Page 2 of Serve ’N’ Protect

The dog leaped off the porch onto the walkway. It spun and looked back at her, as if waiting for her to follow. When she didn’t, the animal jumped back onto the porch and resumed barking like a hellhound. Small droplets of blood and several glass shards dotted the wood decking in front of the door. Again, the dog jumped off the porch, still waiting for her.

Something was definitely wrong. Between her two sisters and two brothers, there’d been a dog in her family for as long as she could remember. As big and scary as this one was, instinct and experience told her it needed her.

Never one to ignore a plea for help, she grabbed her purple winter parka from the coat rack. After shoving her arms through the sleeves, she limped back to the coffee table and stuffed her cell phone into one of the outer pockets in case she needed to call 911.

As she made her way back to the door, the dog watched her through the glass. Cassidy grabbed her cane, then paused with her hand on the latch. She’d been wrong about a lot of things in her life. Especially about Hugh. If she’d misinterpreted this dog’s intentions, there was no way she could ever outrun those fangs.

Reality check.

In her condition, she couldn’t outrun a snail.

The animal took two steps backward, still watching her from dark-brown eyes.

“Here goes.” She pushed open the door, letting it shut behind her. The dog stood there, waiting, watching, and panting, its exhalations turning to white puffs in the cold December air.

Gripping the wobbly wood handrail just enough for balance yet not so much as to break it off the rotting wood column it was still barely attached to, she made her way down the few steps to the brick walkway, then onto the grass, squinting as the bright mid-afternoon sunlight hit her face. Warily, she followed the dog. Like the rest of her family, she loved all animals, but if this one turned on her, the only weapon she had was her cane. In other words, she’d be royally screwed.

With every step she took, the dog—a male, judging by its size—took several more before twisting its neck to look back and make sure she was still following.

“I’m coming,” she reassured him, trying to walk faster but finding it impossible. There’d been a time when she was an athlete. A runner, a cyclist, a volleyball enthusiast. Now, she was grateful just to be walking. At least they hadn’t had any snow yet for her to trudge through. Southern Maryland wasn’t exactly known for its white Christmases.

The dog led her straight to the broken window, lengthening his stride as he picked up speed.

“No, don’t!” she cried.

In a gracefully powerful move, the dog leaped into the air and shot cleanly through the hole in the window.

Hers and John’s houses were both similar California-style Craftsman bungalows, relatively small but with first floor, side yard windows at least four feet above the ground. She rested her forearms on the ledge, being careful of the broken glass, and looked through the hole into John’s living room. She could still hear the dog’s panting but could barely track his pure white coat in the interior darkness of the house.

She cupped her hands around her eyes, continuing to peer inside as she waited for her vision to adjust, but the glare was too great. She made her way to the front door and tried the knob. Locked. “Of course.” She went into the backyard and tried the kitchen door, which was also locked. “Figures.”

At this point, it seemed likely that the dog had been responsible for breaking the window, so she didn’t really think there were burglars inside. Part of her brain said to call 911 anyway, while the other part reminded her that police coverage in this area wasn’t all that great. If the situation were reversed, John wouldn’t hesitate to verify her house was okay. Whatever was upsetting this dog, it seemed urgent. Luckily, John had told her where he hid a spare key—in the backyard under a specific rock that looked like a mushroom.

After retrieving the key, she hobbled slowly back to the front door. With each step, the ache in her leg intensified. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, cringing in case the alarm went off and hoping she could remember the code John had given her. The alarm box warning light glowed a steady green.

“Hello?” she called out. “Hello?” The only sound came from the dog’s nails on the hardwood floor as he trotted into the hallway. He snorted then dashed back into the living room. Cassidy followed to find the dog pacing back and forth in front of a low coffee table. Then a bare foot came into view.

“Oh my God.” She stared a moment longer, just to be sure.

A man—not John Freeman—lay facedown on the floor next to a stepladder. This man could never be confused with her neighbor. He was larger. Much larger. Well over six feet tall and with thickly muscled shoulders as wide as that Wolf cooktop she’d been drooling over at Hahn’s Appliances.

Using her cane for support and resting her other hand heavily on the table, she knelt beside him. He wore jeans, but his torso was bare, save for a white, blood-tinged bandage wrapped around his waist. Gently, she touched two fingers to the side of his neck and was rewarded with the steady thumping of a pulse.

The dog whimpered then lay down and began licking the man’s face, as if it was trying to wake him up. When that didn’t work, he started whimpering again, his licks becoming more frantic. If a dog’s eyes could look worried, this one’s did. It was clear the animal was extremely protective of this guy, and she needed to tread carefully. Any wrong move could be interpreted as an attack. Just because he hadn’t bitten her yet didn’t mean he still wouldn’t clamp his teeth around one of her protruding body parts.

“Hey,” she whispered, gently placing her hand on the man’s back while keeping one eye on the dog. “I’m not gonna hurt him. I promise.” His skin was cold and clammy with sweat. The bandage had dislodged itself, revealing a long, stitched-up gash. A knife wound?

Oh, Jesus.

Instinctively, she looked over her shoulder, expecting some slasher-movie, knife-wielding lunatic to come at her from behind, but there was no one else there. The dog would most likely have alerted her if there had been. Besides, the wounds on this man clearly weren’t inflicted seconds ago. Some of the stitches had torn free, accounting for the blood but not the guy’s unconscious state. “You’ll be okay. I’m going to call 911.” Cassidy reached into her pocket.

Before she could tug out her phone, the man’s hand shot to her wrist, and she gasped. Her heart pounded faster as feverish, obsidian eyes locked onto hers. “Don’t,” he growled.

“Hey, let me go!” She tried twisting away, but he held fast. For a man in his condition, he had surprising strength. His fingers were like a steel vise, and he was starting to frighten her. With her other hand, she dug her phone from her pocket. “If you let me go, I’ll try to help you. I can call an ambulance.” And the police.

His teeth chattered, and sweat beaded his forehead, calling attention to the long scar disappearing into his close-cropped, jet-black hairline. “Don’t. Call. Anyone.”

“Why not? You’re bleeding.” The scar on his forehead didn’t appear fresh, but whatever injury he’d sustained to his back was oozing blood faster into the gauze.