The Protector (Game of Chance, #1)(8)

He hated being sick. Hated it. And the last thing he wanted was to be sick now. He had plans. Books to read. Snowfall to watch. Relaxation to experience. He didn’t want to feel like crap while on vacation.

Sighing, he built a fire in the fireplace and snuggled under a mound of blankets.

He loved his blankets. The guys all made fun of him, but Chappy didn’t care. The softer and fluffier the material, the better. There was nothing as comforting as being warm and cozy under a blanket, with a fire crackling and a book in his hand.

Except his head hurt, his muscles throbbed, and his throat felt as if he’d been swallowing glass instead of water.

“Damn flu,” he muttered.

Seconds later, as he willed himself to fall asleep, hoping rest would help . . . something caught his attention. He sat up on the couch and tilted his head.

A sound from the yard in front of his cabin . . . ?

No. On the porch.

Figuring it was probably a wild animal trying to escape the wind and snow, Chappy ignored it. Until he heard it again. Scraping.

If it was a bear, he needed to scare it away so it wouldn’t attempt to get inside the cabin. He hadn’t seen too many bears up here, but they were around, even in the winter.

Throwing off the blanket, Chappy stood and swayed on his feet for a moment.

Cursing how weak he felt, he went to the window at the front of the cabin and peered out. He couldn’t see anything but whiteness. He went to the coatrack by the door and pulled on his parka, shoved his feet into the boots he’d taken off earlier, and grabbed the shotgun he kept nearby just in case. He wasn’t going to shoot the bear, or whatever animal was on his porch, but he could shoot into the air to scare it away.

He cautiously opened the door a crack, and the cold wind made him shiver violently. Holding the shotgun at the ready, Chappy peered outside.

At first, he didn’t spot anything. Then he glimpsed the most pitiful-looking dog he’d ever seen in his life. He couldn’t believe the thing was still alive. He could see it was a male and so skinny that Chappy could see the ribs along his sides. His hip bones were sticking out obscenely, and his head was huge. It had to make up at least half his body weight at the moment.

It was a pit bull mix of some kind. Black. Its fur stood out against the white snow. It didn’t make a noise. Didn’t growl. Didn’t bark. Simply stood in the storm as if he didn’t even notice it raging around him.

“Where did you come from?” Chappy asked, his voice sounding deeper and more growly than normal.

Of course, he didn’t get an answer.

“You want to come in?” he asked, holding the door open a little wider.

In response, the dog took a step backward, but didn’t lose eye contact with Chappy.

He didn’t want to leave the dog in the storm. There was no way it would survive, considering its current condition. But he also couldn’t stand on his porch for hours with his door open, trying to earn the dog’s trust.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s warm inside. I’ve got some food and water. You can stay on one side, and I’ll stay on the couch.”

The dog took a step toward him, and Chappy’s hopes rose. But then the beast turned his head and looked out into the storm, then back at Chappy before whining.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath. He was sick with the flu and felt like crap, for God’s sake.

Still, there was something about the dog that wouldn’t let him go back inside and forget about him. Something about his mannerisms that sparked a long-forgotten memory inside Chappy. A mission from years ago.

They’d been deployed with a group of men and women from the Royal Australian Air Force. The group had K9s and were using them to find unexploded IEDs in the desert. He’d been fascinated by the way the dogs communicated with their handlers. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and seeing how much trust the handlers had in their dogs, and vice versa, was eye-opening.

What struck Chappy at the moment was how the stray, starving and probably freezing, was acting exactly like one of those professional military dogs. As if he was trying to communicate something to Chappy.

“What is it, boy?” he asked. “Got something you want me to see? Maybe a mama dog out there with puppies?”

The dog woofed. Sort of. It was an odd sound, really, not much like a bark at all, but Chappy knew he couldn’t ignore it. If there actually was a litter of pups, they definitely wouldn’t make it through the storm. The snow was falling hard and would continue to accumulate. They were in for at least another foot and a half of the heavy stuff.

“Damn it,” Chappy muttered as he leaned over and placed his shotgun on the floorboards of the porch, then began to tie his boot laces securely. “Give me a second, and we’ll see what you have to show me.” He stood, grabbing the shotgun as he did, taking a moment to brace himself against the wall of the cabin before heading back inside.

Chappy propped the weapon near the door, went to a dresser against the wall, quickly ripped off his jacket, and pulled a sweatshirt over the long-sleeved shirt he already had on. He grabbed his hat and scarf, then put his coat back on. When he was as bundled up as he could be, Chappy went back to the door.

A part of him was hoping the dog would be gone. That he’d be off the hook in trying to figure out what the animal was trying to tell him. But when he opened his cabin door and shone a flashlight into the storm, the dog was sitting right where he’d last seen him.