Cade crossed the room, opened the door, and found three men standing on the porch with the snow at their boots and a confidence that felt rehearsed. They wore canvas work jackets scuffed at the elbows, cargo pants dulled by sap and dirt, and boots heavy enough for the deep woods. On the surface, they looked like every other crew that passed through Pineville during winter, but their faces told a different story.
The tallest one had a long, narrow jaw and a beard trimmed just enough to look deliberate, with eyes that kept flicking past Cade’s shoulder into the cabin. The second was broader, red-faced from cold or perhaps drink, with hands that never stopped moving, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his thigh as if counting seconds. The third, shorter and wiry, stood slightly behind the others, pale eyes hooded, his expression blank in a way Cade had learned to distrust instinctively.
“We’re looking for our dog,” the tall one said, his voice easy, almost friendly. “Name’s Bishop.”
He held up a phone and swiped to a photo—grainy and poorly lit—showing a German Shepherd at a distance. The dog in the image could have been any Shepherd if you didn’t know what to look for. “He went missing a few days back. Someone said you brought a dog down from the mountain.”
Before Cade could respond, Bishop stepped forward. He planted himself squarely between Cade and the doorway. His posture changed completely: shoulders squared, head high, teeth not bared but ready, hackles lifting along the dark ridge of his back like a jagged fin. His amber eyes fixed on the men with a cold intensity that made the shorter one shift his weight.
This wasn’t fear. It was recognition. Cade felt it like a click inside his chest.
“He’s recovering,” Cade said calmly. “If you believe he’s yours, there’s a process.”
The red-faced man snorted softly. “Process?”
“Chip scan, veterinary records, proof of ownership,” Cade replied. His voice was even, almost conversational, but he didn’t move an inch. He let Bishop hold the line.
“He was found in a cage on the ridge, hypothermic, injured.”
The tall man’s smile thinned, losing its warmth. “Accidents happen. Dogs wander.”
He produced a folded paper from his jacket, smoothing it out with exaggerated care. “Here. Bill of sale. Breeder info. Should be enough.”
Cade took the paper but didn’t look down. He watched their faces instead, noting the way the tall man leaned in just slightly, crowding the space, and the way the short one’s eyes tracked Bishop’s injured leg. Bishop growled then, a sound low and precise, and the tapping fingers on the red-faced man stilled instantly.
Cade glanced at the paper at last. It was generic, poorly printed, the breeder name misspelled, the dates inconsistent. He handed it back.
“I’ll have the sheriff review this. Until then, the dog stays.”
The tall man’s jaw tightened. “You don’t have to make this difficult.”
“I’m not,” Cade said. “The law is.”
Bishop took a half-step forward, nails clicking once against the wood—a warning shot. The men exchanged a look. The red-faced one spat into the snow, wiped his mouth, and laughed without humor.
“You’re holding property that isn’t yours.”
Cade met his gaze. “You’re standing on my porch.”
The moment stretched, brittle as ice. Finally, the tall man stepped back, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “We’ll be back,” he said lightly. “Once you’ve had time to think.”
As they turned away, the shorter one looked over his shoulder at Bishop, eyes narrowing, as if committing a detail to memory. Their truck roared to life down the drive, tires spinning just enough to spray slush before catching traction. Bishop didn’t move until the sound faded completely.