Page 66 of Single Malt Drama

I backed up again.

The animal swished its powerful tail and rushed forward with its mouth open.

Too scared to scream, I ran.

A gunshot rang out behind me, followed by a man’s shouts, two more shots, and a dog barking.

I didn’t stop or slow or risk a glance over my shoulder. I ran as if my life depended on it, because it did.

“Cher! Stop! It’s Cyril.” the old man called out.

Slipping behind a tree, I shouted, “Gator!”

“It’s dead, cher. Everything’s all right now.” He approached me with his arms out as if afraid he’d spook me. The gesture would have worked better had he not held a rifle in his right hand. “Whatcha doin’ out here anyway?”

A large, reddish-brown, droopy-eyed, hound dog sniffed my legs.

I waved my hand at it, but it seemed unphased.

The dog plopped down beside me and rested his head in my lap.

“I went for a walk.” I couldn’t stop trembling in my legs enough to stand, let alone get back to the cabin.

Marco had given Cyril money—from the looks of the envelope, a lot of money—but who was he? Could we trust him? “Why are you so close to my cabin with a gun?”

“Anyone with half a brain carries a gun in these here parts. You never know what you’re gonna come across.” He softened his tone. “I’m not gonna hurt ya, cher. I live on the other side of the grass. I heard singing and came out to listen.”

Singing? Right. I was singing. “You didn’t mention you lived close.”

“And you didn’t mention you had a voice like an angel.” He laughed. “I’m settin’ the rifle down.”

I peeked around the tree in time to see him place the gun on the ground and back away with his hands in the air. Feeling like an idiot, I pushed to my feet and stepped from behind the tree. “Thank you.”

The hound stood and followed me.

Cyril flashed me the same toothless grin as he had the night before. “What for?”

“Saving me from the gator, for starters.” I brushed the leaves and grass from the back of my pants. “I don’t suppose you have an extra gun I could borrow?”

His caterpillar-like brows rose. “You know how to shoot?”

“My brothers taught me.”

He looked me over as if weighing the truth in my words and nodded toward the rifle. “You care to prove it?”

Nodding, I walked to the gun, picked it up, and checked the cartridges. “What do you want me to shoot?”

He ran his hand over his scraggly beard. “I’ll send Saint into the brush to rustle up some birds. Bring one down and I’ll get you what you need.”

The dog lifted his head at the mention of his name.

Cyril whistled and swung his arm in the direction of a thick crop of bushes. “Saint, ya!”

The dog moved faster than I would have thought possible for such a droopy creature.

I lifted the rifle, aimed at the sky, and waited.

A burst of caws and flapping wings filled the air, but I kept my eye trained on the area above the brush. I exhaled a breath and pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times. My ears revolted, and my hearing dimmed, but a couple of birds fell from the sky.

“Oooo-weee, cher.” Laughing, Cyril bent at the waist and put his hands on his thighs. “You weren’t blowin’ smoke. I don’t know that I could drop two in one go.”

Lowering the rifle, I smiled. “Thanks. I was worried I was out of practice.”

He pulled a bandana from his pocket and wiped the back of his neck. “Name your poison, cher.”

“Do you have anything smaller with more rounds?” I winked. “Maybe in pink?”