Hidden Shadows (The Shadow Series Book 1) (32 page)

“Hey,” Reese called, directing his attention to the handful of treats, “want some more? C’mon. I’m not gonna hurt ya.” She lowered her chin, raised her dark eyes. Let the face she thought of as soft and unremarkable fall gentler still. “Not . . . gonna . . . hurt . . . ya.”

His round eyes narrowed, examined her.

And just like that, he pranced over, walked into the arms she opened, and sat.

The patches of black fur that still remained were matted, dirty, his eyes swollen and puffy, his frame gaunt and far too thin. But he was beautiful. A panel of pure white down the chest, white socks climbing up all four paws, and the rest of him a rich, handsome black.

Or it would be once he was cleaned up.

“Pit mix. Typical.” Reese rolled her eyes in Layla’s direction. “But he’s kind, quick to love.”

She scanned the scarred face, the jaded, wary eyes. But felt, for all that, he had been loved by someone at some time.

He sat patiently, so she turned her hand over, and offered him the remaining treats in her palm. He took each one individually, quite politely, chewed, then returned for the next.

“A gentleman, too?” Reese laughed.

As he seemed to enjoy the carefree sound, perking up, and at the same time becoming more at ease, she smiled at him warmly. “Mind if I call you Jack?”

His tail whipped once, fast and strong, thumping against the side of her faded, sturdy jeans. And she laughed again, realizing he must’ve known that with those amber eyes, any other name just wouldn’t fit.

As he polished off the last treat, sniffed her empty hand, she gingerly ruffled the fur on the top of his head, careful to avoid the numerous small open wounds in and around his ears. Mange and fleas most likely, she thought. Had scratched himself raw. Could’ve been worse. Much worse.

She’d seen much worse, and still hated all of it, no matter where it fell on the
how bad
scale.

Jack saddled up closer, pushed his snout into her hands, and licked her gently with his warm, smooth tongue. She never tired of that sweet and simple canine gesture.

Or the one she was about to do.

She rose, rubbed his head once more, and unhooked him with great pleasure from the large chain he hadn’t been off of in years. (This, according to neighbor’s accounts, which Reese was inclined to believe). He shook his head once, twice, as if he were somehow suddenly lighter, freer. Cautiously, he stuck a paw past the line that his tether had prevented him from ever touching, looked up to Reese with what she swore was gratefulness in those smoky maple eyes.

“Good news buddy,” she smiled. “You won’t ever have to come back here again. You’re starting a new life, and you’re coming with me.”

At this news, Jack bounced up, and, tail wagging, trotted behind her as she made her way back to Layla at the fence’s gate. Laughing, Reese put a reassuring hand to his head while Layla slipped a leash over him and snapped off the filthy collar.

And then she heard it.

The unmistakable sound of a shotgun. A pump-action, if her ears did not betray her.

“Don’t take my dog nowhere.”

TWO

Each member of the trio reacted simultaneously: Reese immediately raised her hands over her shoulders, palms open; Layla’s face contorted in shock; and surprisingly, Jack’s tail began to wag.

With her back to the assailant, Reese had no idea what they were facing, but Layla’s stunned stare told her that her ears had been correct: A weapon was drawn, and they were the targets.

She waited for more demands, but none came.

Seconds ticked by sluggishly, anxiously.

Even with a relatively cool head, and a history of facing similar circumstances, she couldn’t help the layer of dampness that sprang to her palms, nor stop the dance of her heart to her throat.

She slid her gaze to Layla, willing teleportation to somehow miraculously work at this very moment. She needed eyes on the scene, too. Needed to know why sympathy—or was that actually pity?—was transforming Layla’s face. Where was the fear, terror, shock?

Assess the situation. Be calm. Be kind. Be strong.

She took a steadying breath. “Sir? Ma’am? I am unarmed. May I turn around?”

Silence.

“My friend and I are unarmed. Please allow me to turn around. I will be glad to talk about the dog.”

The gunman moved, a shuffle of feet. Jack began a high-pitched whine and tugged at the leash.

“Okay. Turn around.”

Surprised, and still unable to peg the voice as male or female, Reese turned with caution and curiosity.

And understood completely Layla’s unusual reaction.

A mere boy held the weapon.

The long, single-barreled shotgun.

He stood fifteen yards away on a crumbling back deck, aiming the gun at Reese’s chest.

He was lanky, lean, and his small hands trembled with the burden of the oversized weapon. His white Spiderman shirt was wrinkled, soiled with dirt stains, his pants and shoes tattered with age and plenty of wear. The smooth olive skin of his face was grimy, his bark brown hair rumpled and scraggly at its ends.

But his eyes reminded her of the dog: Soft, innocent, and full of fear.

How did the cops miss him? They always cased a place before calling her in. It was essential they got everyone out that needed to be before Rescued ever arrived and acquired animals. It was safer that way. Necessary to avoid situations just like this one.

Should she—could she—somehow get to her phone shoved in her back pocket? Call them?

No, she could do this. Could handle it.

He was a boy, a child. Eight, nine at the most. He clearly wasn’t violent or mean—the eyes always told the real story on man or animal—but neglected, cast aside.

And by the way he fidgeted nervously with the trigger as Jack whined, desperate.

Because Reese understood all too well what that lonely, confusing place called desperation could ignite in a heart, she knew that while he may not want to harm her or Layla, and certainly not Jack, he was clearly determined to save the dog. If using the weapon would meet that end, he would do it.

He’d already pumped the forearm, extracting a spent shell and readying a new one—that’s what she’d heard initially—and now his bony finger twitched on the trigger.

She ordered priorities in her mind.

1. Get rid of the gun.

“Is this your dog?”

The boy nodded. “How’d you know his name?”

“I’m sorry?”

