The Next Evening
I’ve been running on the trail for almost three hours and I’m fucking exhausted. Sweat drips off my body despite the sunset chill. I stripped my shirt ages ago. It hangs over my shoulder, completely drenched.
The mutt won’t leave me alone.
He bounds way off in front, and then once he’s put enough distance between the two of us, he bounds right back, nipping at my heels affectionately.
“Next time you do that, I’m gonna fucking kick you.”
He gives me a look that clearly tells me he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
Fuck, even I don’t believe a word I’m saying.
It’s my last loop of the trail for the morning. We climb the final rise and soon I can see the patchy cabin roof come into view.
A little higher and I can see that the front door is open.
That’s not right.
I’m a thousand percent sure I closed it before I left.
“Fuck,” I growl under my breath.
I circle around and retrieve a gun from the shed. Then I go back to the front and carefully, slowly mount the steps.
I crane my neck into the house to peer through the half-open door. I’m expecting Lobo to be back, seeking the vengeance he wasn’t man enough to claim yesterday.
And then I hear a sing-song voice that makes my stomach turn.
Before I can react, the mutt races through the door with his tail wagging. I sigh in disgust and follow him inside, gun dangling at my hip.
“Oh, hello!” Aracelia says, bending to pet the animal. “Where’ve you been?”
I step into the cabin and glare at her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” I demand. “I was about to shoot you.”
She shrugs. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” she replies. “Sit down. I made dinner.”
“What?” I look at her with a dumbfounded expression.
“Dinner,” she replies pointedly, setting down a pot of something that smells pretty good. “Pozole. And fresh tortillas.”
“What I want right now is a nice, cold beer.”
Aracelia rolls her eyes. “Don’t you think you drink a little too much?”
“Fuck off, Aracelia,” I say, sitting down and reaching for a bowl despite myself.
She smirks a little as I spoon a generous heaping of pozole into my bowl. The mutt whines at my feet but I shake my head.
“Don’t you fucking look at me,” I curse at him.
“Venga, perrito,” Aracelia coos. She plucks a juicy piece of pork from the broth with her skinny fingers and feeds it to the dog.
I watch the steam rise off my bowl and my stomach churns with hunger. But before I pop the first spoonful into my mouth, I glance at Aracelia as she takes the seat in front of me.
“It’s not poisoned, is it?”
“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”