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The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
It wasn’t like the dog not to obey.
From inside the house, he heard a sound. The soft scrape of a boot on the old linoleum.
Or was it the TV that he’d left on in the living room, the volume low, the bluish light flickering behind him?
He strained to listen.
A floorboard creaked.
But he was alone.
All the spit in his mouth dried.
He licked his lips.
Just inside the door was his hunting rifle. A Winchester .30-30 lever action that Gramps had left him.
The screen door scraped open and he reached for the gun.
But he came up empty. His fingers brushing the kitchen wall near the doorjamb.
What the hell?
The rifle was always there.
Loaded.
Ready.
Just in case.
His heart began to knock and he peeked inside. Heard nothing, but saw in the flickering half-light that the gun was definitely gone. Had he put it in his truck? Or . . . ?
Or what? You know you left it there. It’s always there unless you go hunting. And someone’s in the fuckin’ house. With your damned weapon. What the fuck are you gonna do?
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His keys were by the front door, which he realized belatedly he’d left open. His insides turned to jelly as he remembered his phone and his other gun, the pistol, were in a drawer by his bed.
Shit, shit, shit!
At that moment the dog bounded onto the back porch and yipped to go inside.
“Shh!” he hissed.
Maybe whoever it was would just leave, take whatever he wanted and . . . but why was he here? Bronco didn’t have anything of any value.
He took one step off the porch.
Click!
The distinctive sound of the Winchester being cocked.
The dog growled.
Oh, shit.
