I want to tell Cub that he should be glad that he has a whole family wrapped around him, but he won’t listen. He thinks I’m lucky to be an only child. He tells me he loves the peace and quiet of my home. To Cub, his house is too much like that of the old lady who lived in a shoe—the one with so many children that she didn’t know what to do. He doesn’t feel the hollow chill of the ranch the way I do.
“And my dad wants me to put in more hours working at the stable. Somethin’ about the importance of responsibility and commitment to a job.” Cub rolls his eyes. “I took that job to be around animals and make a little money, not to be responsible.” He huffs. “Truth is, I’m sick of always workin’. I can’t remember the last time you and me did anything fun, Dill. We haven’t even been in the river this summer. And unless you’re keepin’ secrets, you’ve made none of your usual plans for cool stuff to do. By this time last year, we’d built a raft and taken it on the river, been fishin’, and built that tree fort. Remember?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. Cub has always relied on me to come up with ideas for entertainment. And I depend on him to make them happen. The problem is, I’ve lost my sense of adventure. “Okay,” I tell him anyway. “After we get Dead End back, I’ll help you with your chores. Then maybe we can go to the river or something.”
I don’t share that I’m not ready to be around his family again, all happy and whole and normal, even though helping Cub might get me Donny time because he sometimes works with us or brings us lemonade or even finishes up a job if we’re tired. And always with something nice to say. Like the time he told me I was too cute to be hanging around mangy, old Cub. That sent my heart galloping.
“I got a riding lesson this morning, so here’s what we’ll do,” I add. “I’ll look for the pooch on my way to the stable. You look for him while you’re doing stuff around your place. Then we’ll meet in the barn. By then I’ll have come up with more of a plan to find that dog.”
“Guess that works,” Cub agrees. “But, Dill?”
I glance at him sidelong, certain he’s about to dump ice water on my idea.
He shifts again, looks right into my face. “What if your dog is long gone?”
Shaking my head, I turn to the window, not wanting Cub to see my eyes fill up at even the possibility. That’s when I see G.D. by the garden fence, staring at the vegetables. I can almost see his hand gripping the cane tight, his thin lips pressed together, his eyes red and wet from missing Mom again. Only now, he’s missing Dead End, too.
“That pooch can’t be gone forever,” I answer in a slipper-soft voice. “He just can’t be.”
CHAPTER 5
BLOND DOGS
The swing and rhythm of Crossfire’s walk as we circle the ring, cooling down after an hour lesson, and the steady beat of his hooves against the soft dirt still distracts me some, but not for long. My concentration is tissue-thin this afternoon.
“Okay, Dill, that’s enough for today,” Ms. Hunter calls from the center of the ring. She’s standing the way she always does during a lesson, her thumbs hooked into the hip pockets of her riding pants, but she’s looking disappointed as I turn Crossfire to her.
“Well, that wasn’t one of your better rides,” she says in a gentle voice. “Crossfire is still racing the fences. You need to hold him back and concentrate on counting the strides between the jumps. We’ve talked about this before.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say as I swing my right leg over the saddle to dismount.
I feel her watching me, probably with those sympathy eyes that everyone keeps showing me. To avoid them, I start leading Crossfire back to the barn, reminding myself not to run.
Ms. Hunter follows, of course. “By the way, Dill,” she says as she walks up beside me and Crossfire. “Dameon tells me he’s missing his crop.”
My insides pucker. “I heard,” I say, fighting back the urge to call Skeeter a lying pile of cow muck. Ever since Skeeter accused Cub of slicing up his new saddle, Ms. Hunter gets suspicion in her voice whenever the Mosquito’s name pops up.
But now she kind of smiles, like she gets my tension and understands it. “I’m only bringing this up because I promised his mother that I would. It’s an expensive crop.”
“I’m sure,” I mutter, holding back from pointing out that if Skeeter’s mother really cared about him, she’d stop dumping him at the stable every time he annoyed her, which turns out to be almost every day. People around the barn talk about how his parents bought him a horse just to keep him busy. Even Cub agrees that this might be part of why Dameon is so hateful.
