My Foolish Heart Read Free Page B

lay there, whining.
    A dog. A huge dog, with a face only a mother could love, eyes filled with terror, wet and muddy from its jowls down.
    â€œNice doggy . . . nice . . .”
    Lightning must have illuminated her, and the animal simply panicked. It turned and shot off through her house. Toenails scratching her polished wood floors.
    â€œCome back!”
    In the front parlor, a crash—not the spider plant!
    The dog emerged back out into the hall and shot up the stairs.
    â€œNo! C’mere, boy!” Issy’s bare feet stopped her at the threshold. The glass glistened like ice on the floor. Perfect. “Don’t break anything!”
    She darted off the porch, around the path of the garden, opened the gate, and ran through the slippery grass to the front of the house.
    Thumper the rabbit still hid the key, and now she retrieved it and inserted it into the door.
    The squeal of rubber against wet pavement came from her memory—or perhaps she only hoped it did. Then a crash, the splintering of metal, the shattering of glass.
    She turned. No.
    Under the bloody glow of the blinking stoplight, a sedan had T-boned a minivan. Already, gas burned the air.
    Her hand went to her face, to the raised memory on her forehead, and she shook her head as if to clear away the images.
    She should call 911. But she could only back into her house.
    She shut the door and palmed her hands against it, the cool wood comforting. Just . . . breathe. Just . . .
    Her breath tumbled over her, and she felt the whimper before it bubbled out.
    God, please . . . What was her verse? “If God is for us”  . . . No . . . no, the one Rachelle had given her. “God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power—”
    She heard shouts and closed her eyes, pressed her hand to her chest, heat pouring through her.
    Just breathe.
    Issy slid to the floor.
    You’re safe. Don’t panic. Just breathe.
    * * *
    Caleb Knight had been in Deep Haven less than three hours and God had given him his first opportunity to be a hero.
    â€œHow many people in there?” The petroleum odor of the asphalt poured through him as he laid his cheek against the ground, peering into the overturned Caravan. The driver hung upside down, his belt securing him. A laceration separated his eyebrow, dripping blood into his scalp, his skin white and pasty. He opened his mouth, but nothing emerged.
    Already the rain plastered Caleb’s T-shirt to his body, his jeans turning to paste, stiffening his movements. Good thing he’d finished moving in the last of his boxes and fallen asleep fully clothed in a heap on the sofa or he’d never have reached the accident so fast.
    But that crash, practically right outside his front door, could have woken the dead.
    â€œSir, look at me. Who else is with you?” Getting the victim talking and focused aided in preventing shock.
    â€œMy wife . . . my . . .”
    Good, the man could speak. Shining his flashlight, Caleb located a woman, unconscious—at least he hoped just unconscious—hanging upside down and bleeding from a wound in her scalp. In the seat behind her hung a toddler still strapped in her car seat. He guessed the child was about three years old and when he flicked his light over her, she jerked, then screamed.
    The driver—probably the father—came to life. He clawed at his belt. “Jamie!”
    Caleb grabbed his hand. “I’ll get her! Let’s get you free.” Glass glittered in the frame of the door like teeth, so Caleb shucked off his shirt, wrapped it around his hand, and broke the shards free before he reached in past the man, searching for his belt buckle. “Put your arms around me—I’ll try to catch you, but brace yourself.” He unlatched the buckle. The man slumped against him. Caleb hooked his hands around his shoulders and backed out,