“Better hope so.” G.D. turns and hobbles back toward the barn door. “Because bloodstains are a bad sign. They tell me…” He stops short, winces and grips his left leg.
“G.D.!” The alarm in my voice bounces off the barn walls.
Cub leaps at him.
G.D. waves him off. “I’m all right.” He rubs his left thigh. “Dang leg.”
Dead End whines and pulls to get to G.D., but I keep our dog close. Cub looks at me with question. Leave him, I mouth. G.D. asks for help when he needs it.
At the doorway, he glances over his shoulder at me. “I hope Dead End isn’t going back to his old wandering ways because of your mama’s…”
“STOP! Don’t say it!” I stare at my riding boots, my words hanging in the steamy air.
G.D.’s thin lips press together. His eyes turn watery. The missing-Mom look I’ve been getting to know. “It’s been three months, girl. Time for you to start talking about what happened.”
But I can’t.
* * *
After G.D. leaves us, Cub goes to the barn door, begins looping twine around its latch to hold it closed, all the while keeping his eyes off mine. G.D. says Cub has horse sense, meaning he knows when to leave me be. I say he’d freeze like a deer caught in headlight beams if I let go any tears. Because he knows what I fear most: that if I start crying, I might not stop.
“Dill, what if G.D. tells Lyon that Dead End’s been takin’ off again?”
My belly rolls over at the possibility. “I don’t know, Cub. I really don’t know.”
CHAPTER 2
GONE
“The second you finish mucking the stalls and I finish riding, we’ll give Dead End that bath. In this heat, he’ll dry and be back inside the ranch before Lyon misses him,” I say, as Cub and I step into Ms. Tucker Hunter’s riding stable. Already Crossfire is nickering, and pushing at his stall door, tossing his head. I love this spunky liver-chestnut horse with the white stripe dribbling down his face, maybe because I ride him in shows or maybe because I always rode him when Mom, Lyon, and I took horses out on the trails. Those were happy Saturday mornings filled with Mom’s laughing and Lyon’s whistling.
“Crossfire knows we’re late,” Cub says, an edge to his tone because he hates being late.
“Or he smells the carrots you brought.” Cub always brings garden vegetables for Ms. Hunter’s horses and goats. Not because he rides. Cub has zero interest in climbing up and onto a horse. He simply adores animals and likes to spoil them. He’d work here for free just to be near them.
“Hey! What’re you two doing?”
The loud and too familiar high-pitched demand freezes Cub in the middle of pulling a carrot from his back pocket. Crossfire throws his head up, spooked. Jerry Smoothers, the best riding instructor at Ms. Hunter’s stable, but also the grumpiest, stands at the end of the aisle with his hands on his hips. Ms. Hunter told me once that the accident that ended his career as a jockey had soured him. Too much disappointment in one lifetime, she’d said. But he’s not as mean as he seems, she’d added. Did you know that he spends his free time trying to find homes for lame and retired racehorses? According to Ms. Hunter, no one loves and understands horses better than Jerry Smoothers. He just loses his patience with people.
And there’s plenty of that impatience coming off him now. His tight-lipped frown and dark, slicked-back hair highlight his mean streak. Mom used to peg him as a rat, but I’ve always seen him as pure snake.
His riding boots stomp in uneven steps right up to Cub. Jerry’s anger, like his limp, is a kind of scar. “Dameon Thornburn is missing his crop.”
My jaw tightens as I struggle to keep from saying And he’s blaming Cub and me for taking it, right? Because Dameon Thornburn lives to get us in trouble. Six months ago, he blamed Cub for cutting up some new saddle. But since everyone knows Cub wouldn’t slice an apple that didn’t belong to him, this led to nothing but Dameon’s parents buying him another saddle and Jerry Smoothers holding tight to a fistful of doubts about all of us. The man doesn’t trust anyone between the ages of five and twenty.
Truth is, Dameon sliced his own saddle. Because he got a bur in his briefs over Cub and I not including him in our hayloft jump, when Cub hung a rope from the rafters in the stable loft and I showed everyone interested how to swing out and drop into the hay. The kind of fun that scares the pants off Dameon. And when this kid gets scared, he goes whining to his mother. This always lands Cub and me in a pile of trouble with Jerry, who ends up having to calm Mrs. Thornburn—a woman who shrieks when she gets mad.
