Free Sunday Kind of Love by Dorothy Garlock Page A

arm hanging limply at her side, water dripping from her clothes, and started for the trees. He moved with determination but also care; if he were to turn an ankle, they’d both be in a world of trouble. Painstakingly, he worked his way through the woods. When the path he’d chosen proved too difficult to navigate, he had to back up and find another route. He turned Gwen one way and then another, weaving among the trees and bushes. Once, they startled something in the undergrowth, probably a rabbit, sending it skittering away. Eventually, and with no shortage of relief, he found the road.
    As he trudged toward the bridge, Hank’s boots squished with every step, completely soaked through. His arms burned from their burden, but he didn’t even consider setting Gwen down for a rest, just gritted his teeth and kept walking. He hoped he’d see headlights coming from either direction, but they were alone, so he continued on, listening to the chirping crickets.
    Hank looked at Gwen. Even now, it seemed unbelievable that he would meet her again like this. In all the years they had each lived in Buckton, Hank didn’t know if they’d shared more than a couple dozen words, most of them back when they were kids, but Gwen had always been nice, with a bright, friendly smile. Her parents were both well thought of in the community, the same sort of pleasant people as their daughter, but thinking about Warren Foster made Hank frown. In the weeks after Pete’s death, one of the most hurtful comments he’d heard had come from the baker’s mouth.
    I reckon we should be grateful his mother isn’t here to see this. If Eleanor was still alive, what that boy did woulda been the death of her…
    Though the words had stung deeply, Hank supposed he couldn’t blame Gwen’s father. It wasn’t as if he’d been the only person in town to voice such harsh sentiments. Besides, Warren’s opinion did nothing to dampen Hank’s desire to make sure his daughter was safe.
    Eventually, after what felt like an hour and a couple of miles, the bridge came into view. Hank’s truck was just as he’d left it; the headlights were on, the driver’s-side door was ajar, and the radio was still playing. Pulling Gwen close, he managed to open the other door and place her inside as gently as he could. Making sure she was secure, Hank hurried around the pickup, slid behind the wheel, and put the truck in gear.
    Then he stopped, unsure of where he should go.
    Grant Held’s house was on the opposite side of Buckton from the bridge; the doctor would surely be able to treat her, but it was a bit of a drive.
    The Fosters’ home was much closer.
    Hank looked over at Gwen. Her head lolled on her shoulder, her hair spilling across her face, her breathing steady but shallow. Even with Hank’s recent unpleasant history with her father, the decision was an easy one to make. He would take Gwen to her family. They’d know what to do.
    And maybe I’ll find out what she was doing in the river in the first place…
      
    When Gwen’s mother opened the front door, she let out a gasp, then stepped back and placed a hand over her open mouth. Hank didn’t wait for an invitation to enter but hurriedly stepped inside carrying Gwen in his arms, still unconscious. Other than some mumbling as he had raced down the darkened streets of Buckton, she’d yet to exhibit any signs of consciousness. He laid her down, still soaking wet, on a divan in the living room. Only now, nearing the end of their ordeal, did Hank begin to feel the price he’d paid for plunging into the Sawyer, swimming against its current, and rescuing Gwen. His arms and legs burned, the muscles aching, while his ribs were sore from when he’d slammed into the rock. His whole body wanted to rest.
    “Get some blankets,” he told Meredith, who still stood near the staircase, watching. “She needs to get warm as fast as she can.”
    All the way to the Fosters’ house, Hank had blasted the heater in his truck,