“You know I can’t take sides in whatever’s going on between you and Cub and Dameon,” Ms. Hunter adds. “But I don’t want anymore trouble around here, either.” She glances at me as Crossfire’s hooves clop onto the cement floor as we enter the barn. “You know, Dameon would be easier to get along with if you and Cub would include him in your activities now and again. The two of you are the only kids his age that spend any kind of time here, the way he does. I know he can be difficult, but you might keep in mind that he’s bored and probably lonely.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, even though I can’t see including Skeeter in anything except a thorough butt-kicking.
As we get to Crossfire’s box stall, Ms. Hunter’s face stretches into a warm smile. “Hey, Cub, how’s every little thing?”
Perched on a hay bale, he pauses from biting off another hunk of the apple pie slab I brought him (baked Mom’s way—with raisins in the filling and sugar on the pastry). “Well, ma’am. Thanks for askin’.”
“Good to hear.” Ms. Hunter moves on, toward her office. “Don’t work too hard around here today,” she adds. “It’s too hot for hard labor.”
She’s right. The early-afternoon heat feels thicker and itchier than wet wool, and it magnifies the stable smells of sun-baked hay and sweaty horse. I slip off Crossfire’s bridle, replace it with his blue halter, and then clip the aisle cross ties to it.
“Good lesson?” Always willing to help me out, Cub hops off the bale and reaches for Crossfire’s bridle.
“Should have been better,” I mutter. “Any sign of Dead End?”
“No.” Cub kicks at pieces of hay on the cement floor. “Dill, what if he’s one of the dogs that went after those poor sheep? What if we’re protecting a killer?”
What if this and what if that. “He’s not a killer.” I release the girth, and slip the fleece pad and saddle off of Crossfire’s back. Cub puts the pie down on a hay bale to take them from me. As he returns everything to the tack room, I work a brush over Crossfire’s flanks, wishing I could flick off the what ifs as easily as dust from the horse’s coat.
“I can’t stop thinking about that blood.” Cub steps out of the room, wipes pie crumbs off his mouth with his knuckles. “Or those killed sheep.”
The humidity, which is making me cranky, is keeping most people from riding. This leaves the stable quiet except for the muffled stomp of hooves on the straw-covered stall floors, the tinkling of halters, and Cub—who is also making me cranky. “I need a plan on how to find Dead End. That’s all. Once he’s home, everything will be great.”
Riding boots clack slow and steady on the concrete aisle. “What’s this about blood and killed sheep?”
I stop brushing. Cub, who has picked up the pie and taken another bite, doesn’t chew. We look at each other with wide eyes, all words sucked out of us for a stunned moment. Skeeter Thornburn comes around a corner box stall, smacking his riding whip against his boots.
“Listenin’ in again, Thorn-butt?” Cub eyes Skeeter’s new T-shirt, so white it would probably glow in the dark, and his tailored, black riding pants. Cub has never owned anything new or tailored. Skeeter has never owned anything handed down. “Get a life.” Cub spits apple and raisins. “And get lost.”
Skeeter saunters toward us, his blond hair too neat, the part ruler-straight and begging to be messed with. “People who pay for their lessons and board their horses here go where they want, when they
want. Not like you—the low-life hired help.”
We’re all in the same grade, but Skeeter goes to some fancy private school. Cub heard he doesn’t have any friends there, either, which is not even close to surprising. The kid is too annoying and too mean to deal with, plain and simple.
“Low-life help?” Cub puffs himself up, clenches his fists. “I’ll give you low-life.”
I jump in front of him. Even though my being a head taller than Dameon (and a head and shoulders above Cub) makes me bold, and also makes me itch to wipe the sneer off the Mosquito’s face, Cub and I don’t need Skeeter’s trouble. He does everything possible to get us mad, then squeals like a scared piglet when either of us gets within a foot of him. Mom used to feel sorry for Skeeter. She knew he could be sneaky and mean, but to her, he was more of a hyena pup without a pack than a mosquito or a piglet. And she’d always remind me that even the nastiest animals needed others, which is why, she’d said, Cub and I should try to include him in our fun. I still said that Cub and I should just rub his nose in dirt.
