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Kristina
I rush out to the side of the house where the storage room is and throw open the door. It clatters against the opposite wall with a bang. Daylight filters in, illuminating the inside of the otherwise dark and gloomy room. I set out to locate the bed frame, which I find propped against the wall to the right.
Realizing I’m going to need the truck nearby in order to pack up and tie the bed frame, I march out toward the barn, climb inside my pickup, and drive it to the side of the house. I then busy myself piling the wooden pieces next to the entrance, trying my best to forget Tiger or anything related to him, when out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a large shadow. I look up and find Tiger standing by the truck, eyes focused on something out in the distance.
Funny, how he stepped out of the house without making a sound that would’ve alerted me to his presence. For someone so big, he certainly moves with the grace of a stealthy feline.
A moment goes by and he remains immobile. I think to ignore him and go about my business, but then he strides off and I lose sight of him.
Tiger being somewhere I can’t see isn’t something I’m at ease with. Should anything happen, I’d prefer to be prepared. With him out of visual contact, he could catch me off guard. Damn if I’ll let him get the best of me.
I tiptoe out of the room and glance to my left, spotting him not far away—still gazing toward the tree line. Intrigued, I survey the area, unsure of what’s caught his interest, when a small ball of fur emerges from between two trees.
The tiny mass of black and white approaches cautiously, sniffing the ground as it nears Tiger. As if sensing trouble, the dog suddenly pulls its head up and his ears back, greeting Tiger with a stiff growl.
Grandpa always told me to trust a dog’s judgment and so far, it seems as if this canine finds Tiger as threatening as I do. Maybe I should take the dog’s conclusion as a warning. Instead of going indoors to have another talk with Grandma, however, I decide to wait out the results of this encounter.
Cujo, not aptly named since this dog is as intimidating as a two-week-old piglet, calms down a bit when Tiger goes down on one knee, and extends his right hand. The dog pushes his tiny, black nose into the ground as he takes cautious steps forward. Tiger murmurs something to the newcomer I can’t make out and Cujo responds by wagging his tail and rushing to him.
Traitor.
Cujo licks Tiger’s hand, apparently undisturbed by the stranger he hasn’t seen before today, behaving as if they’ve been buddies for years.
Irritated, I come out of my hiding place and march toward them, stopping only when Tiger looks up at me.
“Is he yours?” he asks.
Cujo contently rests his muzzle on Tiger’s knee, his face clearly showing a level of appreciation for the hand caressing the top of his head.
“No,” I reply with a frown.
A month ago, Cujo showed up on our property. I was out feeding the sheep when he emerged from the tree line and ran right up to me. I checked for a collar but he had none. Since I couldn’t figure out where he came from, I drove downtown to ask the locals. Farmer Bill thought Cujo might have belonged to an antique collector who lived about six miles north of our house. According to Bill, when the antique collector died, the dog ran away.
“He showed up here a month ago. He drops by every so often, eats, sleeps in the barn for a couple of days and then takes off again. I don’t think he belongs to anyone.”
Tiger turns to the dog. “He seems friendly.”
Too friendly. One pat on the head and he’s practically melting at Tiger’s feet. Whatever happened to being a good judge of character? One second he’s growling at the stranger and the next he’s all too happy to get his attention.
“Have you ever had a pet?” The need to find out more about him comes out of nowhere. What is it about him that inspires my curiosity? I bite my lip, hoping he doesn’t notice my nervousness at my slip-up. I’m not supposed to care about him. The question contradicts this.
Tiger scratches Cujo’s left ear. “No. I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Cujo closes his eyes, openly appreciating so much affection right in front of me. The backstabbing mutt.
“I think he likes you,” I point out, though I try to hide my frustration.
“You have many animals,” he says, his eyes never leaving the dog.
I look around briefly before setting my gaze on him. “So we do.”
The gentleness he uses to caress the dog confuses me even more. I don’t want to make Tiger into a total monster, but this whole situation has really put me on edge.
Running into an injured man I have to keep private is beyond unusual, and to see this dangerous-looking individual behave so gently toward a defenseless animal is striking.
“I’ll finish loading the truck.” I spin around.
“Wait,” Tiger calls out.
Tension takes hold of me as I turn to face him again. “Yes?”
“I can help.”
I want to refuse, but the hopeful look in his eyes holds off my turndown. “Okay,” I say reluctantly, not really understanding why I would agree to let him help in the first place.
He scratches Cujo’s right ear one more time before straightening to his full height again. This close, he is even more frightening. Yet there is something about him that evokes a little compassion. I’ve never felt such conflicted emotions toward one person in my life.
I stroll off in the direction of the storage room. Once inside, I grab the headboard and pull on it, but Tiger steps in.
“Let me do this,” he insists as he jerks out the wooden bedrail, picks it up, and throws it over his head as if it weighs a total of two pounds.
Surprised, I clear my throat. “That should go on the bottom of the truck bed.”
He continues on, leaving me alone in the storage room, staring after him. What just happened here? He shouldn’t be this physically able, after being so close to death. The man had been shot, beaten, and whipped, yet he walks around as if he’d only been scratched.
I twisted my ankle once when I was seven and it took a couple of days to feel better. How is he this fit so soon? My thoughts are interrupted when he walks into the room. He saunters toward the footboard and reaches for it, but my hand instinctively comes to rest on his arm.
The action seems to shake him a bit. He turns his head to the left to look at me, eyebrows arched. His gaze shoots from my face to the hand resting on his bicep and back again. Although his sudden change in demeanor indicates I may have done something wrong, I can’t bring myself to pull away, even when my subconscious is screaming at me to.
“Shouldn’t you be upstairs, resting?” I ask in hope of breaking the tension between us.
“I am fine,” he responds without hesitation. He’s all wound up, as if he’s getting ready to take off running. It’s disconcerting. What is he afraid of? I’m the one standing in front of a potentially crazed maniac.
“Well, you sure do look like you’re fine.” I remove my hand, and he settles down. I’m thinking he probably doesn’t like to be touched. After the way I found him, I can’t say I blame him. “Look, Tiger, about before...you don’t have to go into town with me if you don’t want to.” The words are out before I can stop myself.
“Will you be less worried if I stay?”
I want to lie, but ultimately I end up saying, “No.”
“Then I will go.”
He’s so eager to agree and go along with anything I say, but why? I may be setting him up to be uncovered by the psychotic killer he escaped from yet he’s indifferent.
“Okay, then, let’s get this stuff loaded.” Now I’m just angry with myself. Why can’t I find that silver lining between good and bad?
As I grab one of the rails, I realize the only way to fully know what’s going to happen is to wait. Right now, I can’t prove him right or wrong. My only option is to follow Grandma’s advice and let nature take its course.