Some of the flooring had broken away, leaving a jagged hole through which she could see the brown water rushing past, and part of one wall had collapsed, causing the upper storey to sag dangerously and the heavy machinery to lean at a crazy angle.

The entire structure seemed to creak and groan and shudder from the buffeting it was receiving, and she could hear nothing beyond that and the surging water.

It was the change in the light coming through the door that alerted her, even before she heard Zander’s voice calling, ‘Caris, Caris … Are you in there?’

She stood quite still, hardly daring to breathe.

He called again. Terrified that he was going to come inside, heart pounding, she fled across the rough wooden floorboards and began to climb the stairs to the upper storey where she would be safely out of sight.

She had almost reached the top when the whole place seemed to lurch and, suddenly afraid, she turned to go back when there was a wrenching, splintering noise and a large section of the upper storey came crashing down.

Though the wooden stairs shook badly they remained intact; shocked, she clung on to the hand rail until the worst of the noise had died away, leaving only the creaks and groans of the timbers settling.

Then she had an even worse shock. Looking through the swirling dust and particles of debris to the devastation below, she saw Zander lying ominously still, pinned beneath a huge wooden beam.

For an instant she stood frozen with horror, then she turned and stumbled back down the stairs.

The impact of the heavy timbers had caused the lower floor to tilt so acutely that she was forced to crawl on her hands and knees over the broken boards, which creaked and gave alarmingly even under her slight weight.

When she reached his side she saw that his eyes were closed and blood was trickling down his face from a wound above his left temple.

Oh, please God, don’t let him be dead,
she prayed silently, desperately.

When she checked, her heart in her mouth, she found that he was breathing and his heartbeat seemed steady, and gave thanks.

She cleared away the lighter debris that had fallen on him. Then, hoping against hope that nothing was broken, she struggled to move the heavy beam that lay across his thighs.

She might as well have tried to move a mountain.

But somehow she had to get him out of there before the rest of the rotten timbers gave way, plunging everything into the millrace.

She drew a deep, shuddering breath then, stroking his cheek, said urgently, ‘Zander?’

He opened dazed eyes. At the sight of her, his face lit up. Then he groaned. ‘I was hoping you weren’t in here after all.’ He spoke with difficulty, his words halting and slurred.

Her voice as steady as she could make it, she asked, ‘What shall I do?’

‘Get out!’ When she made no move to obey he said, ‘Go on, damn you—
now
—before the whole lot gives way.’

She shook her head.

‘Go on, go!’ he urged.

‘I’m not leaving you.’

Pushing himself up groggily, he struggled to move the beam, but the lower end was jammed against one of the broken joists, and even though she added her strength it refused to budge.

When he fell back exhausted, she lifted his fair head into her lap and wiped the blood and sweat from his face with her skirt.

‘For God’s sake don’t be a fool, Caris,’ he groaned. ‘Get out while you can.’

‘Not without you.’

He was silent for a moment or two then, his voice barely audible, he whispered, ‘I love you.’

Her tears falling on his face, she answered, ‘I love you too.’

His eyes were closed and she thought he had drifted back into unconsciousness when he begged hoarsely, ‘Please go. You can’t do any good by staying. It would take a miracle.’

‘Then I’ll pray for one.’

At the same moment there was a violent impact and a section of the steeply sloping floor, including the joist that held the beam, broke away and fell into the rushing water.

Deprived of its support, the heavy beam slid after it; as though once again her prayers had been answered, Zander was free. A split second later a further section fell and a pile of debris followed, threatening to carry him with it.

Bracing herself, Caris clung to him with all her strength until the upheaval had subsided. Then, sobbing with relief, she urged him to sit up and start to crawl to safety.

Their progress seemed agonizingly slow, but eventually they made it through the door and onto firm ground.

Once outside, though he seemed only semi-conscious, he managed to stagger across the bridge before his legs buckled under him.

It had started to pour with rain once more and, crouching in the wet beside him, she covered him as best she could with her mac.

His eyes were closed and she saw that his face was ashen. It could be shock setting in, she realized anxiously, or concussion.

Whichever, he needed to be out of this rain and under cover as soon as possible.

She shook him a little. ‘If you tell me where your car keys are …’

He didn’t answer, and she was about to shake him again when his eyes opened once more. His voice halting, barely audible, he said, ‘My car’s close by, at the end of a woodland trail … The keys are in the ignition …’

Giving thanks, she ran, calling over her shoulder, ‘Don’t go to sleep.’

It was only a minute or two’s work to fetch the car and turn it round. Then came the task of getting him into it.

Eventually, though extremely groggy, he managed with her help to struggle to his feet and climb into the passenger seat.

As soon as he was safely buckled in, she rejoined the trail and drove back to the house as swiftly as possible.

When she had parked as close to the main door as she could get, he fumbled in his pocket and produced the keys.

Having unlocked the door, she helped him into the house and through to the kitchen. The stove, though burning low, was still throwing out a fair amount of heat and once he was seated in front of it she tossed on more logs. Bewailing the lack of a hot shower, she found a towel.

Slowly, fumbling a little, he struggled to strip off and start to dry himself.

Shocked by the extensive bruising that had started to appear on his legs and body, she said, ‘You ought to have a doctor. But because of the flooding I don’t think one could get through.’

‘I don’t need a doctor. I’m very lucky there’s nothing broken,’ he said, his voice slurred.

Forced to agree with that, she helped him into his robe and onto the bed before going in search of the pads he had used to clean her grazes.

Having discovered a well-equipped first-aid box in the same drawer, she returned with a sterile dressing, a roll of adhesive tape, some cotton-wool pads, a small pair of scissors and a bottle of tincture of arnica for his bruises.

He seemed barely conscious and his face was still ashen, but whatever had hit him must have struck just a glancing blow, because to her very great relief the wound above his left temple, though still bleeding, appeared to be fairly superficial.

By the time she had cleaned it and taped a dressing into place, his eyes were starting to close. But in case the concussion proved to be bad and she had to call the air ambulance she shook him and said quickly, ‘Before you go to sleep, I need to know where your mobile is.’

‘My jacket pocket.’

She found it, along with his wallet and some keys.

Once she had checked that the battery still had power, she took off her wet things and changed into her robe before sitting down on the edge of the bed to treat his bruises.

That done to her satisfaction, she drew a chair closer to the bed and sat down to watch him.

After a while some of her anxiety eased when his colour began to improve and he fell into a more natural sleep. She felt for his heartbeat, and was further reassured to find that it seemed to be strong and steady.

When Zander showed signs of waking after sleeping for several hours, and hoping that he would be able to eat, she tipped a couple of tins of beef casserole into a pan and set it on the stove to heat.

She was just putting bowls to warm when, waking suddenly, he sat up, calling, ‘Caris … Caris …’

‘Yes, yes, I’m here … What is it?’

He drew an unsteady hand over his eyes. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘No, I haven’t gone.’

‘Are you all right?’ he asked urgently. ‘You’re not hurt in any way?’

‘No, I’m quite all right.’

Apparently reassured by her calm reply, he gave a sigh of relief.

‘How do
you
feel?’ she asked.

‘Apart from some stiffness, I feel fine.’

Once again she gave silent thanks before asking, ‘Are you hungry? I know I am.’

‘Yes, I could certainly eat.’

Spooning the casserole into two bowls, she turned to ask, ‘Do you want to stay in bed to eat it?’

But he was already on his feet and making his way to a chair.

She passed him his meal and, taking her own, sat down opposite.