“Look, Cub.” I point at the whip in Skeeter’s grip. “The silver-handled crop. Didn’t he whine about how it went missing? Didn’t he about accuse you and me of stealing it?”
Cub squints at the engraved silver. “D.B.T.,” he growls low. “Dameon-the-Bloodsucking-Tick. Yep, that’s his crop.”
Skeeter’s knuckles go white on the whip. “At least I have a crop. You going to borrow one from Ms. Hunter for the show, Dill? You going to borrow clothes from her, too? Or is riding her horse enough grubbing for you?”
I’d pound Skeeter for this if Stubs—the big, gray stable cat missing most of her tail—wasn’t creeping along the top edge of the box stall, balancing on mitten paws. Focused on Skeeter, she comes slinking up behind his head, low and slow, stalking. She hates Skeeter, Cub often says. Smells the rat in him. Cub swears that animals can sense the good and the bad in people.
I say Stubs knows Skeeter fears her, as well as every other cat on earth.
“Isn’t it time for your riding lesson?” Cub stays focused on Skeeter. “Time for you to bounce all over poor Miss Velvet’s back like some sorry sack of sand?”
Skeeter’s eyes go squinty. “At least I have my own horse.”
“Yeah, and you should treat her better,” Cub snaps as Stubs slides closer.
Skeeter points the whip at Cub. “Tell me what you were saying about killed sheep.”
Before he can say any more, a gray blur shoots at him. Two front paws thud his head, a one-two punch to his skull. With a squeal that should have blown out every eardrum in the barn, Skeeter waves his arms, spins around like a top gone berserk, and almost smacks into the hanging strip of flypaper, thick with insect carcasses.
I laugh so hard that I bend over and nearly choke. Cub laughs so hard that he nearly blows apple pie out his nose.
Stubs, her ears flat to her head, hisses at Skeeter, then drops to the floor and takes off.
When Skeeter’s fancy-pants boots finally settle, he whips around and searches, his eyes wide and wild.
“Don’t worry, Skeeter,” Cub chokes out. “The big, bad kitty-cat’s gone.”
I laugh even harder, have to lean on Crossfire’s shoulder to keep from falling over. Skeeter comes at me, glares over the horse’s back. Crossfire tenses and pulls at the lines that attach his halter to either side of the aisle, trying to step away from Dameon.
“Stop laughing at me or I’ll tell Ms. Hunter that you had something to do with those killed sheep,” Skeeter snarls. “Then you can say good-bye to being Miss Favorite, Dill. You won’t be riding any more of Ms. Hunter’s horses in any shows.”
My laughter dries up. I glare at him. “Go fall off your horse.”
“Yeah, on your head,” Cub spits. “You’d sell your mother’s teeth to get Dill out of that show because you know she’s gonna whip your butt in every event, the way she always does.”
Skeeter slaps the silver-handled crop against the calf of his boots. Crossfire throws his head up, yanks toward me, and slams a front hoof onto my foot. As razor-sharp pain tears through my toes, I plant my hands on Crossfire’s shoulder and push with all I have.
The second he lifts his hoof, I belly flop up, onto his back as if getting onto him to ride bareback. I grab Skeeter’s collar, digging my fingers into the cotton. My braid falls forward, my glare practically drills into Skeeter’s face. “Don’t EVER scare Crossfire like that again!”
Skeeter’s eyes about pop out of their sockets. His hair falls across his forehead. His cell phone falls, landing with a dull thud at his feet. “Get off me, MacGregor!”
My mashed foot burns as hot as my anger, which, in these last few months, gets to boiling over any little thing. As Crossfire shifts, his head still high, his eyes so wild that the whites show, my grip on Skeeter tightens. I want to pound him, not only for scaring an animal, but for every bad thing that has happened in the last year.
“Let him go, Dill,” Cub says. “Squashing Skeeter isn’t worth the trouble.”
