Page 15 of Rare Blend
After eating dinner, which consisted of a random concoction of leftovers my mom snuck inside my fridge, I take care of a few more work tasks I didn’t get to when I was at the office. By 7:30, the sleep I’ve been fighting off finally starts to win. How fucking sad is that? This schedule is making me feel a hell of a lot older than thirty-two. Only a few more weeks of harvest remain, and then I’ll be on a more manageable schedule.
Goose joins me in bed, taking up the entire right side, like a human would, body sprawled out, with his head on a pillow. I attempted to train him to not get on the furniture, because German Shepherds are notorious shedders, but I gave up fighting it. It’s his space, too. In fact, he’s home more than I am, so the way I see it, he should get to enjoy the furniture along with me. And, if in some alternate universe or very, very distant future, I actually allow another woman into our lives, she’s going to have to be okay with that. If I’m ever made to choose between Goose or some chick, it’s Goose every damn time.
My eyes glaze over, the narrator on the History Channel and Goose’s whir of snoring lulling me to sleep.
It feels like I just closed my eyes when I’m jolted awake by my dog’s low growl. My eyes adjust to the pitch-black room, and I prop myself up on my elbows. There was still a faint glow of light when I fell asleep, but now it’s completely dark. Tapping my phone, I see it’s almost midnight. Goose growls again, more aggressively, and my hackles raise. He hears something, something foreign and wrong, because in all the years I’ve had him, he’s never woken me up like this.
Using the glow of my phone to discreetly light my way around the bedroom, I throw on a pair of sweatpants and slip into my boots, making sure to grab a hoodie. Despite how warm it was today, once the sun is down, the temperature drastically drops. Before heading out the door, I grab my pistol, just in case. There’s always an uptick in cougar sightings this time of the year, and I’m not about to find myself facing a snarling cat without some protection.
Goose walks quietly beside me, aware that we are now on a mission that requires a little stealth. It’s probably nothing, but I’d rather check it out than sit and wonder. Tourist season is in full swing, and you never know what kind of crazies are going to roll into town. I hope to hell this is nothing but a lone coyote or wandering deer.
The moon is almost full in the night sky, but heavy clouds dull its brightness and block most of the light. Luckily, I know the landscape like the back of my hand. I’m not dumb enough to use a flashlight and draw the attention of whatever—or whoever—is out here. We make it just past the front steps when Goose pauses, lifting his nose, sniffing the air. His ears pin back as he takes his attack stance, dropping his back legs so he can springoff of them. I grab hold of his collar to stop him before he goes on the attack. If someone is out there, they’re dealing with me first.
We move forward together, one step at a time, slowly, crouched low, my hand still gripping the collar. I think I see movement near the trees, but I can’t be too certain. I don’t want whatever it is to see me coming and try to hide, or do worse. Goose whines, seeing it, too, and yanks himself out of my hold to jet off after our unwanted visitor like a bat out of hell.
Before I can change my mind, I race after him, watching as my hundred-pound dog tackles a small figure to the ground.
“What”—a feminine choking gasp—“the”—a shriek that could cut glass it’s so high—“fuck!” Strangled sounds push out of the person Goose flattened as he stands over them, barking profusely in their face.
I run up, shoving him out of the way, and replace him so that I’m standing over the intruder instead. His barking comes to a halt as he sits and waits for a command. At least some of his training stuck.
I look down at the tackle victim and shine the light from my phone in their face.
Recognition surfaces.
It’s the woman from earlier. The one who crashed into my vineyard.
Fuck.
She’s sprawled out on the ground, gasping for air, and there’s an assortment of…garbage around her.
Her eyes widen to the point I can see the whites all the way around her brown irises. Then, like a fish flopping on land, she throws her body into the fetal position.
“Do it fast,” she croaks. “If you’re going to kill me, do it fast!”
I step aside so I’m no longer standing over her. “I’m not going to kill you.”
She stays frozen for a few beats, holding the fetal position like she thinks I’m going to strike her. Apparently, my staying still is enough reassurance that I’m not going to hurt her, because she slowly starts to uncurl, keeping her eyes trained on me.
“Well then, will you at least help me up?” she yells, her voice raspy.
I grab hold of her reaching hand and pull her to stand. She clutches her chest, huffing as she bends over, hands resting on her thighs.
“What the hell are you doing wandering around here in the middle of the night? Are you following me?” I ask, much louder than I intended.
Rather than answer me, she puts up a hand, gesturing with her pointer finger that she needs a minute.
“Shit. Fuck. Are you hurt?” My eyes inspect her for any possible injuries, but it’s hard to get a good look with her hunched over the way she is and the lack of decent light.
She shakes her head no, but her head is still hanging off her shoulders as she continues to try to catch her breath.
Minutes pass as she slowly starts to breathe a little better. I wait, staring at her and unsure of what to do.
“My dinner,” she whines, and it comes out wheezy.
Dinner? I look down to see what I initially thought was garbage is actually a variety of gas station food. Two taquitos, a burrito, some nachos, a hotdog, and a large pop, spilled and soaking into the ground. How was she carrying all of this? It’s ruined now, unless she enjoys the taste of sand. Goose doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he helps himself to the hot dog.
Fucking hell.
