Save Your Breath (Morgan Dane #6) - Melinda Leigh Page 0,81

hang deer.

“You going to be all right?” He was tempted to take Sharp’s pulse.

Sharp nodded. “Fine. I just aged a few years in the past minute, that’s all.”

“Let’s get out of here.” Lance led the way out of the shed. A light from the back of the house blinded him. The sound of breathing lifted the hairs on his neck. He held up a hand to block the light and saw the shadow of an enormous creature.

Sharp whipped his flashlight around. “Holy shit. Is that a dog or a bear?” Sharp asked in a whisper.

“A dog, I think.” All the moisture in Lance’s mouth and throat instantly evaporated.

The animal was tan with a black muzzle. It had a thick body and square head and was roughly the size of a Volkswagen.

“Back away slowly,” Sharp whispered.

“I think we should cut and run.” Lance had been chased by a dog in the past. He’d barely escaped with all his body parts.

“Nope.” Sharp eased backward. “You’ll trigger his prey instinct.”

Yep. That’s exactly what Lance felt like. Prey.

Chapter Thirty-One

Lance stared at the dog, sweat dripping down his back.

“Hey!” a voice called out.

Lance looked for the voice. A man walked toward them, an ax balanced on one shoulder. He was a lean six three, and he moved like an athlete. If this was Joe Franklin, he did not look like a nerdy game developer.

He lifted a hand to his mouth. A shrill whistle split the air, and the dog abruptly pivoted and trotted back to its master. The man gave it a command, and the dog planted its ass on the ground next to him.

“That’s a good girl,” the man said in a high-pitched voice as he scratched the dog behind her ears.

The dog wagged the whole back half of her giant body.

The man let the ax fall into his hands. If the guy rushed him, could Lance draw his gun and shoot before the blade hit him?

“You must be Joe Franklin.” Lance lifted both hands in front of his ribs, palms facing out. The seemingly defensive position put his hand closer to the weapon at his hip.

“Don’t move!” the man ordered. “Didn’t you see the No Trespassing signs?”

“We must have missed them.” Lance pointed one finger toward the house. “We knocked on your door, then thought maybe you were in the barn.”

“I don’t give a fuck if you knocked on the door.” The man’s face flushed angry red. “How did you get around my gate?”

“We walked.” Lance could not see his face. “Are you Joe Franklin?”

“Get the hell off my property. Are you reporters? Because I hate reporters.” Joe started toward them. “Still calling me, still showing up at my house, years later. I can’t go anywhere without someone snapping my picture. Last month, I caught some news guy parked on the road. He was flying a drone over my house.”

Olivia was a reporter. Had she come here? Had she made him angry?

Lance faced Joe. “We’re not with the press.”

Joe’s gaze darted back and forth between Lance and Sharp. He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on Lance’s face. “Can you repeat that?”

Lance remembered Joe’s hearing impairment and raised his voice, trying to speak more clearly. “We’re not with the press.”

Joe lowered the ax to the ground. He turned to his dog. “Stay.” Then he walked toward Lance. “Then who are you?”

Lance pulled out a business card and held it out. The beam of the flashlight blinded him. “You’re Joe?”

“Yes.” Joe shined the light on the card, then back at Lance. “What do you want?”

“Just to ask you a few questions,” Lance said. “It’s about a missing woman.”

“I don’t know anything about a missing woman.” Joe backed up a step. “I hardly leave my farm.”

“Please. Her name is Olivia Cruz.” Sharp moved forward. “She’s a true crime writer, and she’s my girlfriend. Can we just have ten minutes of your time? She’s been missing for days,” he pleaded.

“All right.” Joe turned and strode away without another word. With a snap of his fingers, he summoned his dog. The big animal trotted obediently at his side.

Sharp fell into step beside Lance, and they followed the man and his dog to the house. Joe led the way inside, down a corridor, and into a large kitchen. Like the outside of the house, the kitchen had an old manor feel. The floor was brick-colored tile. Copper pots hung from a rack over a butcher-block island.

In the close quarters of the kitchen, the dog turned, shoved her huge muzzle