TRIPP CREEK

CHAPTER ONE

Nan Clarke

Tripp Creek thundered between its banks. I’d never heard it this angry before. I pulled my blue rain slicker tight to my body and snugged the hood over my head to protect me from the spray. Over the last few weeks, heavy downpours added to the spring thaw and turned the tranquil creek into a raging torrent, which gnawed away at the narrow spit of land separating us from it. Just yesterday, Dad, my little sister Ellie, and I shored up the foundation of our small house, Dad pressing down on the heavy prybar while Ellie and I shimmed the gaps with slate. I hurried down the stairs, dodging Mom’s army of whirligigs guarding the path. She’d tamped them into columns like tiny, mismatched soldiers—a woodpecker pecking a post, a man rowing a boat, a cowboy on a bucking bronco—each of them holding fast to their piece of land. Their spinning windmill arms urged me to hurry. I just couldn’t tell if they were telling me to run ahead or turn back.

Above, the early morning skies glimmered a murky gray. The sun had peeked at this dreary day and said the hell with it.

Seated in my battered Camry, my lifeline to college and my job, I prayed she’d start. The car was as sick of this wintry weather as I was. The engine turned right over. The defroster was another story, so as I waited for the windshield to clear, I watched Mom in the kitchen window. From the way her head bobbed, she was chatting away to Ellie, who was cramming for a math test. Dad was already at work less than a mile away hunched over his levers and gauges at the quarry’s rock crusher station, his double-sized lunchbox—packed with love by Mom—tucked under his stool.

Just then, I felt a tremor, like a shiver coursing through my body. If I hadn’t been seated in my car, I might have missed it. I braced my hands on the steering wheel. I’d grown up with blasting day at the quarry. The timed explosions were powerful enough to shimmy Mom’s prized Elvis Presley figurines—displayed on glass shelves in the living room—over the edge. Instead of gluing them down, Mom placed a fluffy rug under them to soften their landing.

I’d never gotten used to the tremors and walked gingerly for hours afterward as though the ground might crack open in front of me. 

I put my car in gear and drove slowly down the single-lane road that curved around our development, O’Halloran Circle, peering through the grapefruit-sized hole the defroster created. A sudden gust of wind jostled the pines overhead, their branches scraping like fingernails along the roof of my car. Tiny shards of ice clattered on the hood, an eerie, tinkling sound. A dozen dump trucks were already queued behind the wire fence that separated our development from Hufcut Quarry. Their frazzled headlights glowed like exploded moons.

I was taking the weather way too personally. Blasting day didn’t help.

Another gust of wind rocked my car and a large branch landed in the road ahead of me. I braked, my shoulders slumping in exasperation. “I’m already running late,” I moaned into the steering wheel. Krista, my lab partner, and best friend was going to kill me. I’d promised to hit Dunkin’ Donuts, bring coffee and Everything bagels to our early morning study session. I graduated from high school in just over two months and had a ton of work to finish. I threw open my car door.

And heard a loud squeal. I punched buttons, silencing the radio, the defroster, and the wipers, and cocked my head. There it was again, another frightened bleat. Someone, or something, had fallen into Tripp Creek. I pulled my car hard onto the shoulder, shoved my phone into my pocket, and hurried out of my car. Pushing my way through a prickly hedge, I ignored the wet branches smacking my face and snatching at my hair. Following the sound, I ran another hundred yards to the rusty metal footbridge spanning the creek. The narrow bridge was elevated, but the creek still flung buckets of water over the deck, which swayed under the pressure. Another cry ripped the air. I raced onto the bridge, stopped mid-way, and leaned over the railing. Swiping the spray from my eyes, I peered down into the swirling, frothy brown water. At first, I didn’t see anything. 

Then something caught my eye on the right bank, an odd shape, and I gasped out loud. A horse lay on its side in the creek, submerged up to its front legs in water, and almost indistinguishable from the mud swallowing it. It raised its head and coughed, a wet, defeated sound, then collapsed back into the water. I fumbled for my phone, praying I had service. My fingers were clumsy, and, in my panic, I had to press the unlock button three times. Then I dropped the phone, which, thank God, landed sideways across the bridge’s metal grating.

