Page 45 of Blood Moon

A day at the beach? Who was this girl? Who was thisman?

Beth had never met the John Bowie in the picture, and that was a pity, because she thought she would like to know him.

Made despondent by the thought, she returned to her bedroom. “Stay,” she told Mutt when he would have followed her in. He dropped down onto the threshold again. She commended him with a “Good boy” and a pat. She was about to close the door, then hesitated and left it open a crack. “Growl again if you hear anything suspicious.”

In the bathroom, she undressed, showered, and shampooed. It felt wonderful, but she didn’t linger. Loath to put on yesterday’s clothes, which were mud-spattered and worse for wear, she considered the flannel robe that hung from a hook on the back of the door. It had seen better days, betteryears, but it smelled of dryer sheets. She pulled it on, then wrapped a towel around her head. Back in the bedroom, she saw that Mutt had nosed open the door just wide enough for him to squeeze through. He was curled up in the center of the bed, dozing. She said, “I’m not sure that’s allowed.”

“It’s not and he knows it.”

Startled, she turned. John, holding a shotgun at his side, used only the tip of his index finger to push open the door the rest of the way. She’d come around so quickly, the towel on her head came unwound. She caught it as it fell.

John took her in, the ugly bathrobe, the unruly wet hair.

She did the same with him, the black rain slicker, the unruly wet hair.

Arrested by the sight of each other, both stood stock-still.

Mutt leaped off the bed to give John an enthusiastic welcome back. He danced around John’s wet pants legs until John acknowledged the greeting by scrubbing his knuckles across his head.

He did so absently, never taking his eyes off Beth. Nor she did look away from him. When she realized she was nervously twisting the damp towel between her hands, she forced herself to stop.

John finally broke the spell and ducked out of sight for a moment. When he reappeared, he no longer had the shotgun. “Everything all right here?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“Sleep okay?”

“Like a baby.”

“Good, good. There’s coffee if—”

“I found it. Thank you.”

“Was it still hot?”

She bobbed her head.

“Good.” An awkward silence stretched out. Mutt jumped back onto the bed but John seemed not to notice.

She indicated the robe. “I found it in the bathroom.”

“Aunt Gert’s, I think.” He drew a breath and let it out slowly. “You do a lot more for it than she did.” His eyes scaled down all the way to her bare feet, and he kept his head down for a time, rubbing his forehead.

Beth held her breath.

When he raised his head, he hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “You’ll have fresh clothes. I brought your suitcase. Purse. I guess your phone is in it?”

“Yes. Thanks.” She glanced toward the window. “It’s pouring.”

“Like a son of a… gun.”

“You went in the boat? The way we came? In this rain?”

“Nothing I haven’t done dozens of times. I had a tarp to cover up your stuff.” He turned away, but only long enough to pick up her suitcase and purse where he’d left them just outside her line of sight.

He carried them over to the bed. “Mutt.” The dog looked at him with imploring eyes, then over at Beth as though begging her to intercede on his behalf, but John snapped his fingers and Mutt hopped off the bed. John set her roll-aboard and purse on it.

She said, “I look forward to being in fresh clothes.”

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