The fact that Ms. Hunter likes Cub and me and lets me ride her horses in shows—not to mention how I always place higher than Dameon in them even though his parents bought him one of the finest horses in the state of Virginia—established his sour attitude toward us long ago. Cub says Dameon thinks he’s entitled to friends and blue ribbons simply because his family has more money than the earth has dirt.
Also, Cub nicknaming Dameon Skeeter, short for Mosquito, annoys the spit out of him. Apparently, Dameon doesn’t agree that he can be more irritating than fifty of those insects plus ten. He thinks people were put on this earth to serve him, Cub is always telling me.
Cub’s dad, the minister, says Dameon is jealous of our friendship. The minister thinks we should reach out to the Mosquito. Cub says he’d reach out to a rattlesnake first. Mom used to describe Skeeter as insecure. I describe him as a flat-out jerk.
Jerry whips a stiff finger at Cub’s nose. “Why does Dameon think you two took his crop?”
Because he’s a freak, I itch to point out. “Don’t know,” I do say, trying to sound sweet and innocent. Ms. Hunter listens to Jerry. Getting on his bad side means risking my job and all that goes with it: the pay, the free riding lessons, the horse shows.
“If we find that crop, we’ll be sure to tell you or Ms. Hunter.” I pour on the sugar.
By some miracle, Cub doesn’t choke on this.
Jerry squints hard, looking from Cub to me. “I’ve seen how you and Dameon Thornburn treat each other—mean.” He grunts, sounding disgusted. “You kids got no idea how to treat others. No respect.”
“Yes, Sir,” Cub mumbles.
But Jerry keeps scowling at us. “You two better not let me catch you with that crop. The minute you cause trouble, I’ll smell it. I promise you that.”
Twisting the bottom of his T-shirt into a rope, Cub focuses on his crusty, unlaced work boots with the hole wearing through the right toe. “Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir. I mean, you won’t catch us doing anything, Sir.… I mean, other than work.”
Jerry leans toward me, his eyes still slits. He aims his rigid pointing finger at my face. “One wrong move, Dylan MacGregor, and I’ll make sure you don’t ride Crossfire or any of Ms. Hunter’s horses in the regional show.”
“Of course,” I say, knowing Jerry Smoothers is as good as his threat.
Even after he snarls something about snot-nosed kids and stomps off, Cub and I stand still as stones for a minute that feels like a millennium.
“Skeeter’s settin’ us up, Dill,” Cub finally says low. “He knows you’ll beat his sorry butt at the regional show. He’d kill to have you scratched from it and both of us fired.”
“He can’t prove we took anything of his.” I head for the empty stall where Cub and I last left the wheelbarrow and pitchforks.
“He needs a crop where the sun don’t shine,” Cub mutters, sounding like his big brothers, Timmy and Jimmy, the twins who get into more trouble than a pair of tomcats.
Before I can say anything else about Skeeter, the door at the front of the barn slides open. I turn halfway around to face it and almost head-butt Cub. Short and stocky Mr. Bob Kryer, who Mom and I labeled a bulldog, storms inside, almost plows over Jerry Smoothers.
“Jerry!” Mr. Kryer sounds rushed and tense. His voice, thick and wet from his stuffed nose, echoes over the stalls. The man sneezes, sniffs, and drips his way through most summers because he farms hay even though
he’s allergic to it. “Where’s Tucker? There’s a big problem over on Barley Lane. Dogs attacked Jim Wilson’s sheep this morning. The sheriff asked me to warn everyone with animals.”
“What? Attacked? How?” For once, Jerry Smoothers sounds stunned instead of angry.
Before Mr. Kryer can answer, the office door near Cub and me opens. “Hey, Dill. Hey, Cub,” Ms. Tucker Hunter says in a cheerful, sort of singing tone, smiling at us. Tall and plain and as sleek as one of her show horses in her riding breeches and boots, she steps into the aisle and turns to the men. “Hey, Bob, Jerry.” As usual, her tone is friendly, but holds authority. She takes long strides toward the men, her red ponytail, as long and as thick as a horse’s tail, swings against her back. “You gentlemen look much too serious.”
“Dogs attacked Jim Wilson’s sheep early this morning, Tucker.” Mr. Kryer wipes his knuckles under his thick nose, then pulls out a cotton handkerchief and blows into it.
Ms. Hunter goes stiff and straight.
“Those poor sheep,” Jerry says to no one in particular.
