* *
Hannah heard the screams and dropped the fish she’d just released from the hook. She looked at her guide and said, “That’s a little girl. From which direction is that coming? Can you tell?”
He shook his head. “Can’t be sure. Sound does weird things in the hills.”
The sense of urgency sweeping through Hannah was unlike anything she’d experienced in the past three years. “Maybe she’s fishing. Or is there a campsite close? A trail?”
“This is private land.” The guide winced at the shrill screams as his brow furrowed in worry. “Most likely spot is the stretch we call Goldmine. It’s not all that far from here, but you can’t reach it along the creek. We’d have to go up the hill and down.”
“Show me,” Hannah demanded as she began stripping out of her waders.
“I don’t know, Hannah. Maybe—”
“That is the sound of a terrified girl. She needs help. We need to help her.”
The guide nodded, shucked out of his gear, then started off. Hannah followed quickly on his heels.
The screaming didn’t stop, and as they topped the hill’s rise, direction proved easier to determine. In only a few minutes, they spied the pair standing in the middle of the stream. Boone McBride stood four feet away from the young girl, his hands held up and out in surrender, panic in his expression. Hannah could see that he was constantly talking to the girl.
She wasn’t listening. Her hands were flailing at her head.
“That’s Boone McBride and his niece,” the guide told Hannah. “He’s not hurting her.”
No. But he didn’t appear to be helping her either. Hannah’s fear subsided, but her concern did not. She descended the hill as quickly as possible. Growing closer, she could make out Boone’s words.
“Sweetheart, it’s okay. Everything is okay. Haley. Honey. Hush now. Please, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
He wasn’t getting through to the girl. His body language conveyed that he’d tried approaching her without success, and when he heard their approach, recognized Hannah, his silver-gray eyes pleaded for help.
Hannah didn’t hesitate, stepping right into the icy mountain stream and approaching the girl. “Haley, my name is Hannah.”
“Poppins!” The girl turned a wild-eyed gaze her way. “The airplane blew up, and it’s dropping on me! Get it off. Please, get it off! Please, Poppins. I need you!”
“What?” Hannah shot Boone an incredulous look.
“Bird droppings,” he said. “She called her nanny Poppins.”
“The plane is raining from the sky!”
“Oh, honey. No.” Hannah pulled Haley against her and hugged her. This was what PTSD looked like in a eight-year-old. She dusted off her professional training in psychology along with her personal mothering experience to deal with the traumatized child as she rocked and crooned soothingly. “No, sweetie. No, sweetie. It’s bird poop. Just icky sticky bird poop.”
“No-o-o-o!” the girl wailed. Her little arms grabbed Hannah hard.
“Yes, it is. I see it. Why don’t you let me wash it out?”
“Yes. Get it out. Get it out, Poppins. Get it all out!”
Hannah looked at Boone. “Do you have a cup or anything I can scoop with?”
“Use this,” Boone said, handing her a water bottle. “The water won’t be as cold. Wouldn’t hurt to rub her hair with sand first. Hold on.” He dipped down and scooped up a handful of sand. “Haley? Is it okay if I touch you now?”
“No! I want Poppins to do it! I want Poppins. I want Poppins. I need Poppins.”
With his mouth set in a grim line, Boone transferred the dirt from his hand to Hannah’s. She offered him a sympathetic smile, then spoke to Haley. “Okay, honeybunch,” she said, gently pulling the girl’s arm from around her waist. “I’m going to tilt your head back, so we keep the water out of your eyes. Okay?”
Tear-filled eyes gazed up at Hannah. Haley quaked like maple leaves in autumn. “Get it all, please? Get all the people from my head!”
Hannah briefly closed her eyes as her heart broke. Boone muttered a soft but vicious curse.
Inserting a level of calm and certainty into her voice, she began to rub Haley’s hair and scalp with the river sand. “Oh, sweetheart, I promise you, this is bird poop. That’s all it is, and I’m getting rid of it right now. Trust me. I know how to get yucky stuff out of young girls’ hair. One of my little girls got saltwater taffy stuck in her hair, and we worked for hours to get it all out.”
“I don’t want to stay here for hours.”
“This won’t take any time at all. Bird poop