Mean Streak

“Oh, I forgot,” he said. “There’s also a mean dog.”

* * *

She hadn’t screamed, or even yelped, but she looked petrified. Disregarding the frenzied dog, he put the truck into gear and executed a three-point turn so the vehicle was facing out.

Moving only her head, she turned to him, a question in her eyes. He said, “A precaution. In case we need to leave in a hurry.”

A piercing whistle brought the barking to an abrupt stop. The elder brother had come out onto the porch. The yellow light bulb shining down from under the eaves cast deep shadows on his face, emphasizing his glower.

“That’s Norman.”

Responding to another sharp whistle, the dog backed off, but it retreated only a few feet and stood just beyond Emory’s door, rigid and alert, ears twitching, as though anticipating a command to tear their throats out.

He leaned across Emory and pressed his hand against her thigh for reassurance as he shouted through the passenger window. “Call off your damn dog.”

Norman shaded his eyes against the porch light glare. Seeing Emory, he said, “Who the hell is she? You were supposed to be bringing a doctor.”

“This is Dr. Smith.”

Norman clumped down the steps and sauntered over to the pickup. Through the window now smeared with canine slobber, he gave Emory a once over. “She’s a doctor?”

“She is.”

Smirking, Norman drawled, “Too bad I ain’t sick.”

To he

r credit, Emory didn’t flinch or give any other indication of fear. But the contempt in her voice could have chiseled ice. “I understand that you neglected to get medical treatment for your sister. So I came to see about her. But I’ll leave right now if you don’t restrain that animal.”

Amused by her feistiness, Norman gave her his stupid grin and said, “Yes, ma’am, doctor ma’am,” then turned and took the dog by the collar. He dragged it over to a tree and clipped a chain to the collar. “Lay down,” he commanded, throwing in a kick that sent the dog sprawling in the muddy snow. It sprang up immediately but stayed where it was, sitting on its haunches and panting hard.

Emory turned her head and spoke in an undertone that Norman would be unable to hear. “Are you sure your gun is loaded?”

“Always.” After a beat, he added, “I’ve got your back, Doc. You can count on it. I would kill them before I let them touch you.”

Their faces were very close, so he could see the bewilderment with which her eyes searched his. Then she assumed an expression of determination. Turning away from him, she opened the passenger door and got out. “Where is Lisa?”

Norman bowed from the waist and swept his arm wide toward the house. “Back bedroom.”

The dog growled as they filed past. They trooped up the steps and across the porch and went inside, stepping directly into a living room. He’d seen it this afternoon when he brought them home. Nighttime hadn’t improved it.

It was filthy from the moldy ceiling to the stained rug. Sections of wallpaper had been peeled away, exposing the Sheetrock. A tent made of newspaper was acting as the shade for the floor lamp, the stand of which was bent.

Will was sprawled on the sofa watching a wrestling match on TV. The shotgun was propped, barrel up, against the cushion beside him. Upon seeing Emory, he raised his eyebrows. “You shittin’ me? What the hell’s goin’ on?”

His brother said, “Neighbor man here brought us a lady doctor. Ain’t that a stitch?”

Norman’s moniker grated on him, but he let it pass because he wasn’t about to tell the Floyd brothers his name. Furthermore, they were appraising Emory like hungry jackals, which made him feel all the more protective of her.

Ignoring the uncouth pair, he took Emory’s arm and guided her toward the bedroom where he’d left Lisa earlier. Her mother was standing in the open doorway of the room, twisting the hem of the soiled apron tied around her waist.

Pauline Floyd was skinny to the point that her shoulder bones poked up like drawer pulls against her faded dress. Her hair was so thin that scalp showed through the frizzy gray tuft on top. Her face said that she’d seen plenty of hard times, and that this was another of them.

“Pauline,” he said, “this is Dr. Smith. Dr. Smith, Mrs. Floyd.”

Emory murmured an acknowledgment to the introduction.

Pauline addressed her anxiously, “Can you help my girl? She’s carrying on something awful. Says her belly hurts, and she’s bleedin’.”