I hit emergency, the dial lighted up, and the phone vibrated in my hand. I was afraid to leave the footbridge, afraid I’d lose the signal. The trees’ branches, although empty of leaves, formed a tight tunnel over me. The dispatcher came right on. I shouted my location and told them through chattering teeth, that a horse was drowning in the creek.

I slid my phone into my pocket, ran to the far side of the footbridge, plunged down the bank toward the horse. I only paused a second to yank my blonde braid free from a tree root where it snagged. I crouched over the horse’s white, speckled head. My hands scrabbled for something to hold onto—the horse’s dirty white mane, the rounded jawbones. I managed to lift its nose out of the clay. “You’ll be all right, you’ll be all right,” I whispered.

The animal stared at me through one glazed brown eye and let out another weak snort. Gunk sprayed from her nostrils.

I couldn’t believe the Tripp was doing this to me again.

I hated feeling so powerless. I should do something, run to Mrs. Adams’s farm. Her pasture fences butted up to the creek on this side of the Tripp. This was probably one of her horses. I started to rise, but the horse, as if sensing abandonment, rotated her shoulders and kicked out one of her front legs. I ducked as a flash of metal—the horse’s hoof—whizzed by my head. I slid further into the creek and was now pinned under the horse. Desperate for something to hold onto, I swiveled around, managed to wrap my left elbow around a tree root. I tugged on it. It felt strong, anchored to the bank.

 I held the horse’s head in the crook of my other arm. I’d just finished a First Responder course at my high school. Still, the anatomical charts I memorized were for humans, not horses. None of the classes covered equine vital signs. But even I could tell that her respirations were labored, and her sunken eyes indicated she was severely in shock. I forced myself to breathe slowly. I didn’t want the horse picking up on my fear. I dug with my feet until I hit something firm and braced myself. The water lapped at my hips. My back ached from supporting so much weight and my left arm was going numb. I cocked my head, desperate to hear sirens. But the roaring creek drowned out all sound, even silenced the quarry, its busy service road just beyond the knoll in front of me. I had grown up listening to the quarry’s daily static, the persistent beep of back-up alarms, clanging tailgates, grinding gears, the sound of boulders dumped down chutes.

Now it seemed the horse and I were the last survivors on Earth.

More minutes ticked by before a man’s voice punched the air above me, words I didn’t understand at first. “86-6 on scene,” he said. Then more jumbled words, something about Adams Farm and Tripp Creek. I cranked my head up, saw a tall, muscular, dark-haired young man standing in the middle of the footbridge. Wearing the green Hufcut Quarry uniform and yellow hardhat, he clutched a pager in his gloved hand. His sudden appearance was so startling, for a second, I thought he’d parachuted through the trees. He stripped off his hardhat, which was when I recognized him, and swallowed hard.

Blake Hufcut was my rescuer?

A bitter taste flooded my mouth. Blake was an arrogant jerk. And his uncle owned the quarry which was threatening to bulldoze our home on O’Halloran Circle as part of an expansion. The few remaining residents in our development had been fighting the quarry and the zoning board for months.

From the footbridge, Blake’s dark eyes locked with mine. He called down, “Hold on! The fire trucks are almost here.” He spoke into his pager, then scanned the creek, his face as chiseled as the rocks his uncle blasted from the hillsides.

And then it happened again, another muffled blast of dynamite, followed by a tremor. The horse kicked out. I flinched and the root I’d been clutching broke. With a gush of mud, I slid further under the horse. I craned my neck and spit out the creek water slapping at my face. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to keep the horse’s head up, but my arms were numb.

The world went dark, wet, and cold.

“You’re all right. I’ve got you!” Someone—Blake—shouted in my ear. Strong hands grabbed me under my armpits, hauled me partway up the bank. My legs were still pinned. I blinked mud from my eyes and gasped for air. The horse’s head was still on my belly, my fists clutching thick hanks of dirty mane.