“His name. It’s Jack. You called him that.”

Reese lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t know. It seemed to suit him. What’s your name?”

“Hunter.”

“Hi, Hunter. I’m Reese.” She smiled. Moved her hand ever so slightly in Layla's direction. “This is my friend, Layla.”

“Jack was barking. I came out to save him. The police and all them other men scared him.”

“Yes, they might have. I’m sorry about that, Hunter.”

He brought big, dark, speculative eyes to hers. “He ain’t too scared of you.”

Reese smiled again. “I hope not. I try very hard to be nice to dogs. I like them very much.”

“Me too.”

“Hey, Hunter, do you mind if put my hands down?”

“No.”

She lowered them slowly, placed one gently on Jack’s head to try and comfort him as he continued to strain against the leash. He was watching Hunter intently, leaving no doubt that the boy was Jack’s person, the one who loved him.

“It looks like Jack wants to come over and see you. Is it okay if I bring him?”

Hunter nodded, and a quick flash of delight transformed his hardened features. Gave him the simple, sweet look of youth and innocence.

Reese tapped Layla’s hand in silent request, and transferred the leash over to her grip as Layla released it.

Still aware that a large gun with a likely inexperienced shooter was pointed directly at them, Reese noted that Hunter’s finger relaxed on the trigger as Jack’s tail began a merry wag. That he removed it altogether when Reese started walking the short distance to where he stood, Jack heeled at her side.

“Hunter, do you think you could put that gun down?” she asked pleasantly as she approached. “I wouldn’t want Jack to get excited and accidentally get hurt, would you?”

That was the farthest thing from his objective, so without thinking too hard, he mumbled a sound of dissent, and quickly lowered the shotgun to the rotting deck boards.

Reese let out a breath.
Item one, done.

But with every step, the sweet relief dissolved. Sourness rolled in her stomach. It was worse than she thought. He was dirtier, skinner, more wounded than she had seen. Instinct and outrage had her wanting to hold and comfort the child she knew had been given precious little of it in his life.

Another litmus test of man? How he treated the innocent. And to Reese’s mind, if the people here abused their animal this way, one could only imagine how they mistreated the child.

Her heart ached for both.

As she and Jack started up the trio of narrow stairs, Hunter changed instantaneously from wounded man-child to typical boy, chirping, “Hey, boy! Hey!” as Reese gave the leash slack and Jack skipped over to tangle with his boy in affectionate reunion.

There was rolling, giddy laughter, licking, and unintelligible words of comfort and love peppered with a dash of, “Good boys” here and there.

Then, as if suddenly remembering Reese’s presence and purpose, Hunter sobered, threaded his fingers under Jack’s new leash, and moved the dog closer to his side. "You can’t take him. He’s mine.”

“I don’t really want to take him, Hunter,” Reese admitted. “I'm here to get him some help, make him feel better.” Discreetly, she moved now between Hunter and the gun, knelt down. “See these places around his face and eyes that look red?" She indicated the flaky spots. “That means he needs medicine.”

“Medicine for what?”

“Well, I’m not a vet. But I’m pretty certain it’s something called mange.”

His dark brows drew together. “Will he die?”

“No.” She shook her head firmly. “He may not feel very good right now though. And I have some friends I can take him to that will help him."

“My grandma died. She had cancer.”

“I’m very sorry about that.”

He nodded, hugged Jack to him and studied the crusting skin around the dog’s face. “What’s mange?”

More at ease now that the gun was out of play, and certain Layla had somehow managed to report this by now, Reese sat, stretched out her legs. “A dog gets mange when little bitty bugs that you can’t even see with your eye, get under his fur, and into his skin."

“And you think Jack has bugs just from them little spots where he ain’t got fur?”

Reese nodded, decided not to mention it looked like Hunter had caught them, too, by the small red welts spotting his hands. “Yep. Hey, I know a trick that will tell us if Jack has mange or not. Wanna try it?

Again, the expressive brows wrinkled. “Will it hurt him?”

“Not a bit. He might like it in fact.”

Hunter rubbed a hand down Jack’s back, urged the dog closer to Reese so Jack sat snugly between them.

“Okay, here’s what you do.” Reese gently took one of Jack’s pointed ears, began to maneuver and scratch it lightly. As she suspected, his hind leg beat like a jackhammer.

Hunter stared. “What’s that mean?”

The textbook explanation floated through her mind—
the pedal-pinna reflex, a near full-proof method of detecting mites, causes the dog to begin a scratching motion when the ear is manipulated, as mites generally flourish in the ear
—but she stuck with simple, and hopefully easy to understand. "The bugs are in his ear. So when I move his ear, it itches. A dog’s natural reaction is to use that back leg to scratch an itch. So that’s why it’s moving fast—it itches a lot.”

Hunter nodded as if he knew just what she was talking about.

“Other dogs have left before and never come back, but Jack stays. He’s mine. I hafta keep a watch out for him. Make sure he don’t get hurt. I thought the police was gonna take him . . . kill him. He was barkin’ like he does when he’s afraid.” Hunter’s eyes slid toward where he’d dropped the gun. “I just needed them to understand. They can’t take him. He’s,” his small voice broke and he began to cry, “he’s my friend.”

Reaching over Jack, Reese grabbed Hunter, wrapped her arms around his slender body. “I know, Hunter. Believe me, I know.”

He buried his head in her shoulder, trying to stifle his cries. She let him keep his pride and pretended she didn’t hear the quick intakes of breath, the sniffles, feel the dampness of hot tears on her shirt.

Bless him. Bless this poor, sad child.

And curse whoever had done this to him and the dog.

The sweet dog who lay quietly and contentedly beside his master, offering bits of comfort and camaraderie with an occasional whimper or nose bump to Hunter’s leg.