Ginny held the dog closer as she watched her husband’s Maglite beam disappear into the mist. A little shiver ran through her, and she squeezed the puppy. The dog whimpered and wriggled in Ginny’s confining arms, then finally jumped to the floor.
“Sorry,” Ginny muttered guiltily to the pup, who had been as lost as that Confederate soldier when Michael found her on the back porch one rainy morning. The poor thing sure spooked easily.
Ginny pulled herself away from the door, heading back toward the couch and the cozy afghan that awaited her there; maybe that would take away some of the chill she felt. As she crossed the kitchen linoleum, something sharp pricked the bottom of her big toe.
“Ow!” she yelled, scaring the dog again so that she ran to her hiding place under the rocking chair. Ginny had forgotten about the glass she’d dropped. Sighing, she balanced on one foot while pulling the tiny shard from her other. When she turned again to find the broom and dustpan, she glanced up at the window.
He was back.