The Stray

“That silly old fish just burns my tits. Too bad I can’t slap her sillier than she already is!” Chanah didn’t mind hot footing to the co-op for strawberries because Mrs. Gill got an unexpected boarder and needed to make shortcake. But when the woman puffed up old-lady lips and talked blood thicker than water—pushed about Chanah’s family—that was too much. “Mrs. Gill can’t understand.”
The dog sat on the small Psychic Tarot porch, huge and golden at the top of the steps. He whined as if he knew all about it.
“Good to see you, too, fella.”
He thumped tail and smiled. With some dogs bared teeth meant aggression, but this boy just liked to smile. This stray came to Chanah in good shape, lean but not skinny. Wicked spunk didn’t come from being kicked around and neglected. This boy had a home. She just had to find out where.
She climbed the steps and gave the dog a hug, face against the silky muzzle. “Um, you’re nice and warm, boy, you’ve been in the sun. Hungry? I got you the good stuff this time.” She rummaged in the bag and held up a packet of moist dog food.
The dog sniffed the pretty gold-foil package.
“You better like it. I spent darn near an arm and a leg.” She poured the food into a bowl she kept by the steps.
He whimpered a little, but didn’t eat. As if to be polite, he drank some water from the other bowl and licked Chanah’s cheek.
She sighed. “I’ll leave you to it.” Could be he just turned shy with her watching. Thought she was gonna grab it out from under a dog’s nose and eat it herself. For what it cost, she should be able to have it on toast with tea. Damn. Wasted money tied her knickers in a knot twice over.
Lucky to have any to waste. Lucky to be alive. Yeah, lucky. She’d done all right for herself here on the Lake Superior shore—took off from home on foot at just-turned fifteen. Never mind the hungry cold times when she almost went back thinking she could dish out some hot pea soup from the pot on the stove and have it with homemade bread and butter, maybe pet old Buster one last time before Dad got the shotgun from its place in the corner and put Chanah’s lights out for good.
Chanah shivered even with the summer sun behind her. “Someone on my grave,” she whispered.
She grabbed up her grocery bag and fished the huge, old-fashioned iron key from a jeans pocket. One hard pull on the heavy door. Twist the key in the lock. Good thing the door already opened outward when she bought the place. No need to put in a new one to meet the small business fire code. She frowned as the door shut with the usual groan. Dogs made you safer, didn’t they? Then why this weeklong something-bad-come-to-call feeling—ever since the dog showed up?
The key ring fit on the hook just inside the door. The tiny metallic jingle still made Chanah want to jump up and down, even after all this time. She bounced and shook her head to loosen the dark thoughts. This store. The place where she helped her clients and made a home for herself. No more appointments today. Time to relax and have a snack. She headed straight down the short hall toward the kitchen in the back.
She let go the guards she kept on herself in public—expected to find contentment and peace with true seeing. Instead, a dark evil-wishing wave hit hard and made her gasp. Chanah’s head hurt and her eyes watered from someone’s hate-you-much and do-you-down. A dark shape—somehow familiar—a rank sickness and rot.
This is it. Breathe. Fight for light and air, but everything goes black anyway. “I’m done for dead. Lights out for sure dead.”
“You’re not dead.”
The beautiful male voice sounded halfway between relieved and amused. Chanah stiffened. She lay half across a lap. Someone known and safe, but for sure she never heard that voice before. A jack-hammering headache. Chanah’s eyelids parted just a little, then wide and wider. The man…no shirt…or pants.
Are we doing the deed? The usual context for naked men—not that she’d seen any since Tommy, the trigger-tail skunk pimp.
It didn’t seem she’d forget a guy like this. Lean, long muscled, uh, blond, a yummy side of beef, and she hadn’t even seen a face yet. Urges Chanah long ago learned to ignore raised their hands to heaven and shouted “Amen!” at the feel and smell of him. He had an aura sweeter than a Jilbert’s Yooper Mud Slide Sundae. Familiar. Where? When? On the floor in the hall and head hurt.
Her whole body stiffened like a gillnetted steelhead.
This butt-naked man knocked her out—and she lusted after him? My rat-attract radar strikes again. No wonder MZ says I have bad taste in men! She drew back an arm and punched him a good one. Her knuckles stung, and she struggled to stand.
He blinked and released her. Smooth as God’s grace he stood too and backed up one step. “Don’t be afraid.”
Oh, God. In the movies, the murderous creep always said that just before he tortured someone, or ate them. Chanah’s foot struck something hard—a hammer on the floor. She didn’t know how it got there, but she put her foot on the handle. Pick it up and slam him with it.
His eyes followed her gaze and took in the hammer. “You don’t need that. I won’t hurt you.”
Chanah’s gut told her to believe him, but she had questions, including the most—most obvious: “What might you be doing in my house without your clothes on?”
The grin changed his rather triangular face. Chanah noticed his ice-blue eyes and dark blond lashes. She knew those eyes. And that gold-blond hair with sun bleached white tips.