Excerpt from Chapter Twenty-Five

Jake had been driving for nearly three hours along roads that barely deserved the name when he saw what he’d been looking for. A weathered board, crudely shaped like an arrow, pointed down a muddy, ice-packed strip of land, deeply rutted, with a large mound of snow-covered earth in its center. Scratched on the board was PORTER. Jake shook his head, parked his car near the split-rail fence that lined the north side of the dirt road which intersected with the wagon path, and hoped he didn’t have a long walk ahead of him. There was no help for it though; his car wouldn’t clear the center of the wagon trail. He sure didn’t want to get stranded this far from help in this weather. He pulled his collar up, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and started walking down the path.

Fifteen minutes down the road, he saw the dark boards of the shack. Smoke rose lazily from a central stone chimney. It might be called picturesque in different circumstances, he thought. The dogs in the yard took something away from its rustic charm. As soon as he got within shouting distance, dogs leapt toward him, teeth bared, snarling and barking. Fear froze him in his steps, until he realized they were chained. There must be more than six of those mongrels in the yard, Jake thought, trying to figure a way to approach the house without getting torn to pieces. Jake stood, not moving a muscle, and wondered that no one had mentioned this minor obstacle. A movement at the dwelling caught his eye. What appeared to be a man stepped out onto the downward sloping porch that ran along the front of the shack. A rifle was in his hand.

“Shut yer yaps, dogs! Cain’t hear m’se’f think wi’ yer carryin’ on!”

The dogs dropped to the ground, quiet as death.

Say yer piece, mister, ‘fore I take it in mind to shoot yuh where yuh stand.”

“I was told Fanny Runyon might be staying here. I’m Jake Witherspoon.” Jake took a step toward the shack, stopped as the man raised his rifle, cocked it, and pointed it in his direction.

“Jes stay put ‘n yuh’ll live a mite longer, hear?”

Jake nodded. The man said something to someone standing in the shadows behind him. Jake couldn’t quite make out what it was. If Fanny were here, he thought, why would she want to leave? No one could get past those dogs if they tried. The man with the rifle looked like he could take care of himself and a few more as well. Something was happening up at the shack. Two women appeared beside the man. If his life had depended on it, Jake couldn’t have picked out which one was Fanny Runyon. Even at this distance Jake could tell both of them had led hard lives. Both were slender to the point of being gaunt. Both were angular, no traces of femininity anywhere. Their hair, which might have lent some softness to their features, was pulled back tightly from their faces, presumably captured into buns. Put them in men’s clothes, he thought, and you’d have a hard time telling they weren’t men themselves The two women embraced briefly. Then the man said something to one of them, who stepped directly behind him and followed him into the yard. Jake heard the dogs begin to growl. One sat up on its haunches, as the two made their way toward the place where Jake stood. Suddenly the dog was on its feet, teeth bared—there was a sharp yelp, as the man kicked the dog and sent him sprawling.

“I said shut yer yap!” the man said.

Jake caught a glimpse of the woman’s face: as gray as the winter sky. Black circles rimmed her eyes, their color lost in the distance between them. She had a haunted look. Jake watched her as they came toward him. This woman was Fanny Runyon. He had no doubt.

Excerpt from A Defect of Character, a novel by Pamela Kay Hawkins.