I didn’t let go of her. I felt a flush of pride.

Blake leaned over me, his thick, muscular thighs tight around my hips. “I’ve got you.” He swiped water from my face and mouth. “Can you breathe okay?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled through numb lips. “We have to keep the horse’s nose out of the water!”

“The horse is okay. What’s your name?”

“Nan. Nan Clarke. I live on O’Halloran Circle.”

“I’m Blake. I’m in the fire company.” His thick arms pinched my armpits.

I was a little hurt he didn’t recognize me. I’d only served him dozens of ham and cheese sandwiches at the Convenience Mart, where I worked after school. I even knew how much cream he liked in his coffee—two squirts.

“How long have you been down here?” he asked.  

“Twenty minutes, maybe.”

Blake tightened his grip. And suddenly, exhaustion, cold, and something else—gratitude that I was no longer alone—overwhelmed me. I sank back into his arms. His chest felt as solid as a rock wall.

“Hufcut, catch the rope!” a fireman shouted down a minute later, and one end of coiled rope landed beside us. Blake forced it under my arms, knotted it quickly into a big noose.

“Okay, she’s tied. Anchor her!” Blake called over his shoulder, and the rope went taut.

Two firemen kneeled beside us. They made an odd pair, one massive and blond with a baby face and ruddy red cheeks, the other small, dark, and wiry.

“How do you want to handle this, Blake?” the big fireman asked, his blue eyes crinkled with worry as he gazed at me.

“We have to secure the horse before we move Nan, Matt,” Blake answered.

Matt leaped to his feet. Within seconds, more ropes appeared. Firemen looped one around the horse’s neck, making an informal halter, and used another to tie the horse’s front legs together. They tossed the ends back up the bank to be secured.

Blake called over his shoulder. “Somebody go to the quarry, get me a long metal rod and some PVC pipe from the equipment shed. The guard at the front gate can tell you where to go. Hurry up!” To the men in the creek, he shouted, “On my count, pull the rope attached to Nan.”

In all the jostling, my slicker hood fell over my face, blinding me, and panic squeezed my throat.

“Hold on!” I recognized Matt’s voice. Someone brushed my hood back.

“Thank you.” I smiled gratefully up at Matt, his yellow fire glove still poised near my face. He smiled back.

“Everybody ready?” Blake shouted. Matt and Rick grunted their response.

Matt used his broad back to shift the horse, while Rick pulled my arms and Blake rolled sideways. My legs slid free with an awkward sucking sound. I sprawled on the steeply pitched bank, finally free of the creek and the horse. A woman wearing a red EMT coat leaned over me, prodding my body. “Does anything hurt?” Her eyes were kind beneath grey, Brillo-pad hair sticking out from under her red helmet.

“I’m fine.” I jiggled my legs to prove it, then twisted my head around her, my gaze riveted on the horse. Its nose was inches above the waterline. When it dipped, I launched forward, shedding the ropes from my arms. “Keep the nose out!” I shouted fiercely, grabbing onto the rope halter. I dug my elbows into the mud.

Blake placed his gloved hands over mine. “Nan, you’ve got to let go.”

“You guys almost let her drown!”

Blake’s dark brows furrowed. “Let go.” Then his thick fingers pried at mine, one at a time. “Matt,” he said over his shoulder. “Carry her up the bank.”

Matt swooped down, arms extended, and with an apologetic shrug slung me over his shoulder like a bag of horse feed. He clambered up the steep bank and deposited me gently. “Sorry, hope I didn’t hurt you,” he mumbled, flushing scarlet above his jaw-line beard.

I noticed that one of his ears was trapped outside his helmet, sticking out like a pluerotus ostreatus, one of those edible oyster mushrooms that grow out of dead trees.

“I’m okay.” I straightened my cockeyed rain slicker and swiped at the clay dripping from my jeans. “Thanks for the lift.”

He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound behind his ribs, then turned and slid back down the bank to the horse.

*This is a work in progress, with hopes of being published soon.