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One rap, more of a punch than a knock, banged the outside door, then silence. RJ sprang from the bed. His feet hit the floor in time with Beau's warning bark. He had his jeans on and his flannel shirt buttoned when he opened the farmhouse portal. The worn granite step glowed in the halo of the outside lamp, but no one stood in the spotlight.
The blue merle pressed against his master's leg, his deep growl vibrating his entire body.
"What is it, Boy?" he whispered, then cleared his throat.
RJ opened the storm door and stepped out. The stone's chill seeped into the soles of his bare feet. The fog horn moaned in the damp night air. The dog plunged into the darkness. RJ followed, eyes straining into the gauze of fog wrapping around his world. "Who's there?" he called.
The muffled whack of the storm door catching the breeze answered. "Probably a bat," he said. "Come on, Beau." The dog whined and ran back to the steps. RJ pivoted and halted in mid-stride.
An arrow skewered the weathered blue door. Beau ran his nose along the projectile, growling once again. RJ's eyes touched the arrow, his hands clenched at his sides. The barbed tip and polished fiberglass screamed hunter. A professional but not a perfect shot, it sat off-center near the base of the door. A white sheet of paper uncurled from the shaft just behind the razored prongs.
"Back, Beau," he commanded, but the dog's questing nose nudged the paper and it dropped to the step.
RJ jerked his sleeves over his hands and picked up the limp roll. He flicked off the wet piece of tape and unfurled it.
Hey, Home Wrecker
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Last weeks courageous author was Carole Brown. You may learn more about Carole and her writing by visiting her on her blog, Sunnybank Meanderings.