Claiming the Enemy: Dustin: Porter Brothers Trilogy, #3

by Jamie Begley

  “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, it ain’t working,” his pa said casually while releasing the smoke.

  Dustin didn’t respond, not taking his eyes off the chicken coop.

  “You want to take a break and go with me to Mag’s? One of her customers couldn’t pay his bill and gave her a litter of puppies. You want to help me pick one out?”

  When he didn’t answer, his father snuffed out his joint, putting the bud in his shirt pocket.

  “Suit yourself.”

  The truck backing out of yard didn’t tempt him to change his mind.

  After his father left, Dustin could hear the voices coming from inside the house until it grew silent and the lights went out, leaving him alone in the yard with only the crickets to keep him company.

  His father would be out until dawn. When he went drinking at the bootlegger’s, he usually spent the night bragging about his crops until Mag threw them out so she could get some sleep.

  The sound of feathers flapping had him narrowing his eyes on the chicken coop. Silently raising his bow, he looked through the sight as he pulled back the string. Holding his breath, he waited. A second later, the arrow was released, striking the fox in the side and causing it to fall from the coop’s tin roof.

  Dustin slowly climbed down the tree, then opened the gate. He picked up the fox, making sure it was dead. Crying, he carried it out and closed the gate behind him.

  Laying it down next to Duke’s grave, he then went to the barn for the shovel. When he was done burying the fox, he patted the grave, making sure the dirt was packed down good.

  Moving to the other side to stand over the grave, he used his fingers to dig up enough dirt to lay the arrow down that had killed the fox. Covering it when he was done, he gently smoothed the soil over it, remembering the many times he had run his fingers through the dog’s fur.

  Standing, he wiped his dirty hands on his jeans, picked up his bow, and then went back to the tree. He shimmied up until he was once again on the branch.

  He almost slid off the branch when he nodded off. He was steadying himself when he saw the truck’s headlights coming up the dirt road. His father had come back much sooner than he expected him.

  Curious, Dustin watched him get out of his truck, then reach inside before pulling out a small dog. Carrying it to the barn, his pa shut it inside. Instead of going inside, he then walked to stand below the tree Dustin was sitting on.

  “Feed and water him before you go to school in the morning.”

  Dustin remained silent at the order.

  Thinking he was going to the house, Dustin was surprised when his father walked toward Duke’s grave. He saw his father nudge the packed down dirt with his boot before coming back to stand under the tree.

  “You didn’t bury what you killed deep enough. Every critter in the woods will be coming, thinking it’s Thanksgiving in this heat.”

  “I know,” Dustin grimly spoke the first words he had said to his father in over a week.

  “It’s gonna be a while before that coon dog is trained enough to watch over those chickens.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t forget to feed it.”

  “I won’t.”

  His father left him, going into the dark house.

  Dustin relaxed back against the tree. The crickets started chirping again when they realized they weren’t going to be bothered any longer.

  Mentally counting to stay awake, he stopped at the barking coming from the barn. Dustin put up with it as long as he could before climbing down the tree and walking across the lighted yard to the barn.

  Opening the door, he stared down at the small puppy that sat down on his hind legs when he saw him.

  “Fool dog, you want Pa to come out here to shut you up?”

  The puppy barked again despite his warning.

  Reaching for the flashlight that his father kept on the shelf beside the door, he turned it on. The gangly puppy eagerly looked up at him.

  Duke had been black and tan. The pup had an easily recognizable coat color.

  Frank Hayes must have owed Mag a lot of money for him to give up his litter of Bluetick hound dogs. The Hayes were the only ones in the county who could boast having one, and they refused to sell any of the puppies to the town folks when his bitch went in heat. Instead, he sold them without any effort to hunters out of state.

  Dustin had heard his father complain that Frank had buyers sign contracts not to sell the dogs or breed them.

  When the dog barked again, Dustin hurriedly scooped the gangly pup into his arms. “Shush. Pa won’t be happy you’re barking unless you see a critter.”

