Skunk Hollow
Aunt Effie had named it years ago after one too many lodge guests mistook it for the turn to Willow Lake Lodge. According to her, if people were going to ignore perfectly good road signs, they deserved to question their life choices the moment they saw the word Skunk. It had dramatically reduced wrong turns.
I smiled as I passed it and made the long drive up along the tree-lined gravel road. The distance from the road to the house had always felt peaceful.
Today, it was anything but that.
Mo was barking.
And Ian was shouting. “Hold still!”
When they came into view, I saw Ian standing in the yard, shirtless, jeans soaked and streaked with mud, boots planted in what could only be described as a small swamp spraying Mo with the hose.
Mo was not simply muddy. Mo had become mud.
From nose to tail, he was coated in thick brown sludge. His white markings were no longer visible. He looked like a living, breathing clay sculpture.
Ian was aiming the hose at him while Mo danced around trying to drink from the spray. He turned the hose off when I got out of my pickup.
“Don’t ask,” he said immediately.
I folded my arms. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
Mo shook violently.
Water, mud, and debris flew in all directions.
Ian closed his eyes and endured it.
I took two careful steps back.
I had to ask. “What happened?”
Ian ran a hand through his damp hair. “Remember the low patch behind the Lodge where the crew parked the equipment truck yesterday?”
“The one you told me turned into soup after the rain?”
“That would be the one.”
“And?”
“And apparently,” Ian said dryly, “Mo decided to enjoy it.”
Mo barked once, unapologetic.
“He found something,” Ian continued. “Something he deemed worthy of excavation.”
I stared at Mo.
“What kind of something?”
Ian hesitated. “That’s the part I’m choosing not to confirm.”
I blinked. “Ian.”
He sighed. “Let’s just say it may have involved wildlife and enthusiasm.”
