Warm Nights in Magnolia Bay by Babette Jongh (best summer books .TXT) 📗

but his back legs collapsed under him. The thing’s teeth sank into his side, snagging fur and skin. It held on to him, slinging him back and forth the way he’d once played with the squeaky toys of his youth.

He scratched and bit, but the thing’s flesh wasn’t flesh at all; it was as hard as wood or bone. Wolf’s teeth couldn’t penetrate it.

A small toy in this monster’s mouth, Wolf went limp. The thing slung him sideways, his skin ripped, and he tumbled into the bay.

He swam, feeling clumps of mud fall away in the dark water, knowing that the monster would be right behind him, its big mouth opening wide for a bigger bite, a better grip. With a desperate surge of energy, Wolf veered back to the sandy beach, looking for a safe path to high ground.

But there was only the water, this small strip of sand, and the deep, muddy bog that had swallowed him whole. He was trapped.

Chapter 7

The birthday party folks had a fine time. Abby was glad to see them arrive, glad to show them around, and glad to see them go. The whole time, she’d been strangely distracted by thoughts of the stray dog. She’d planned to take a bucket of water across the street later this evening, but worried that she should’ve done it already.

What if he got so thirsty that he decided to go out in search of water and got hit by a car?

What if he’d been without water for too long already and was suffering from heat exhaustion?

What if he died?

All day, flashes of imagination haunted her. Visions of the stray popped into her head whenever she let herself relax between tasks. She saw him struggling through grassy weeds in search of water that remained out of reach.

What if he got hurt because she hadn’t helped him?

When the last car drove away, Abby wasted no time in filling a five-gallon bucket of water and carrying it across the street. The bucket was almost too heavy for her to carry, and water sloshed all over her boots. But she knew the stray would turn over the bucket if he tried to drag it into the shadowed forest. She hoped to avoid that by filling it so full that it would be bottom-heavy, and by setting it just inside the sheltering overhang of the draping vines.

Georgia sniffed the bucket, then ventured into the forest and came back unsatisfied. She whined at Abby and looked past the old estate to the intersection, where Winding Water Way crossed the potholed track that led down to the landing.

“I know,” Abby said, though she hadn’t clearly understood what Georgia wanted. “I hope he’ll come back, too.”

Georgia lifted her face and sniffed the air, then whined again. She trotted toward the intersection, then turned around and came back, her earnest brown eyes imploring Abby to understand.

But she didn’t.

“I’m sorry, girl. I don’t know what you want.”

Georgia sat in her ball-playing cattle-dog position, down on all fours, front feet pointing forward. She whined again, then looked toward the intersection.

“You want us to go there?”

Georgia leaped to her feet, her expression one of excitement and approval. She must feel like she was playing charades with a very dim-witted person. But at least she didn’t lose hope that given enough clues, Abby would eventually catch on.

“Okay, fine.” Abby walked back to close the gate and dummy-lock it, then clapped her hands. “Lead the way.”

Georgia leaped up a couple of times, doing a good imitation of the Snoopy dance. Then she ran out in front of Abby, her tail a happy curl of triumph over her back. Abby had to jog to keep up. At the intersection, Georgia paused a second to make sure Abby knew they were turning toward the bay.

“Yes, Georgia. I’m right behind you.”

Abby wondered if Georgia was leading the way to Wolf, or simply bored with staying at the farm. Reva often took Georgia for walks; maybe Abby should, too.

The unnamed dead-end road to the old landing bordered the new neighbor’s land, and Abby wondered what Quinn was doing. Maybe she should…? No. Scratch that thought. She should not invite him for a walk, or anything else, for that matter.

The jungle of overgrown plants and vines that covered most of Quinn’s estate transitioned to reedy marshland close to the water. All the estates on this road were the same: fertile high ground tapering down to a wide strip of swampland on the way to the bay.

Reva’s husband, Grayson, had tried to purchase the acreage behind them in order to preserve the lovely view of the bay and the valuable feeling of seclusion and privacy that the wide strip of marshland provided. But the bank declined to offer a loan for land that was prone to flooding, and the owners declined to allow Grayson to pay in installments.

Abby stood near the boat ramp while Georgia noodled along the overgrown bank. Abby couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to build anything out here in the boondocks. Who would drive all the way out here when there were much nicer recreation areas closer to town?

Although there was a shiny, jacked-up crew-cab pickup truck with oversize tires parked on the grassy verge, along with a big boat trailer hooked to the tow bar and secured with a padlock. So maybe there was some lure to these backcountry places.

The ratty, cracked-concrete launch was tucked into a shallow slough that hid the view of all but the opposite bank. With dead trees fallen into the water and vegetation draping low, it looked pretty fishy around here. And snaky. Probably alligatory, too. She looked back at Georgia—who had disappeared.

Abby panicked. “Georgia!”

The little dog gave a yodeling barroooo from the depths of the marsh grasses. Abby could just imagine an alligator snapping her up. And then, good God, she heard the bellow of an alligator from farther down the bank. Way farther down—the sound carried a long way—but still. Where there was one alligator,