  Shining the flashlight around the barn, he saw what he was looking for hanging from a nail on the wall. Duke’s old leash hadn’t been used since he was a puppy. Taking it, he had to search through several old boxes to find the collar.

  Setting the dog down, he braced the puppy between his knees so he wouldn’t take off. Coon dogs could take off at the smell of anything that caught their attention. Satisfied that the dog wouldn’t be able to get away, he stood up.

  Walking to the doorway, Dustin was glad the pup followed obediently.

  Making sure to latch the door behind him, he led the pup to the tree. Tying the long leash around it, Dustin gave him a warning look before climbing back onto the branch.

  His butt had no more than sat down before he heard the long barking.

  “Dammit. There’s nothing around but chickens. You keep that up, and Pa is going to come out here and give us both a whipping,” he yelled down to the unconcerned pup that answered with another drawn-out bark.

  “Jesus.”

  Climbing down, he gave the pup an irritated glance before sitting down on the ground next to him. The mollified puppy sank down beside him, laying his head on his lap.

  Dustin stiffly leaned back against the tree trunk, not wanting the dog to touch him, but not wanting him to bark again.

  Reaching for his bow, he tried to ignore the pup for the rest of the night. It was almost dawn when he found himself unconsciously stroking the spotted fur. When he smelled his mother cooking, he stood, prepared to leave the dog tied to the tree, but the sad face had him untying it and leading him toward the house.

  When he reached the door, Dustin shoved the puppy under his loose shirt, praying his pa was still in bed. Closing the door behind him, he saw his whole family already sitting at the table.

  As he placed his bow on the floor under the gun rack, his eyes caught on the gun under Greer’s. It was the one his pa had given him for his birthday. His father had kept it in the bedroom closet since the night Duke had died.

  As he turned from the wall, his eyes met his father’s as he pressed his arm over his belly to keep the puppy from sliding out.

  “Boy, wash your hands and come eat breakfast,” his pa ordered, stopping him in his tracks as he tried to go into the hallway toward his bedroom.

  “I’m not hungry. I need to get a shower before school.”

  “I ain’t asking; I’m telling. Wash your hands at the sink and sit your ass down.”

  Dustin swallowed hard as he walked behind his father’s chair to go into the kitchen. His mother, Greer, Tate, and Rachel kept their heads down as they ate their breakfast.

  Dustin was so scared that his pa was going to catch him sneaking the pup inside that he wanted to cry. Pressing his arm tighter to hold the pup, he started silently praying as he took his chair at the table, scooting it forward. He was relieved the table top concealed the mound around his belly.

  His mother gave him an encouraging nod after she filled his plate with bacon and eggs.

  He managed to choke down a bite of bacon before his father pushed his empty plate aside. Rising, he patted his belly. “Woman, that was a fine breakfast. The only thing that would have made it better was biscuits.”

  His ma started stacking the dirty dishes. “I’m out of flour. I’ll get some when I go to the store after I get done at Mrs. Langley’
s.”

  “I need me a nap. Kids, you better make sure you don’t miss that bus, or your asses will be walking.”

  “Yes, sir,” sounded from around the table.

  Dustin gave a sigh of relief when his father scooted his chair out from under of the table. However, his relief was short-lived when a hand landed on his shoulder.

  “Ma, Dustin looks like he’s running a fever. He needs to stay home to sleep it away.”

  Gaping, Dustin looked up at his father, who was standing behind him.

  “You can have your gun back. Buckshot is less expensive than those arrows you like to use.”

  Dustin looked back down at his plate.

  “When I wake up, you can help me with the chores, if your fever is gone,” he added hastily at his mother’s frown.

  “Yes, sir.”

