by Katy Munger
"Very funny." He was silent for a moment. "This is because I didn't help you out very much, isn't it?"
"No," I promised him, taking the flowers and turning him toward the door. I gave him a gentle push. "Believe it or not, this has very little to do with you."
After he left, I put the flowers in water and stared down at my new canine friend. I nudged him with my foot and he shifted slightly. There was a slim chance he could still walk. "Come on, Beauford," I shouted down at him. He didn't move. I lifted one of his long silky ears and hollered into the canal: "Supper time!" This time he opened an eye and blinked it at me. "Time to move out," I told him firmly, grabbing his collar and hoisting the hound to his feet. He wobbled obediently after me and, after falling over while trying to urinate on the landlady's boxwoods, he made it to my car in one piece.
Halfway across Wake County, I had to roll down the window or I'd have arrived for my dinner smelling like the pet of a Mexican drug lord. I was making good time and would even arrive early. My host was in for more than one surprise.
The driveway was easy to find in the dark. I'd been there at night before. A strange truck was parked by the side of the cabin, though the license plate seemed familiar. I dragged Beauford from the back seat of the Valiant and managed to pull and push him toward the front porch. The outdoor lights blazed on as we reached the steps.
"What the hell happened to that dog?" Ramsey Lee asked, his voice breaking into laughter. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he was stoned to the gills."
"It's a long story," I admitted. "Sorry I'm early. This is Beauford. Can he stay here with your dogs? I'm at my wit's end with him. He sits around stoned all day, absolutely refuses to get a job, does nothing but watch television and won't even pick up his own dirty clothes. Just smell him."
He laughed even harder. "Sure. He can stay. The old fellow looks like a good hunting dog. Let me get a better look at him. Slim—come on out and take a look at what the cat dragged in."
Slim Jim Jones—keeper of the canoe and obedient son to crusty old Momma—stepped out onto the front porch of Ramsey Lee's cabin. Our eyes locked across the crouched form of our host. "I didn't realize you knew Ramsey," I said evenly. "Small world, isn't it?"
Slim Jim shrugged. "Shoot, Casey. That's what I always say." He spat a wad of tobacco juice over the side of the porch and, unless the lights were playing a trick on me, I could have sworn he threw a wink my way.
God, mountain men. Even without a mountain behind them, you could recognize them at a glance. They were stubborn. Self-assured. Scrawny. Hard-working. And just about the last damn men on earth who cared about something other than money.
"How long have you known Ramsey?" I asked him.
"Long enough," Slim Jim answered, giving Beauford a pat on the head. "I best be getting home to Momma," he said as he headed into the yard. "That dog's got good bones there, Ramsey. Soon as he sobers up, you might have a good working dog." Beauford chose that moment to plop down for another serious snooze, his body stretching upward over four steps, the skin all sliding to the lower rear end where it collected in accordion folds around his tail. Slim Jim began to laugh and I listened as his merriment gave way to the sound of his truck motor fading down the lane.
"You're a good man, Ramsey Lee," I told him. "You take in wayward dogs. And, you never did give the cops the names of the men who helped you out that time you dynamited that construction site, now did you?"
Ramsey scratched behind Beauford's ears. "I'm not the sort of man who likes to kiss and tell," he said. "Let's go inside and eat."
He'd made us homemade Brunswick stew, the right way, complete with shredded beef, chicken, pork, and squirrel meat. "Been cooking all day," he promised. "So I expect you to eat all night."
We ate in happy silence—as we have done many times since. Ramsey doesn't like to talk and I'm perfectly happy not to. Talk only exposes people's weaknesses. That's why I prefer the strong and silent type.
That night was the start of a very good winter, all things considered. Over the months that followed, I spent a lot of time out at Ramsey's cabin, walking in the snow along the banks of the Neuse by day and sharing his bed at night. Like me, he mostly, but not always, prefers to be alone. Best of all, I spent many a lazy hour curled up in front of his fireplace with a pack of very spoiled hounds.
They say that if you lay down with dogs, you'll get up with fleas. But do you know what I think? I think there's worse things in life than fleas.
Copyright © 1997 by Katy Munger
Originally published by Avon Books, 1997
e-book version published by Thalia Press, February 2011
Visit http://www.katymunger.com for more information on the author and her books.
Books by Katy Munger
Writing as Gallagher Gray
Partners In Crime
A CAST OF KILLERS
DEATH OF A DREAM MAKER
A MOTIVE FOR MURDER
Casey Jones books by Katy Munger
LEGWORK
OUT OF TIME
MONEY TO BURN
BAD TO THE BONE
BETTER OFF DEAD
BAD MOON ON THE RISE
Books writing as Chaz McGee and as Katy Munger
DESOLATE ANGEL
ANGEL INTERRUPTED
ANGEL OF DARKNESS
ANGEL INTERRUPTED
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