Cub grabs hold of my arm. “Dead End was out until nine this morning,” he whispers.
Mr. Kryer sniffs, focusing on Ms. Hunter. “According to Jim, those dogs chased and cornered a sheep. Then one of those mutts went for the sheep’s throat. Killed it.”
The word killed plows into me like a freight train and makes me gasp. Cub glares at me in a warning to shush.
One of Ms. Hunter’s hands goes to her chest, over her heart, while her other hand goes to the cell phone at her waist. I’m guessing she’s wanting to call someone, anyone, about this killing. She loves animals as much as Cub and I do, as much as Mom had.
“Dogs.” Jerry whistles high and long, the way he does when a horse does something crazy and unexpected.
“The sheriff’s on a rampage,” Mr. Kryer adds. “Says he’s seen dogs come together in a pack and start to kill like wolves. He says once they taste blood, it’s almost impossible to stop them. People’s animals, whether pets or sources of income, are in danger.”
“Did Jim see any of these dogs?” Leave it to Ms. Hunter to ask the very question that is rattling around in my head.
“Thought he saw a black lab.”
“Pete Crowley has a black lab,” Jerry Smoothers snarls.
Cub makes a choking sound. He adores that dog, takes care of Blackie whenever the Crowleys put their mobile home on the road. Mr. Pete Crowley even offered Cub one of Blackie’s pups once, but Cub’s father said the Bayers already had too many bellies to fill. When Cub suggested getting rid of a few of his brothers to make room, he almost got grounded for life.
As Ms. Hunter and the men walk away from us, Mr. Kryer keeps shaking his head and sniffing. “Jim said the dog that went for the sheep’s throat looked familiar.” The group turns a corner. Mr. Bob Kryer lowers his voice, but I can still make out his snuffled words. “A blond husky. And he thought he saw that mutt again a half hour ago. Thought it might be the MacGregor’s dog, but it took off before he could get a good eyeful of it.” Mr. Kryer sneezes again. “I told Jim to make sure he recognizes the dog before he accuses anyone. Lyon, Dill, and her grandfather have enough heartache these days.”
“Blond husky!” Cub practically spits into my ear as the voices fade. “That could be Dead End!”
“I don’t care if Mr. Wilson saw a pink husky,” I snap. “Dead End’s locked in the barn. You rigged the door shut yourself. Remember?”
Cub’s face goes red.
“Come on.” I start toward the sliding door. “Let’s go check on him.”
“What about mucking out the stalls?”
“We’ll come back here as soon as we make sure Dead End is in the barn.” Being a good dog, I hope.
* * *
I bust into the old barn so fast that I near trip over Dead End’s rawhide bone. But the hollowness of this place without Mom’s animals stops me. Seymour, the one-eyed goat adopted by Mom three years ago when no one else wanted him, should be trotting over to me to nibble on my clothes. Double and Trouble, the brother and sister cats that Mom called her rambunctious teenagers, should be wrestling and chasing each other. The lop-eared rabbits, Romeo and Juliet, should be butting at the hutch door, looking to come out.
“Dead End? Here boy!” I clap. He always comes running, his mouth open and his tongue hanging out, when Mom, Lyon, G.D., or I clap.
“He’s gone, Dill.” Cub examines the frayed twine that had secured the door shut, but now hangs loose and useless off the handle.
Hay rustles. Annie, one of the tan hens, darts out from behind the stacked bales. Clucking as if someone is chasing her with an ax, the chicken shoots for the doorway, moving faster than her stumpy legs should be able to go.
Cub watches her. “Old Annie wouldn’t be in here if Dead End was around.”
I look up into the rafters and cobwebs as if Dead End could have grown wings and flown up there. Dan, the rooster, struts across a beam. He clucks with concern, jerking his rust-colored head, his bead eye accusing me of hiding the truth about Dead End from Lyon.
I turn to the hay bales, begin pulling. “Maybe Dead End squeezed himself back here. He wedges himself behind our washing machine at the first crack of a thunderstorm.”
Cub snorts his doubt. Outside, Annie keeps cackling. Above me, wings flutter as Dan drops from the rafters. The second he lands, he shoots for the door, a feathered gentleman in a clucking frenzy. I never understood why Mom loved these spastic birds.
Cub pushes the barn door farther open with his foot, exposing fresh claw marks and a new hole in the dirt floor. “Dill, he’s gone.”
