Krazy was a lawyer. Guess he’d know.
“My place isn’t next to his, is it?” Beggars couldn’t be choosers but still …
“Nah. He wanted the cottage closest to the woods.”
“I bet he did.”
“Yours is up front. Closer to the bar, right?” He held up a hand, and Owen slapped a high five. “But after this week, it’ll just be you and him, so you could move wherever you want. I’m not full again until the weekend before Thanksgiving.”
“Gun deer hunting.”
“Right.” Krazy seemed like he wanted to high-five Owen again, but it was too soon. “You from around here?”
“I was,” Owen said. He really didn’t consider himself from here any more. He was a soldier. His home was the United States Marine Corps.
At least until it wasn’t.
“Visiting family? I know how it is. Visiting’s one thing. Sleeping in the same house’s another.” He tapped the keyboard of his laptop. “You’re good for a month if you want. Though who wants to visit family for a month? Unless they’re in Italy or something, right?”
“Right,” Owen agreed.
He hadn’t planned on being here more than a week when he’d arrived. Hence the sleeping bag and Coleman lantern in his truck. But more than a month?
No way in hell.
Owen took the proffered key and drove the white truck, which he was starting to think of as his, even though it wasn’t, to cabin number 4. He could have walked there, but then he’d have had to leave the truck in front of the tavern, and at this time of day, that would cause talk. At the least someone might walk over to see who was drinking at eight A.M., and once they discovered his name—he hadn’t told Krazy not to share it; maybe he should have—then they’d knock on his door and one thing would lead to another.
All of it annoying.
Owen parked at number 4, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the door, Reggie at his heels. In the distance, a gun boomed. For a minute he was afraid the wolf hunter had bagged one, even though it was broad daylight. But the guy stood on the porch of the cottage closest to the woods, staring into them.
A second shot sounded, and Reggie did a little spin in the grass, then glanced at Owen hopefully.
“Sorry, buddy. Not our fight.” He opened the door and waited for the dog to go in.
With all those guns around, he didn’t want Reggie loping off. No one in their right mind would confuse him with a duck. However, Owen knew better than most that the number of people in their right mind was fewer than anyone imagined. In certain light, with bad enough eyes, Reggie did look like a wolf.
Owen had enough problems without explaining to the military why their extremely expensive MWD—trained, Reggie was worth about fifty grand—had a bullet hole in him. Not to mention he’d have to take the dog to Becca for treatment, and he’d rather avoid seeing her. Especially since she’d said the same about him.
The cabin was small but new and very nice. According to the brochure, several of which lay on the barely nicked countertop, local craftsmen had fashioned all the faux rustic furniture and cabinets in both the kitchen and the bath. Local art hung on the walls. The quilt and the curtains had been purchased at the Three Harbors Arts and Crafts Fair.
“Now I just need to buy some local food and everything will match.”
A creak, then a groan drew Owen’s attention to the bed where Reggie already had his tail curled around his nose and his eyes closed. Owen could almost hear his thoughts.
If I can’t chase and catch whatever they’re shooting at, I might as well be asleep.
Owen had to agree. He unbuttoned his pants. Someone knocked on the door.
Reggie lifted his head; his ear twitched. While the majority of their time in the field required Reggie’s go-go-go personality, there were other instances when they had to be silent and still and wait for something to develop. Reggie didn’t like those times any more than Owen did. But he’d been trained, same as Owen, to respect them.
Owen closed all four fingers and his thumb into a fist—the hand signal for quiet—and the dog set his chin on his paws. Maybe if whoever was knocking heard nothing they would leave.
“Owen?”
Dammit. Owen knew that voice, and it wasn’t going anywhere.
*
I flailed around, smacked someone’s arms, grabbed onto them, and yanked. They didn’t move, so I dug in with my nails and scratched. Instead of relief, the pressure on my face increased. My lungs labored for air. Behind my closed eyelids black spots danced across a bloodred landscape.
At first I thought the growling and snarling was in my head, lack of oxygen bringing about bizarre hearing issues. Then I considered it might be death coming for me. Like those creepy black crawly things that had skulked through the movie Ghost and taken away the nasty people.
But they’d taken those people to hell and … come on! I was one of the good guys.