confused.
“The deer! I found the deer! It’s been trapped in the culvert under the bridge this whole time.”
“What were you doing under the bridge?” He asked her, baffled.
“Hiking.”
“Under a bridge?”
She nodded.
“Okay,” Joe said skeptically.
“Come on,” she grabbed his arm and tried to pull him toward the slope down. “It must have been washed further downstream.”
“Okay,” Joe said again, not budging.
“Come on,” she tugged harder.
“Why?” He asked her.
“So you can see it,” she released his arm and turned to face him. “It’s horrible. I guess the cold water preserved it. Its entire body is ripped open and its organs are all gone.”
“Not making me wanna go look at it,” Joe informed her.
“But…” her shoulders slumped. “I didn’t hit it. Something attacked it.”
Joe nodded. “I’ve seen your car. I know you didn’t hit a deer in it.” He put his hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. “What you need to appreciate is that there are plenty of things not made by Winchester that kill deer here abouts. Hell, there are feral pigs in most of the hollows that are more dangerous than bear. They have tusks that can disembowel you with a shake of their head.”
“It wasn’t a pig I saw,” she assured him.
“Then what was it?” He asked gently.
She dropped her eyes to avoid his look of concern.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But it sure as hell wasn’t a pig.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “I believe you. Now can we go get you some Band Aids?”
She nodded, defeated.
“And maybe some stitches,” he added.
CHAPTER NINE
Aubrey woke up , washed her battered face, pulled her hair back, and went out onto the deck for a stretchbefore going to try to find the trail across from Joe’s.
She wasn’t at all shocked to find his truck parked behind her car in the driveway. He was leaning against it, resplendent in jeans and one of the white ribbed undershirts that he insisted on calling a “wife beater”.
“Morning,” he called, saluting her with his beer.
“You’re up early,” she observed, all too aware that the tank top and cut off jeans that she’d pulled on when she climbed out of bed showed off all the scratches and bruises from yesterday’s adventure and ashamed that she cared what he thought about how she looked.
“You had company last night,” he told her, pointing with his longneck to where her latest mailbox lay dented in the center of her yard. She came down the steps at a run and stood, open mouthed, staring at the post that now listed at a forty-five degree angle, partially blocking the drive.
“That’s it!” She told him. “I’m calling the cops.”
She turned to go back into the cabin for her phone when she saw Joe’s scowl.
“What?” She demanded, rage bubbling up inside.
“Well,” Joe told her with an unconcerned air that only fanned the flames of her anger. “There are two things you can do and neither of ‘em involves callin’ the sheriff’s office.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because they won’t give a damn,” he told her.
“This is vandalism!”
“Yup,” he agreed.
“It’s illegal!”
“Yup.”
She stomped into the house.
Five minutes later she was back, madder than before.
“They don’t give a damn,” she told him angrily.
“We have tried that route in the past,” he informed her.
“So what are my two options?” She asked, regretting it almost instantly.
“Well, you can either spend a lot of money trying to make a box they can’t knock down or you can get one so cheap that you don’t care when they do. Me? I go cheap.”
“There’s a shocker,” she mumbled.
“Last time someone got uppity and put in a big brick job they couldn’t bust up they threw a chain around it, hitched it to their truck, and dragged it down the Dixie Highway until there was nothing left but dust. Kind of a waste of time and money if you ask me, but you’re the boss.”
“Never
“The deer! I found the deer! It’s been trapped in the culvert under the bridge this whole time.”
“What were you doing under the bridge?” He asked her, baffled.
“Hiking.”
“Under a bridge?”
She nodded.
“Okay,” Joe said skeptically.
“Come on,” she grabbed his arm and tried to pull him toward the slope down. “It must have been washed further downstream.”
“Okay,” Joe said again, not budging.
“Come on,” she tugged harder.
“Why?” He asked her.
“So you can see it,” she released his arm and turned to face him. “It’s horrible. I guess the cold water preserved it. Its entire body is ripped open and its organs are all gone.”
“Not making me wanna go look at it,” Joe informed her.
“But…” her shoulders slumped. “I didn’t hit it. Something attacked it.”
Joe nodded. “I’ve seen your car. I know you didn’t hit a deer in it.” He put his hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. “What you need to appreciate is that there are plenty of things not made by Winchester that kill deer here abouts. Hell, there are feral pigs in most of the hollows that are more dangerous than bear. They have tusks that can disembowel you with a shake of their head.”
“It wasn’t a pig I saw,” she assured him.
“Then what was it?” He asked gently.
She dropped her eyes to avoid his look of concern.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But it sure as hell wasn’t a pig.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “I believe you. Now can we go get you some Band Aids?”
She nodded, defeated.
“And maybe some stitches,” he added.
CHAPTER NINE
Aubrey woke up , washed her battered face, pulled her hair back, and went out onto the deck for a stretchbefore going to try to find the trail across from Joe’s.
She wasn’t at all shocked to find his truck parked behind her car in the driveway. He was leaning against it, resplendent in jeans and one of the white ribbed undershirts that he insisted on calling a “wife beater”.
“Morning,” he called, saluting her with his beer.
“You’re up early,” she observed, all too aware that the tank top and cut off jeans that she’d pulled on when she climbed out of bed showed off all the scratches and bruises from yesterday’s adventure and ashamed that she cared what he thought about how she looked.
“You had company last night,” he told her, pointing with his longneck to where her latest mailbox lay dented in the center of her yard. She came down the steps at a run and stood, open mouthed, staring at the post that now listed at a forty-five degree angle, partially blocking the drive.
“That’s it!” She told him. “I’m calling the cops.”
She turned to go back into the cabin for her phone when she saw Joe’s scowl.
“What?” She demanded, rage bubbling up inside.
“Well,” Joe told her with an unconcerned air that only fanned the flames of her anger. “There are two things you can do and neither of ‘em involves callin’ the sheriff’s office.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because they won’t give a damn,” he told her.
“This is vandalism!”
“Yup,” he agreed.
“It’s illegal!”
“Yup.”
She stomped into the house.
Five minutes later she was back, madder than before.
“They don’t give a damn,” she told him angrily.
“We have tried that route in the past,” he informed her.
“So what are my two options?” She asked, regretting it almost instantly.
“Well, you can either spend a lot of money trying to make a box they can’t knock down or you can get one so cheap that you don’t care when they do. Me? I go cheap.”
“There’s a shocker,” she mumbled.
“Last time someone got uppity and put in a big brick job they couldn’t bust up they threw a chain around it, hitched it to their truck, and dragged it down the Dixie Highway until there was nothing left but dust. Kind of a waste of time and money if you ask me, but you’re the boss.”
“Never
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