Chapter 3

Golden light filtered through the leaves of the huge maples that spread their emerald-green, ever-shifting canopy over her cabin. A persistent, wet nose kept nudging at her face, even as the sunlight played over it.

“Go away, Prince.” Amy St. James nestled deeper into the soft, eco-friendly bed located on the loft level of her Viceroy cabin and muttered. “Just a few more.”

Nudge. Nudge.

Her eyes flew open, and she flung the covers off. “Damn,” she yelled. “It’s after five-thirty. Why didn’t you wake me, mutt?”

She dashed into her tiny bathroom, splashed the cool, clear forest water that she’d had piped into the cabin onto her face, and reached down to give Prince, her tan and black German Shepherd, a pat. The dog’s every muscle was quivering with the anticipation of their morning routine.

She looked into the big, liquid black eyes she loved, and crooned. “Now, go get me my latte. And don’t be so stingy on the cream. Exxxtrraaa. Can you say exxxtrraaa, pup?”

She laughed as he bounded off. “Sure, buddy,” she chuckled. “Bring me your latest toy. I’ll deal.”

A few minutes later, after a rigorous shower, she tossed the fluffy duvet onto the bed while Prince played tug-of-war with her over it, threw on a tank and long pants, and ran the open wood staircase downstairs to her living room.

“Hey Cleo,” she rubbed the fat, orange marmalade cat that had strategically fit itself into the wedge between the back of her overstuffed chair and the huge pillow that crowded it. “How’s you, sweets?” She clicked the glass kettle on, pulled the French press out, tossed in the coffee she’d ground the night before.

Another cat wound itself around her legs, a thin black and white one. “Babette! I’m still not changing your name, so stop lobbying.” She crossed to the large, stainless-steel fridge, grabbed their food, and dumped it in the row of colorful bowls on the floor beside the kitchen island. “Pip,” she yelled. “Food!”

A fat raccoon waddled out from behind a wing chair by the back door and proceeded to the bowl.

Amy took a moment to take in her menagerie. “All hands accounted for. Excellent.”

Soon she was ensconced in her favorite wing chair with her steaming mug of coffee and breakfast. Prince flicked the string of bells on the doorknob and stood expectantly.

“My schedule today, not yours, dog,” she insisted, but smiled.

After she was done, she grabbed the fresh liver treats she’d made the night before, grabbed her hoodie, and stuck the treats in her pocket. She eyed the answering machine with the blinking light as she passed–she still had no idea what to say.

Harry Emmett was nice. Checked all the boxes on her list. Harvard-educated, going places. But nothing sang between them. He was as appealing as day old bread.

No one was appealing to her lately. Oh well.

She spoke a command to the dog, who was watching her, muscles quivering. She raised her palm partway toward her face. “Sit.” He did, didn’t take his eyes off hers. Satisfied, she opened the back door, stepped out, and released the dog. “Let’s go.”

Prince bounded out in front of her.

She pulled in a deep draught of the pine-infused air, and shut her eyes briefly. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

She started out, boots treading the cool earth in the shade of the huge trees she’d chosen to have her cabin built under, after her dog.

* * *

Garbage bags. A whole row of them, on one side of the Hero cabin.

“Damn,” she mumbled. There hadn’t been anyone at the old Hero place since the woman living there had been murdered and the family had dispersed.

She moaned. “If there’s food in those bags…” The bags hadn’t been gnawed at yet by bears or other animals, but it was just a matter of time. And if the stupid humans had thrown out cans, pop-tops, crap like that along with food, it could be horrible for the creatures.

She exhaled a quick blast of air. She and Prince were going to have to clean up the mess.

“Okay, Prince. Let’s go. If we have to, we’ll get the jeep and cart this stuff to the dump.” The last word hissed out, under her breath. “Idiots.”

She strode toward the cabin, alert. Kept her hand on her bear spray, scanned the area.

Be prepared. It was one of the first mantras Gramps St. James had intoned into her at a young age and one she, and he, still lived by.

