3. Chapter 3 Marcus
Chapter 3: Marcus
T he woodshop doesn't help tonight. Usually losing myself in the work settles the ghosts, but her face keeps creeping into my head. The way she moved, all attitude and sass, with that flash of temper when she yelled at my truck.
The chisel slips, gouging the pine. "Damn it."
I slam the tool down harder than necessary. Scout, my unwanted roommate of the past two weeks, lifts his head from his bed in the corner. The husky's leg is still wrapped where I found him caught in that old snare, but he's healing fast.
"Don't give me that look. I'm not keeping you."
His tail thumps once against the floor.
"I mean it this time."
Another thump.
The wind picks up outside, carrying a hint of snow. October's coming on fast up here at elevation. Scout's leg is almost healed, so it's was time to find him a real home, somewhere with people who actually want company.
A whine splits the night, not Scout this time. But something outside.
I grab the rifle from its rack, more out of habit than necessity. Scout's ears prick but he doesn't seem alarmed. It’s probably just another coyote.
The security light flicks on as I step onto the porch. Nothing moves in the yard, but the whine comes again. Closer.
Scout limps out behind me, nose working. He lets out a low woof and heads for the tree line.
"Hey, don't—" But he's already gone, moving pretty well for a dog with a bum leg.
Let him go. He was always going to leave anyway.
Instead, I grab a flashlight and follow. He might be a stray but I’d just spent the last two weeks patching him up.
The beam catches Scout about fifty yards in, standing over something. As I get closer, I make out another dog, this one seriously hurt. Blood matts its grey fur in clumps. This wasn’t the work of a coyote.
"Mountain lion?" I mutter, crouching to check the wounds. Scout leans against my leg, shivering.
The injured dog tries to growl but it's too weak to manage more than a whimper. Young female by the look of it, probably someone's pet that wandered too far.
"This is not our problem." But I'm already shrugging out of my jacket to make a carrier. "I mean it this time. We'll get her patched up and then find her owner. And then you're both leaving."
Scout's tail thumps against my leg.
I scoop up the injured dog as gently as I can. The smell of blood mixes with pine needles, and suddenly I'm back there, but it’s sand instead of snow, different wounds, same copper tang in the air.
Scout's wet nose bumps my hand. I blink back to the present. I reach down a free hand to pat Scouts head.
"Yeah, okay. Let's get her inside."
Great. Now I have two dogs and none of them are mine.