The Natural (free sample)

THE NATURAL

Abby Gaines

CHAPTER ONE

DANNY CRUISE was all "Jingle Belled" out. And it was only December 1.

Unconvinced of the fun to be had riding in a one-horse open sleigh--anyone could see it would be too damned slow--he stabbed the stereo's Off button. The cheery music died, and a blessed silence filled the cab of his Ford F-150 truck. With the darkness outside and the North Carolina freezing rain glazing the windshield, the truck felt like a cocoon.

Danny needed solitude right now, every bit as badly as he needed it in the lead-up to a NASCAR NEXTEL Cup Series race. On race days, his team knew better than to talk to him in the half hour before he went out on the track.

"Smile. Shake hands. Congratulate." He reiterated aloud the routine he'd planned for tonight. Tried to convince himself it was no different from any of the other routines he employed as a race driver: Fasten harness. Insert earpieces. Put on helmet.

The great thing about routines was that you could do them without thinking. If Danny could greet Trent Matheson, winner of the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup Series, without thinking, It should have been me, he'd probably emerge from tonight's party a better human being.

But he'd still be the guy who'd lost the championship to Matheson in the last seconds of the last race at Homestead.

The rain pelted down harder, in perfect sync with Danny's mood, and he set the heater to full blast to prevent the windshield icing over. Even in good weather, visibility wasn't great on the winding country road that connected his house near Kannapolis with I-85 to Charlotte. He eased off the accelerator in deference to the road conditions--it wasn't as if he was in any hurry to get to the party.

The sooner I get there, the sooner I can move on. The road straightened, and Danny sped up. He would do the right thing tonight, with a smile on his face and a gracious attitude. He would listen, with forbearance, if not acceptance, to the observations and advice that everyone from the waiters to rival drivers and team owners would feel compelled to offer him. Then he'd move on to the next season of NASCAR NEXTEL Cup Series racing. Next season, he would win.

Another vehicle, the first he'd seen since he left home, rounded a bend up ahead, coming toward Danny with its lights on full beam. Danny squinted, momentarily blinded, then the other guy dipped his lights.

That's when Danny saw the dog--so huge it could have been a small horse--darting out from the foliage at the side of the road, into the path of his truck.

Danny stomped on his brakes, estimating he had maybe fifty yards to stop. Any NASCAR driver knew that wasn't technically possible from this speed, in these conditions. The dog apparently lacked the ability to perform that calculation. Either that or it was confused by the car lights coming from both directions, because it paused in the middle of the road.

"Move it!" Danny yelled, knowing the animal couldn't hear him. He gripped the wheel tighter to counter the truck's shuddering as the antilock brakes kicked in.

Not fast enough.

Just as Danny came to a halt, there was a thud of dog-meets-truck.

As Danny cut the engine, the oncoming car sped past him on the other side of the road. All he could hear was the fading rumble of its engine, the tattoo of the rain, the swish of the wipers. No barking, howling, or any other sound that might emanate from a still-alive, justifiably enraged dog.

"Damn." He got out of the truck, ignoring the icy pellets that drove into his face.

The animal lay against the front bumper, its tongue hanging out, panting. Alive.

"Hey, buster." Danny knelt down, put his hand in the region of the dog's nose. The animal didn't seem interested in sniffing it. Its eyes held Danny's. Danny leaned in closer, and in the light of his headlamps saw blood caking the animal's fur. "We'd better get you some help."

There were no houses nearby, so he couldn't think where the animal had come from. Nor where he'd find the owners to confess he'd run over their pet. He'd better get the dog into his truck, find a vet.

Picking up a creature that must have weighed a good hundred pounds wasn't easy, no matter that Danny regularly bench-pressed more than twice that in the gym. The animal put up a heck of a lot more resistance than a barbell. Its legs flailed and it flung its head around, tongue lolling, jaws uncomfortably close to Danny's face.

"Quit fighting," he grunted as he staggered around the truck.

After he'd hefted the dog onto the truck bed, Danny climbed back into the cab. He ran his hands over his face to clear away rain and grime and dog spit. When he pulled off his tie, the overhead light revealed dirt and blood on the shirt of his tuxedo. Thankfully he'd stowed his jacket on the passenger seat for the journey; he'd keep it buttoned at the party.

A call from his cell phone retrieved the number of an afterhours vet clinic on the edge of Charlotte, whose answering machine assured him the clinic was open until midnight, even though "our staff cannot take your call right now."

Danny read the time on his phone. Seven o'clock. He could drop the dog at the clinic and still get to the party in time to offer warm congratulations to his number one rival.

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