  His father removed his hand from his shoulder. “Yep, that was a mighty fine breakfast.” His father moved to his mother’s side, pressing a kiss on her cheek. “A man can’t ask for more … other than biscuits.” His father then tousled Rachel’s hair as he passed, heading toward the hallway and adding, “Oh, and Dustin, make sure you feed and water that dog you’re smothering to death under that shirt if it’s still living.”

  Rachel’s high-pitched squeal of excitement had his father’s weathered face breaking into a lopsided smile.

  Dustin was nearly toppled over as Tate and Greer snatched at his shirt to see the puppy.

  “What’re we going to call him, Pa?” Rachel snatched the puppy into her thin arms.

  “Let Dustin name him. He’ll be the one training him.” His father gave him a questioning glance.

  Dustin cleared his throat at being the focus of his pa’s attention. “How about Blue?”

  “It’s as good as any.”

  “You’re in a good mood.” His mother stared at Pa suspiciously.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? I have a new Bluetick hound that Frank swore Hell would freeze before I owned one. Heard last night he lost his job because his supervisor found his stash of cigarettes in his lunch box. All the other miners are pissed off at him for getting caught, because now their lunches are getting searched. The bastard’s had a string of bad luck lately. Even that bitch of his wife left town when she found a job in Michigan in a car plant. Said she would send for the kids when she had enough money saved up. I hope he holds his breath for that to happen.” His snort of disbelief had Ma dropping the stacked dirty plates to the table.

  “Doesn’t your cousin work there?”

  “Don’t remember. I’ve lost track of him. Does it matter?”

  “It does if you had anything to do with Frank’s bad luck.”

  “A man makes his own luck. Frank’s ran out when he shot a dog he had no business shooting, especially one that belongs to me. Now, if you’re done jabbering at me, my bed is waiting. Dustin?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Make sure you train that dog not to go near the Hayes’ property. And he only eats what you give him. Frank won’t be happy that Mag gave me the pick of the litter.”

  “I will.”

  “While you’re at it, make damn sure he doesn’t go near Ma’s biscuits when she makes them. Them there’s are mine.”

  1

  The nightmare began as it always did. One second, he was in a deep sleep. Then he was suddenly mentally aware that he was awake, yet his body was incapable of movement except for his eyes, making him powerless to fight the shadowy figure that would enter his bedroom through his closed bedroom door.

  Dustin knew it was useless to fight the dream. His body felt as if he were a patient under the effects of anesthesia, feeling the surgeon’s scalpel make an incision into his flesh, unable to cry out and make them stop the surgery.

  In his mind, he started counting backward to calm himself, waiting for the shadow to kill him. He was never able to see his attacker. No, the gift he’d had since birth made sure he wouldn’t be able to warn the person whose deaths played out in his bedroom before it happened.

  He didn’t know how old he was when the nightmares began. His mother once told him that he would cry nonstop at night when he was a baby. Thinking it was colic, she hadn’t realized it was nightmares until he was able to talk about the boogey man who would come into his bedroom at night. His father would laugh and make fun of him until he stopped trying to explain the dreams to them.

  It was his grandmother who had figured out the nightmares increased when someone they knew had died. His father would say it was superstitious hogwash that his grandmother had planted into his mother’s mind, but sometimes he would see uncertainty when the violent nature of the deaths of friends and family were eerily similar to his dreams.

  The dreams would increase in frequency and intensity until he was too afraid to go to sleep at night until the victim was revealed. It was only when he grew older and Tate’s, Greer’s, and Rachel’s own gifts became apparent did he realize he wasn’t losing his mind.

  The shadow walked on silent feet to stand beside his bed. Then, as the figure bent down until he could smell the rancid odor of death on its breath, Dustin felt sweat bead on his forehead before running down to land on the pillow beneath his head.

  Desperate, he lost focus on the numbers he was counting. Instead, he tried to visualize himself sitting beside a still lake with the sun shining down. That was when he abruptly felt a flash of agonizing pain as he felt his legs being twisted until the bones snapped as a crushing weight settled down on his chest until he couldn’t breathe.