Reaching the bags, she checked them out quickly, one by one.

“Nothing edible,” she told the dog. “Just a blight on the environment. Thank God.” She tied the last bag up.

Coming around to the front of the property, she noticed an old car she hadn’t seen on previous walks with Prince, off to the side, almost hidden.

Which meant someone was here. A tingle of fear prickled her neck. She’d messed up. She should have made sure no one was around, before she started messing with the garbage and essentially trespassing. All she had on her side was that she’d meant well.

And—she had her bear spray.

The door was open, though a screen door closed the outdoors off from the cabin. Sheesh. She should have known.

She whistled softly for Prince. In moments, the dog was at her side, focused on her, waiting for her next command. “Let’s go.” They stalked away, through the tall grass. She was making a bee line for home when she heard it.

And the loneliness of the sound, the raw cry of it, chilled her to the marrow.

An animal in distress.

“Heel.” She spat the command, and Prince froze. Senses honed, she worked to locate the direction of the sound. The cabin.

She turned, made her way back. Then tread cautiously, softly, as she entered the porch area. Was there no one to take care of the creature? Was it alone?

Utter silence. Nothing except the odd bird chattering above her in the trees.

Approaching from the side, she peered through the old-fashioned wooden screen door and saw a small form inside the large kitchen.

“Damn it,” she breathed. “Puppy.”

She squatted in front of the door, aching to get to it. Careful to be as quiet as possible, she was aware of Prince circling behind her. She peered in, close to the dusty, old metal screening, and spread her fingers on it as if by sheer force of will she could reach through it, give the puppy comfort and the warmth of touch.

And to reassure herself that it was well. Alive. Though she saw its back moving up, down, breathing, but barely.

But other than that, it didn’t move. It lay there, all alone in the world, on the dirty linoleum.

She scanned the room quickly. Old dishes on the floor, close to the dog. A cracked saucer and a bowl, obviously meant to hold water, both empty.

She reached in her pocket, pulled out one of her freshly crafted liver treats. “Here, boy,” she soothed, calling the pup. “Here, boy.”

And then, as her eyes grew more accustomed to some of the dim shapes in the darker parts of the room, she saw it. A shadowy item on the floor to the right. Another one. Long necks, brown shapes.

Bottles. Beer bottles. Lots of them. Some in the other dimmed room just off the kitchen too. She saw a pair of discarded shoes there too, and yes, those were fingers, attached to an arm hanging out of the bed.

Her stomach recoiled. There was someone there, and by the looks of it, he was sleeping off a drunk.

She winced. To let a tiny animal in one’s care be neglected of its basic, survival needs…

But the pup didn’t stir.

She had to do something. The tear in the screen called to her. She took the moist treat, pushed it through the rent, and it landed on the dirty floor.

“Come on, honey,” she crooned. She pulled a bottle of water from her hip pack, unscrewed the lid and pushed it through the tear as well, heard the glug as the water emptied onto the floor as well.

And the little thing opened its eyes.

Excited, she grabbed another treat, pushed it through the tear too, heard the plop. “Come on, honey. Eat.”

And miraculously, it turned its head. It was working.

“Hey, little one,” she crooned, poured a bit more water in. “If you…”

“What are you doing?”

The voice sounded, like buckshot ringing through the cabin. The man stood there, jeans undone, dark tank rumpled. With all her focus on getting sustenance through the barrier for the animal, she’d missed him getting up.

She watched as his eyes tracked from her to the bits of food and the puddle of water and the question materialized on his face. Then his gaze stuttered to the puppy, to the empty bowls.

Ha. Maybe now she’d call him out for mistreating a defenseless animal that depended on him. For neglecting it. For…

But he gazed at her, suddenly, and she jolted. Stopped at the expression on his face.

Grief.

And the extent of its harshness slammed into her.

Tears slapped into her eyes. She jumped up, fell backward, caught herself, and ran. As fast as she could away from the cabin, her dog at her heels, through the woods, back to the safety of her own cabin.