Page 1 of Stella's Christmas Rescue
1
“Max!” I call out at the top of my lungs into the cold windy air.
If he can hear me, he’ll come running back home. But as the minutes tick by, I realize there’s no wagging black tail in the snowy bushes out front. No plodding paws in the back acreage either.
Damn hunting dogs. When they get the scent, there is nothing on Earth that can stop them.
I know the feeling.
Max is a guy’s dog, sort of like me. My friends all call me a guy’s guy. We don’t take advice very well, and sometimes, that works out. Sometimes it doesn’t. We’re protective, too. But me and Max are both good—natured at heart. Mostly.
I grab the keys to my ancient pickup, throw on my heavy camo coat, and head out the door. The driveway is more of a gravel road, but right now, it’s mostly snow. Truck handles it just fine. That’s why I never bothered to upgrade once I moved to Floyd, Virginia. I know the new trucks have all the bells and whistles, but I’m not one much for extras.
I like things to be simple, which is why it grinds my gears when Max runs off like this. Nothing more complicated than trying to find your dog, with night coming in. And in December, night comes in fast. The sunset streams between the treetops, like a river around rocks. It’s almost as though the tops of the pine are on fire, they’re so lit up. At least I have a nice view, while I track him down.
My first stop is Hanson’s farm. I cruise down the dirt path that connects our land. The truck bumps along, jostling me as I go. My farm was neglected when I got it, but I’m slowly working out all the issues. His farm and his half of the dirt road are in need of attention. But I know he’s doing the best he can. The old man, Stanley Hanson, must be in his nineties. He walks with a limp and a cane, but he still gets around on his own. Shouldn’t be driving anymore, so sometimes, I bring him food when I come back from our only grocery store, Bailey’s.
Mr. Hanson likes to give Max his leftovers. I worry about the old man’s eyesight, though. One time, I found him giving a bear cub half a chicken.
When I pull up the drive, there’s a strange truck there. It’s newer than mine, and the white paint is in better condition, but it’s seen some wear and tear. It’s parked close to Mr. Hanson’s late eighties Suburban, which dwarfs the guest truck. I’d always heard he didn’t have much family, just a son who is stationed in South Korea. I’m curious about the truck’s owner.
My eyes narrow. Better not be some scammer looking to take his social security. I grab my shotgun and toss it onto my shoulder, just in case I might need to shoo some jerk away.
I walk up the wooden steps and they creak underfoot. His porch could use another coat of blue paint in the spring, as could the rest of the house. But it’s in decent repair overall. I had helped him with some maintenance over the years since I came to Floyd. I note a window that probably needs resealing by the door.
He can’t hear for shit, so I always have to pound the door as hard as I can without damaging it. The wood is sturdy, but as a volunteer firefighter, there’s always an urge to bash down a door in the way. There are parts of the job that are a lot of fun, and demolition is my favorite, outside of saving lives.
The door is suddenly thrown open, and inside is a petite woman made of all the right curves. Her bright blue eyes are like sapphires. And I can’t drag mine away as she narrows hers up at my face, like I’m being scowled at by an angel. I have never seen someone who looked so polished in the country. Her hair and makeup are immaculate. That’s not the way women around here look.
And she’s annoyed or worried, or maybe a mix of both.
“Yes?”
“Is Stanley Hanson around?”
“Nn…that depends. Who’s asking?”
“My name is Jordan Waters, ma’am, and I’m a friend of Mr. Hanson’s. Would he be up and around?”
She takes sight of the shotgun and says, “He’s unavailable, but I’ll tell him you stopped by. Goodnight.”
I wedge my boot in the doorway, and she looks terrified. “I promise, ma’am, I mean you no harm. But I don’t know you, and you’re in my elderly friend’s house. You understand how that could be suspect, right?”
“Mr. Waters?—"
“Jordan.”
She blows an errant red curl from her eyes and says, “I was told about you being the neighbor, but...I don’t know you?—”
I cut her off, “Well now you do. So, I came to talk to Mr. Hanson to see if he has laid eyes on my dog. Max is missing. I need to speak to Hanson.”
“Dog—”She murmurs. Then her voice rises, “Oh shoot!” She swings the door open and whips out onto the porch in a frenzy of red curls and plaid.
Guess she decided I’m safe enough for her to come outside.
The woman starts shouting, “Sugar!” She leans over the railing, looking down the side of the house, giving me a fine view of the way her curves fill out her tight blue jeans. “Sugar, get in here!”
I grin.