  His mind screamed at him to fight, to struggle against the shadow that was causing him so much pain. The tendons in his body strained under his flesh, trying to move though paralyzed until his dream finished playing out.

  It ended as they all did—with him gasping for air that was no longer there until he felt himself losing consciousness, falling into a pitch-black void before he was plummeted back into his body.

  He jerked awake, sitting up in bed. Shaking, Dustin slid his legs off the bed as he reached for them, assuring himself that they were unharmed. Rising, he then started to reach for his jeans but stopped himself. There was no need to wake Greer and Holly up in the middle of the night. Nor was he going to call and wake up Tate and Sutton, who would come over from their home just half a mile away from the house he shared with Greer and Holly.

  “Dad?”

  The soft knock on his bedroom door had Dustin padding barefoot to it, opening it to see his son standing on the other side.

  “I heard a noise. Can I sleep with you?” Logan muttered quietly so he wouldn’t wake the others in the small house.

  “Hunter’s outside. We would hear him barking if anyone came in the yard.” Dustin let his son inside his room, watching humorously as the boy took a flying leap onto his bed as he closed the door.

  Sliding under the covers, Logan shook his head. “I heard the noise from your room. Were you having a bad dream?”

  “Yes, but it’s over now.” Dustin didn’t try to lie about the noise his son must have heard. Lies destroyed lives. He should know, since lies had nearly destroyed his.

  Logan’s mother, Samantha, had manipulated him with lies from the very beginning of their relationship. The bitch had no compunction about not telling him about Logan’s existence. He had felt guilty about being the accidental cause of Sam’s death until he had discovered he had a son who she had kept from him. If he had known before, he would have strangled her with his bare hands.

  Taken in by her beautiful face and promises had left him conscience-stricken that he had ignored the advice his father had tried to warn him about. He had let his dick overrule his judgment when Sam had shaken her tail at him, getting his attention as she traversed the hallways in high school. He had known the beautiful girl was out of his league, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking the bait when she made the first move.

  When she wanted to keep their relationship a secret, that should have been the first sign. However, he believed her lies that, wh
en they graduated and she was out from under her father’s control, they would leave town together and get married.

  It had all been fucking lies, but he believed every one. He hadn’t wanted to leave his family or the mountain behind, yet he would have for her. He would have done anything for her. It had been a mistake he vowed to never repeat with any woman he allowed in his life.

  Dustin settled down next to his son, reaching to turn the light off as Logan wiggled to get more comfortable.

  Logan laid his head down on his shoulder. “Was it very bad?”

  “I’ve had worse.” Dustin rested his arm on the pillow above Logan’s head.

  “Am I going to have bad dreams when I get older?”

  He recognized the fear laced in his son’s voice. “No. Greer, Tate, and Rachel don’t.”

  Dustin had been forced to discuss his family’s gifts when Holly’s ex-boyfriend’s friend had shot Logan. The revenge had nearly taken not only Logan’s life, but Holly’s, too. Shortly before they’d been shot, Holly had helped them figure out that Logan had his own gift when Tate heard the death bells foretelling Logan and Holly’s deaths.

  Logan’s gift was seeing something before it happened. They hadn’t even been aware that Logan shared their gifts until Holly had asked when their gifts had begun showing. They should have realized it before then, but Logan hadn’t shown any signs of the gifts that ran in their family. Discovering that Logan drew pictures foretelling a future event had shocked them all. Since then, Dustin watched his son like a hawk, looking at everything he drew, even if it was a doodle.

  “Good. Bad dreams are scary. Do you get scared?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.” Logan twisted on his side and patted Dustin’s cheek.

  “It’s okay. Fear isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes it can make you learn not to make mistakes that can get you hurt.”

  “How?”

  “Like being afraid of cars enough to make you look both ways before crossing a street or fighting just because you’re called a name.”

  “I tried hard not to get in a fight with Fynn, but he called Darcy a spoiled brat.”