The man snorts a laugh.
“I don’t get it,” the woman says, in a low tone that warns me she doesn’t appreciate being excluded. She doesn’t know what playing fetch is, meaning she’s from these woods, like Dalton. The man is not.
“You’re asking how much you can get for me,” I say. “Thank you for your interest, but I’m not for sale. Now, I’m going to take my dog—”
The woman swings behind me, lightning fast. My hand clenches, itching to feel the gun in my hand, but I’ve missed my chance to do that easily. As my heart picks up speed, Storm growls. I pet her and murmur that it’s all right, even if I’m no longer sure it is.
“How do you feel about getting yourself a husband, girl?” the man says.
“I’ve got one. Also, I’m not a girl. I’m older than either of you.”
“She’s got a smart mouth, doesn’t she?” the man says. “That’ll bring the value down.”
The woman snorts. “Did it bring my value down, Owen?”
He grins at her. “That’s a different story.”
“It’s just a matter of finding the right buyer. Like with any goods, you turn the flaws into assets. You’re not going to sell that mound of fur to someone who wants a hunting dog. And you’re not going to sell this girl to a man who wants a quiet little mouse. Well, unless you cut out her tongue. Which is always an option.”
I want to say they’re trying to spook me. That’s what Dalton and I would do, the sort of repartee that, afterward, we’d laugh about and say “Can you believe they actually took us seriously?” That could be what’s happening here. They’ll talk about selling me like a side of venison, and then, when they demand my coat and my snowshoes and whatever else I have of value, I’ll gladly hand them over, scamper off into the woods, and consider myself lucky.
And yet …
Those words aren’t directed at me. They pass right over my head to her partner, said in the same way she might suggest cutting my hair.
Cold nestles in my gut. I knew the man was trouble. Manageable trouble, though, like an asshole who might hassle me in the city. The woman is the bigger threat, and I realize I should have pulled my gun earlier.
Pull my gun when she was nearby? When she was close enough to run in and shoot me?
No, trying to end it sooner might very well have made it worse.
Storm keeps growling. The woman says to her partner, “Take the dog.”
“And shoot it?” he says.
“If you need to,” she says. “Otherwise, someone will want it, if only as dinner.”
My hands wrap tight in Storm’s fur. “She’s fine. I can control her.”
“You keep thinking you’ve got options here,” the man says. “Like this is a business negotiation. Now hand over that dog—”
“Why not make it a business transaction?” I say. “Wouldn’t that be easier? Yes, you have me dead to rights, but I’m going to be trouble. You see that already. So let’s negotiate. I accept my capture. You find a…”
I’m struggling to say “buyer,” but my lips won’t form the word. “A man who wants me. I play the scared mouse, and you get your money, and then … Well, then it’s up to me. If he relaxes his guard, I can escape, and you’ve still made your money. You didn’t sell false goods. He just failed to protect his purchase. You keep the money. I get the chance to escape. I’m willing to take that
risk, if we can do this in a civil manner.”
Owen’s lips curve in a slow smile, his eyes glinting in a way that is no longer mercenary interest. “Clever girl. What do you think, Cherise?” He must be addressing his partner, but his gaze never rises from me. “I do believe we have some room to negotiate.”
Storm wrenches from my hand. I’d loosened my grip, relaxing as I talked, and now she rips free and I spin, to stop her from going after Owen. But it isn’t Owen she’s leaping at. Cherise is raising her rifle … straight at me.
Storm slams into Cherise just as I hit the ground. I roll up and grab the barrel. As I do, the gun fires and I glance over at Owen because I do not forget he’s holding a gun of his own. But he has it lowered, and he’s leaning back, watching with amusement.
Cherise struggles with Storm, who’s snapping and snarling. Not biting, though. Never biting. The sheer weight of her is enough to put Cherise on the ground.
Cherise’s hand drops to a pocket on her thigh. I grab her wrist, pin it, yank out the knife, and throw it as far as I can. Then my hand goes to Cherise’s throat, as I take Storm’s place.
I glance over at Owen. I’m awkwardly positioned, with him behind me. He could attack, and I’d never see it coming. Yet he’s still leaning against a tree, not the least bit concerned that his partner is pinned. When he catches my eye, he winks and my stomach clenches.