Expired Getaway (Last Chance County #7) - Lisa Phillips Page 0,13

alive. Not much could be learned about a guy like him from a web search. It wasn’t like he regularly updated a social media account, and she had no idea if he even used email.

“Butch.” Her father stopped. “I ain’t comin’ up there to get you, boy.”

Bridget’s stomach turned over. She hated that voice and everything he represented. She should’ve brought the rifle Clarke had taught her how to use and taken care of the bulk of her life’s problems in one shot.

Except, in the end, it would make her no better than him. Plus, it was, like, illegal and stuff. That never bothered him when he wanted to do something. She didn’t know why it should bother her. She’d been raised to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, since that was exactly what he did.

Bridget stared down at the dark figure as the dog sniffed steadily toward her. By all rights, her father should be in jail, or dead. If there was any justice at all in this life, one of the two would have already happened during the years she had been away.

But no.

There was no justice. Not in this life, and not to the true extent of what that word meant. After all she’d seen and done, Bridget had to rely on God in His wisdom and power—and His kindness—to figure that all out. It was part of the peace she’d found.

“Butch.”

The dog kept on, while her father kicked a rock or something on the ground. His dark figure shifted, and he set his hands on his hips with an audible sigh.

Bridget stilled. The dog drew closer. Everything in her wanted to reach out and grasp him, hold the big animal in her arms. She’d never be able to heft his hundred-thirty odd pounds over the hill. Not without her father shooting her with the gun he kept on his person at all times.

A tear rolled down her face, but not because of fear.

The dog’s snout rustled a brown leaf and crushed it into pieces. He moved closer, and she drew out the bag of leftover chicken from her grocery trip that she’d hung onto just in case. You wanted this to happen.

Fine. She shouldn’t lie to herself. Bridget wasn’t here to check if her dad was still alive. She wanted Butch.

“What’s up there, Butch? What do you smell?”

Bridget pressed her lips together.

The dog sniffed her shoulder. She moved her hand slowly, a chunk of chicken in her fingers. He lapped it up with that big fuzzy tongue. She ran her hand over his mushed up, ridiculous face with all those rolls. He sniffed around her neck.

Then licked from her chin to her hair.

Bridget nearly cried her tears aloud.

“Let’s go, dog!” Her dad’s call rang out.

Bridget ran her fingers through the dog’s fur. You shouldn’t have come. Tears rolled down her face.

“Butch, come!”

The dog didn’t leave her.

“Go.” Bridget gave him a small shove toward her father. I love you, baby.

Her dad had wanted a fierce, imposing animal. He’d gotten one of those two things—Butch lived up to his name, and she’d tried to help him hide how soft his temperament was. Teaching him to growl was about the cutest thing she’d ever seen.

“Someone’s here.” Her dad called out again. “Butch. Come.”

The dog trotted off. After a few seconds, for some distance to grow between them, Bridget lifted up and looked to see who had come.

A dark-colored car pulled down the lane toward the house. Headlights lit up the side of the dilapidated barn, which had been falling down even before she’d left. It probably wasn’t safe to go inside it now.

She watched as the driver shut off the engine and climb out with the headlights still on. Probably because her father had no exterior lighting.

Bridget studied the way the man moved and clocked two things—the visitor was Clarke, and he was carrying a gun. She heard the audible inhale of her mouth and had to swallow down a gasp. Once she had herself under control, she crawled down the hill. The risk of exposure increased, but considering Clarke was here, she had no choice. Bridget had to know why he’d come. What he wanted from her father.

Her dad stopped at a distance. Butch took two steps in front of him. When nothing happened, her father kicked Butch’s flank. The dog dropped into a low stance and growled at the man approaching him.

“Lovely.” Clarke’s displeasure was clear. Why he thought he had the authority to cast judgment