Doranna Durgin - Survival Instinct

Dave did a double take of horror. “They tease him?”

She knew it wasn’t for Dewey’s sake; he just figured the kids must be insane. “Shh,” she said out loud. “I’m listening.” Trying to gauge…yes. Dewey was heading for the house. “Probably not kids,” she said out loud, and then did a quick count on her fingers. “If that guy dropped his pal off at the county hospital and came right back…”

“Timing’s right?”

She nodded, met his gaze. “Especially if he opened the car door, shoved his friend out and turned around.” She scowled in the direction of the house, a view obscured by winter trees. “He must think I’m an idiot, if he supposes I’m still there.”

Dave cleared his throat. “You are still here.”

She waved him off. “I’m here. That’s different. Besides, even if I was there, I’d be ready.” She spoke more glibly than she felt; the barking clearly came from the yard, and she could only hope Dewey’s dislike of guns would keep him safe.

She suddenly realized that Dave had unsnapped his holster, already turning toward the house. “Hey,” she said. “No!”

“You want to wait for him to find us?”

“I think I can keep that from happening.” She took his hand, leading him on the narrow path between the barn and the currently unoccupied pigsty. He didn’t resist, his fingers firm on hers; when they parted, she’d smell of gun oil.

When they emerged from between the two outbuildings, she gestured at the small, crooked building at the end of the path. The grass and weeds grew more heavily here, and the woods had crept up to enfold the building. At one corner, a stunted-looking tree embraced the narrow wood slats, drooping over the door. “There’s the spot,” she told him. She tucked the half-full milk pail behind the goat shed, behind the rain barrel there. “Come on. Even if he comes looking, he’ll never find us here.” Not to mention the way he’d pay for his snooping.

“He won’t find us, because…there’s an interdimensional transport inside that building? It’s damned sure not big enough for hiding.”

“Have faith,” she said, and tugged his hand. He pulled free to head for the shed door, one hand already reaching to brush away the leaves.

“No!” she said sharply, relaxing somewhat as he heeded her tone and stopped short. “Definitely a city boy.”

“Mostly,” he agreed, glancing behind them as the barking grew louder. Closer. “Not always, but…it’s been a while.”

A year ago, Karin had been the city girl. Immersion learning-and one bad rash-had taught her this particular trick of nature. “It’s poison ivy. That door doesn’t open anyway-that’s the beauty of it. Come on around back.” She caught his hand again and tugged.

This time he came less readily, still staring at the drooping leaves. “That’s a tree,” he said, disbelief coloring his tone.

“It’s a big happy bush,” Karin told him, and tugged harder. “I leave it alone and it leaves me alone. Come on-if that guy’s serious, he’s going to find his way here fast enough.”

He followed, if not happily. “I can handle him.”

“Oh, be smart. Why bother?” She led him to the shadowed back side of the building, barely accessible within a thatch of staghorn sumac. A small door in the far corner had been meant for chickens. “See? There’s our way in.”

“You’re kidding.” His voice held utter disbelief. “It’s a pet door. Do I look pet door-size to you?”

She gave him a deliberate, critical squint. It would be tight, all right. Whipcord lean wouldn’t do him much good when it came to those shoulders. Still, there was a bright side. “You look…flexible.”

“I-” He stopped, apparently truly without words, and said, “You go. Get out of sight.” He looked over his shoulder, as if he expected their visitor to make an appearance at any moment. “I’ll take care of-”

She gave his hand a yank to cut him off. “Really? Are you going to shoot him? That’d be nice and inconspicuous.”

Noisy, that’s what it would be. Noisy in an official way, a law-enforcement-looking-closely-at-Karin-being-Ellen way, when Karin-being-Karin had a California felony warrant hanging over her head.

“He’s going to come back if he doesn’t find us, too.”

“Right. And then we’ll be gone. So give me your jacket and pull off that holster and take your damn car keys out of your pocket if that’s what it takes, but get in there!”

Definitely closer, that barking. Definitely heading this way.

Dave closed his eyes, said his bad word under his breath and shoved his jacket at her. She thought he’d lose a little skin. Definitely put a tear in that sleek shirt. “Let me go first-I can help.”

“Fine,” he grunted, unclipping his holster and moving faster as Dewey’s furious barking marked their visitor’s progress. “If I can’t make it, you’ll already be in.”

“You’ll make it,” she promised him. And they might even both fit inside, hidden among the junk and old feed sacks barely visible through a proverbial knothole. She’d meant to get that door unjammed and get this place cleaned out, but now…

Just as well she hadn’t.

She shoved the little door open with a terrific squeak of hinge. A glance behind showed Dave drawing himself up with tension, the holster in one hand, the Ruger in the other. Yeah. Getting closer. Bless that dog, anyway-smart enough to keep from getting hurt, persistent enough to let them know just where the interloper was.

Even so, she jammed a stick through the door first and listened for the sound of movement. She had no wish to come face-to-face with some rodent, but even more she didn’t want to come fang-to-fang with a copperhead. Then as she pulled herself into the small available space-a dim enclosure turned into a visual zigzag of tools and old shovel handles and buckets and straps and items that defied identity at a glance-she felt a firm hand on her posterior.

A shove, if it had to be said. He planted his palm solidly on her ass and pushed.

Karin sputtered dirt and cobwebs and pulled herself along, tossing the jacket to the side so she could bring her feet through and angle herself out of the way, quickly arranging the shed contents-the pails, the musty burlap feed bags, old chicken wire-between the front door’s knothole and their small retreat.

Dave didn’t hesitate; he stuck his hand through, gun and all. Karin neatly relieved him of it and tugged. For Dewey was at the goat shed and still barking, and Dave, angling his shoulders through the door, had taken on a sudden look of desperation. Karin turned to face him, braced her legs against the sturdiest parts of the old foundation footers, and grabbed his arm for one swift, powerful yank.

Dave made a soft, pained grunt of protest, something ripped…and he popped through. His legs followed quickly enough. They took opposite corners along the back wall, scrunching down low, legs stretched out calf to thigh and cramped at that. Karin padded her back with the until-now very nice suit jacket, and pulled the Ruger out to rest on her stomach.

Dave gestured for it; she ignored him. She squinted at the engraved model number on the slide. P95DAO. Double action only semiautomatic, a 9-round clip, no external safety. That meant a long, hard trigger pull and release, but she could do that. As long as there was a bullet in the chamber, she could fire this gun any time she wanted-with haste or deliberation.

Dewey had moved into the old pigsty, still barking. Not a frantic bark, but an angry one. Karin exchanged a long glance with Dave, sinking even farther into her corner. He held out his hand, twisting sideways to stay low and behind the screen of junk she’d created; this time she handed over the gun. His fingers curled around the grip with easy familiarity, his trigger finger resting over the guard.