Page 2 of Rabid

She rounded the house but didn’t see Max. A sharp yelp from behind the barn sent her in thatdirection. She heard a whisper before she spotted the dog.

“Shush, you’re giving away my hiding spot, you dumb dog.”

“Carrie?” Joan called out, concern rising in her voice.

“Go away,” came the child’s reply, soft and defiant.

“You know you can’t be here,” Joan scolded gently.

Despite Carrie’s contrary behavior, Joan had grown fond of her. Carrie’s brothers would come looking for her soon enough, and Joan wanted her gone before they arrived. They were as mean-spirited as their father. Joan glanced toward the road. No sign of them yet. Good.

Max let out another low whine, staying five feet away from Carrie. This was odd behavior for him. He never growled at her, at least not until today. Joan knelt to take a closer look at him. She swore the dog could read her thoughts; another whine escaped his throat, and his eyes shifted toward Carrie and back to hers. He was protective by nature, a gentle giant, but something had him spooked.

Joan squatted down to see the girl hiding beneath a few two-by-fours leaning against the side of the barn. The wood offered a scrap of shade, just enough to hide her small frame. A reddened face peered out from the shadows.

Carrie was small for her age, with the telltale signs of neglect and malnourishment. Dirt streaked her pale skin, bruises marring her thin arms and legs. Her hair, a brown tangled mess, clung to her forehead, matted and unkempt. The sadness in her eyes was far too deep for a child so young. She rarely smiled, and when she did, it flickered and disappeared almost instantly, as if she’d forgotten how.

“Come out,” Joan said softly. “You can have a glass of water and a cookie, but then you need to go home before we both get into trouble.”

Carrie had been visiting Joan for four years, ever since the day she’d appeared at the doorstep asking for food. She’d said nothing about her family or her life, only that she was hungry. Joan had given her a bowl of leftover rice, and before she could ask pointed questions, the child had run off. That was the beginning of their strange, unspoken friendship.

The first time, Joan had been so disturbed by the encounter that she called the sheriff’s department. Dale Berger, a deputy who lived about five miles from her, came out the next day and took a report. His response hadn’t eased her worries.

“No missing children have been reported,” he said, tipping his hat back. “A new family moved into the old Tanner homestead. They’ve got a pack of kids, and they’ve got attitude. Best to steer clear.”

And that was that.

With a sigh over the memory, Joan held out her hand. Carrie moved, but slowly. “I don’t feel good,” she whispered, rubbing her eyes.

Joan reached into the small space, feeling the girl’s forehead. It was warm, but then, so was the day. She’d only checked out of habit. “Come on,” she coaxed, helping Carrie to her feet.

Max sniffed the girl again, then backed away, whining once more. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it. Considering he rolled in dead animals any chance he got; his aversion was almost comical. Joan smelled nothing unusual. The stench of unwashed clothes and filth that seemed to follow Carrie and her family was normal. They operated an illegal puppy mill, and their home stank of urine and feces. Whether it came from dogs or people, Joan didn’t want to know.

She had learned to stop judging unwashed bodies. Many of the homesteaders who bought forty-acre lots in the area lived similarly, minus the puppy mill. Some didn’t even have wells, hauling water from town in large containers. Life was hard out here, and Joan had adjusted. She’d come to the ranch for a reason. It took her out of the media frenzy that surrounded her daughter’s death. The land offered her isolation and a place to heal.

“Come on,” she said, taking Carrie’s small hand in hers. “Let’s get you inside.”

Joan led Carrie into the house, Max trailing behind but keeping his distance. Something aboutthe child had unsettled him, and Joan felt slightly disconcerted. She opened the metal security door and leaned the shotgun against the inside wall. The cool, shadowed interior of the house was a relief after the heat outside.

Joan turned on the ceiling fan, stirring the air. Funny, she thought, how living off-grid had made her conscious of every bit of energy she used. She could remember the days when she’d leave the fan running without a second thought, but her life now felt more deliberate, more… pure. She crossed the room and poured Carrie a glass of filtered water, handing it to her before setting two cookies on a paper towel.

Carrie took a drink, but almost immediately, she began coughing. Her hand flew to her throat, and she set the glass down, a shudder running through her. Joan frowned, watching as Carrie’s small hand trembled, her fingers twitching in a way that didn’t seem right.

“Does your throat hurt?” Joan asked, her concern deepening.

Carrie nodded; her face flushed. Then, her entire body trembled for about two seconds before it stopped. Joan handed her the cookies, but instead of eating them like she usually did, Carrie slipped them into her pocket.

“Okay,” Joan said gently. “I’ll give you something for your throat, but you can’t tell your father.” She hated making a child keep secrets, butJeb Hogg would raise hell if he found out she’d given Carrie medicine. Carrie nodded again, her movements slow and lethargic.

Joan reached up to the small cabinet where she kept basic medicines; ibuprofen, some cough syrup, nothing major. She didn’t like taking pills herself, but she kept a few things on hand for emergencies. She handed Carrie two tablets, but when she offered the glass of water again, Carrie simply chewed them dry, her expression unchanged despite what must have been a bitter taste.

Max growled, low and steady, his eyes fixed on the front door.

A moment later, Joan heard the rumble of a truck engine.

“Carrie, you in there?” a voice called from outside. Joan recognized it immediately. One of Carrie’s brothers.

All but Carrie knew better than to come onto Joan’s property without permission. The boys would park at the entrance to her drive. Joan might be old, but she had no problem chasing off the Hogg boys with a shotgun in hand. Joan’s dislike of the Hogg family was something she struggled with, but she couldn’t help it. They were cruel, dangerous people.

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