What You See (Sons of the Survivalist #3) - Cherise Sinclair Page 0,7

JW Stephens

Blood singing in his veins, Bull was on the cooling-off portion of his run. This was his favorite place to jog—from his roadhouse, down to the lakeshore, through the town park to Dante’s cabins and back. It was off-season with the number of tourists beginning to pick up.

Dante’s pickup and a sedan had been parked by the four cabins, so the old Okie might have a new renter.

Gorgeous Friday. Under a vivid blue sky, the sun glinted off the bold line of the Kenai Mountains. Bear Mountain and Russian Mountain to the south were spectacular and so white he had to squint his eyes.

The temp was mid-thirties with air crisp enough to crackle—exactly what he needed to clear away the remnants of battle nightmares from the night before.

Pulling his attention from the view, he checked his surroundings again since bears leaving hibernation tended to be irritable as were winter-skinny moose. He’d started wearing his bear spray belt.

Voices near the trail caught his attention.

“Yeah, just bought the damn dog. Bernese mountain and German shepherd mix. Its owner died, and the son didn’t want the mutt, so it was cheap. He said the brute fights like a demon, but, Jesus, look at it cringe. I was robbed.”

Another man spoke. “Good thing you brought him here to test him first, or you would’ve been fucking embarrassed at the fights.”

Two other voices joined in, agreeing.

“Let’s try this again,” one said. “Maybe it’ll do better this time.”

Bull slowed, an ugly feeling crawling up his spine. Fights?

“And go!” Growls and snarls mixed with shouts. “Get him, you fucking mutt. Attack!”

Oh hell, no. Not in my park. Not in my town.

In a slushy clearing, two dogs circled each other while several men watched.

One dog attacked, the other yelped, then the two were fighting for real.

Only four guys. He could probably take them, although it’d be nice to have one of his brothers at his back.

Moving closer, Bull eyed a pile of old buckets someone had forgotten last fall. The melting snow had revealed them—and left them filled them with water. That’ll work.

He picked up a bucket and tossed the icy water at the dogs.

Shocked, the mutts broke apart.

Still pissed off, Bull tossed the second bucket of water at the men.

“What the fuck!” The yells were satisfying. And then all four charged Bull.

Fine. He was warmed up and ready to fight.

He sidestepped the leading man. A hard punch to the guy’s gut folded him over, and he started puking. Jesus.

Retreating to keep from getting splattered, Bull tripped the second one, so he could concentrate on the third. Twisting to take the third’s punch on his shoulder, Bull hit his chin hard.

Laid him out cold.

The second man scrambled to his feet just in time to get Bull’s boot in his gut, leaving him curled up like an armadillo.

Good enough.

The last one was the asshole who’d bought a dog for the sole purpose of fighting it. The one who hadn’t even jumped into the brawl. The man’s eyes widened like he suddenly realized he was the only one standing, and he backpedaled rapidly.

“You wanted a fight,” Bull growled as he advanced. “Try doing it yourself, you cowardly bastard.”

Even as Bull slapped aside the man’s wimpy punch, his buddies abandoned ship, staggering away. One dog followed them. The other stood, paw in the air.

Seeing his friends fleeing, the cowardly owner yelled a protest.

Bull raised his fist and smiled. “Happens we like dogs here. Assholes, not so much.”

“Fuck you.” The guy retreated a step, then sprinted after his friends. Leaving his dog behind.

Rather than following, the dog whimpered, lay down, and watched Bull warily. Obviously, there was no bond between the dog and the owner.

Dammit, I don’t have time for a dog, let alone a fighting dog.

The mud-covered fur appeared to be long—a mix of reddish brown and black. Bleeding from a couple of bites, the dog whined at Bull, appearing more bewildered than vicious. Hell.

Bull went down on one knee and held his hand out, speaking slow and low. “I don’t know much about the Bernese part, but shepherds are good working dogs. You want to come interview for a job at the Hermitage? We’ve got chickens and a kid you can guard. You’d have to set up a truce with the cat.”

At Bull’s quiet words, the dog’s ears perked up, and its bedraggled tail moved back and forth tentatively.

“Then again, the shape you’re in, the cat might win a fight,” Bull murmured as the dog rose and took a