Fighting for Anna by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

Author:Pamela Fagan Hutchins [Hutchins, Pamela Fagan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-939889-38-6
Publisher: SkipJack Publishing

Chapter Twenty

Greyhound dropped me off at my Jetta. The sun was setting, and the entire western sky was orange and pink through the trees behind the house. A forest ablaze. Gertrude met me at the gate, her nose and paws covered in dirt. Our yard, behind her, looked like a prairie dog town. Just then, Gertrude stiffened. She ran with her nose to the ground, then stood with her head low, quivering. After a few seconds, she readjusted her position and started digging frantically.

“No!” I cried.

She stopped mid-dig, posed. It took me a second, but I realized she was digging for moles. That she had actually heard the little tunnelers underground. When I didn’t repeat myself, Gertrude started digging again.

“No, no!”

She backed away from her site, dirt clumps falling out of her facial hair.

“Good girl!”

She wriggled her long body toward me, gecko-like. I swept her into my arms, dirt and all, but I held my face away from her attempts to slather it in kisses. I squeezed her, and she grunted. I was relieved to see that her water bowl was still in the shade and over half full.

I hefted Gertrude onto my hip and walked to the door. It was slightly ajar, and I jumped back from it like it was a copperhead. I pivoted around to call out to Greyhound, but the Cayenne was three-quarters of the way to the road and kicking up dust. I shouted and waved but it did no good.

“Will this day ever let up on me?” I set Gertrude on the ground. “Not good. Not good at all.”

I got my phone out, considering a call for help. But for what? For all I knew, I’d forgotten to lock the door, and it had popped open when the AC cycled on. Gertrude had been here, and she didn’t seem concerned. And who would I call? Ralph was out of town. I didn’t know anyone else. Well, Lumpy or Jimmy, maybe. Maggie wouldn’t add any muscle unless she brought firepower. I was outside the city limits, which meant the sheriff’s department would respond if I made it official. No, thank you.

So I decided to check it out first. I wanted a weapon, and the shotgun was leaning against the wall in the bedroom. The trees in the yard had flimsy branches that would be worthless. I settled on the Jetta’s tire iron. I tested it in my hand. If someone was in the house and meant me no good, it would do.

I walked back to the house, reassuring myself. If anyone had been in there, the Cayenne pulling up had surely alerted them. They’d’ve hightailed it. I threw the door open. It banged against the wall inside. I quickly stepped in, looking around for movement, stopping to listen for the sound of footsteps, a window, or the back door. But it was completely silent. Even Gertrude, at my feet, seemed to be holding her breath.

“Hello?” I called.

Gertrude huffed. No answer. Like anyone would, if they were hiding in the house.

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