My stomach curdles. The hot, stuffy air gets thicker and hard to breathe as my fingers uncurl from the twine of a hay bale. I wipe sweat from my face. Hay dust scratches.
Cub kicks at the claw marks. “Jeez. This means…”
“Don’t say it!” My hands clench. That chicken clucking is about pecking through my nerves. If Cub says even one word about sheep, I’ll slam him. “G.D.’s probably got the pooch.” I turn, head for the ranch. After G.D. arrived and started caring for Mom, he and Dead End and Mom became almost inseparable. Until three months ago.
As I reach the garden, the door hinges at the back of the house screech. Lyon hasn’t fixed much around our ranch home in the last year, since we found out Mom was sick.
“There’s my girl!” G.D. steps onto the porch, adjusts his cowboy hat.
“Hey, G.D.” I toss him a grin that feels fake. “Did you bring Dead End inside?”
“Nope. These dang legs have been giving me too much trouble to do much of anything this morning.” He massages his left thigh. “Why?”
“No reason,” I squeak.
G.D. taps down the steps, as fragile as a rusted tin man. The rings jingle beneath his white T-shirt. “How about some help in the garden, Dill?” His grin trembles as he gives his thigh a pat. “I won’t be able to get to the low weeds without you today.”
I glance at my bike lying next to Cub’s, where we’d dropped them on the gravel driveway. Then I look back at the neat rows of green that promise enough vegetables to feed even Cub’s family. Swallowing a watermelon whole would be easier than saying no to helping G.D. with Mom’s garden. When she could no longer stand the sun, thanks to hospital treatments called radiation and chemotherapy, G.D. dug into that garden as if it was his own. Because he knew she watched him from a window. I’d do anything for your mama, he’d told me.
“Sure, I’ll help.” But I don’t sound convincing. “As long as I get back to the stable before it gets too late. To muck out stalls and ride Crossfire.”
G.D. shakes his head, continues toward me. “You’re working too hard, girl. Cooking meals, cleaning, putting in stable time, training. Can’t fool me. You’re trying to dodge the hurt.”
When I say nothing, focus on my feet, G.D. sighs. “All work and no play can dull a girl, Dill. I can’t remember the last time I saw you with all your friends—not just Cub.�
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“Summer’s hard.” I try to keep my voice steady. “My other friends live miles away. Too far…” I stop, unwilling to say to get to without Mom driving me. And I’m in no mood to talk about how no one feels comfortable coming to me these days. Because the ranch has lost its laughter, its warmth.
Cub storms up behind me. “I hate it when you stomp off like that, Dill.”
My chest aches as I watch G.D. continue to struggle across the backyard to get to Cub and me. “He asked me to help him in the garden,” I tell Cub, my voice low. “He’s never asked for help with that. He prefers to do the gardening by himself.” In fact, G.D. doesn’t ask for help with much of anything. Lyon says this independence comes from years of G.D. traveling around the country on his own. Solitary as an eagle, Mom used to say. Or a mountain lion.
“Wish someone at my house preferred to do the gardening alone,” Cub mumbles.
G.D. pauses halfway across the lawn, looking past me, at the barn. Searching for Dead End? “Cub,” G.D. calls after finally breaking this stare. “Your brother Danny telephoned. Something about you needing to mow a field.”
“That’s his job,” Cub growls.
Danny, second from the oldest of the Bayer boys, is always bossing Cub around.
“You can’t go.” My tone begs. “We’ve got to find Dead End.”
“I have to mow,” Cub grumbles.
Because his helping on his family’s farm is a serious requirement, right up there with attending church services every Sunday. Even though I know this, I still itch to convince him to stay and help me.
“I’m gettin’ real sick of all the chores,” Cub adds. “I’m lucky my mom let’s me spend as much time as I do here.” Anger makes the edges of his words sharp.
She feels sorry for me, I don’t point out, keeping quiet because Cub doesn’t need more lip about me right now. Unlike most of my girlfriends, he doesn’t complain much unless he is real bothered and needs to be heard.
As G.D. starts toward us again, I try to think of something comforting to say to Cub. “I’ll look for Dead End on the way to the stable,” I finally suggest, returning to my own problem, not being as good of a friend as I want to be. As Cub has been. Because my finding that pooch around here, alone, smack in the middle of farm country, promises to be harder than spotting a flea on a sheepdog.
Dog Gone Page 2