“What’s going on here?” The high-pitched demand and quick, uneven boot-steps can only be Jerry Smoothers.
I let go of Skeeter, slide to my feet, favoring my throbbing toes. The minute I land, I check my back pocket, my fingers searching for the photograph of Mom and Lyon. Lucky for Skeeter, it hasn’t slipped out of my pocket during our scuffle.
Cub’s face goes red as Jerry limps toward us.
“Dameon. Figures.” Then the man squints at me. “And what are you doing, Dill?”
“Trying to groom the horse, Sir,” Cub says for me.
“She tried to strangle me,” Skeeter whines like the mosquito he is. “My father’s a lawyer. We could sue.”
Jerry Smoothers turns on Skeeter. “You’re late for your riding lesson. Maybe I’ll press charges for that.” His squinty eyes stare hard at Skeeter, as if daring him to say more. “Go get Miss Velvet.” Jerry limps off. “Lawyer. What next?”
The minute he disappears, Skeeter jabs his crop at me. I itch to stuff the silver handle up his high and mighty nose, but Crossfire jerks at the ties again.
“You wait. You’ll get what you deserve, Dylan MacGregor.” As Skeeter stomps off, his eyes scan both sides of the aisle, probably making sure Stubs isn’t waiting for him.
Mom would tell me to find the good in Skeeter. Lyon would agree, but like that I’d defended Crossfire. G.D. would say that Skeeter was the east end of a horse going west.
Cub raises his arm, aims the pie at Skeeter’s head.
“Don’t waste my baking on his thick skull.” I stroke Crossfire’s soft-as-flannel muzzle. “Give the apples to Crossfire. That idiot near scared him to death.”
Cub drops his arm, picks off the pastry, and offers Crossfire the apples on a flat palm. The horse wraps his lips around them and swallows, then runs his big tongue over Cub’s palm. “Skeeter heard us talkin’ about the killed sheep.”
Metal clinks as I unclip the ties from Crossfire’s halter. “Let him think what he wants.”
* * *
It’s late afternoon by the time Cub and I finish up at the stable and get back to the ranch. As the door to the garage closes behind us, I imagine Dead End bounding out from the kitchen the way he always does, leaving Mom’s side to greet us with his tongue out and his tail turning huge O’s, his expression saying Hey! How are ya?
I’d do about anything to smother that dog with pets right this minute, let my fingers brush the old scar on his muzzle and the split in his ear, reminders that he once ran free as a stray, but didn’t have an easy life. I’d give up my stable pay to get licks and happy dog grunts from him, to smell his fur, clean and fluffy-soft the way it always was in Mom’s care. You’d powder your chickens if you could catch them, Lyon used to tease her.
“Hey, G.D.,” I call, trying to sound perky and optimistic as I head into the kitchen and see him at the table, slumped over a spread-out newspaper. Behind me, Cub drags his booted feet. “Ready for dinner? I can make gar
lic fried chicken.” Mom’s recipe. “Or pork chops with apples. Your favorite.”
G.D. gives me his disapproving look. “You don’t need to be cooking again. You’re wearing yourself out, girl.”
I turn to the refrigerator, reach inside it for the chops and apples, waiting for him to remind me, again, that Mom wouldn’t want me trying to fill her shoes.
After a silent moment, his fingers ruffle the paper. “There’s not much about the dog pack in here.” Then his right hand, quivering, lifts a page from beside the newspaper as he takes in a deep breath. “But we got this in the mailbox. A notice from the sheriff. He’s requiring folks to register their dogs—with photographs. Immediately.”
Cub goes still in the midst of tucking his shirt into his baggy shorts. “Oh, no.”
I almost drop the pork. “Register? Photographs? What for? What does that mean?” If I were a building, alarms would be firing off inside me.
“The pictures will be posted on bulletin boards and the community Web site so folks can identify the dogs chasing livestock.” G.D. stares at the notice. “If a dog is identified, it will be put to sleep. No questions asked. Its owner will be fined, could do jail time.”
I stop breathing.
“Sheriff Hawks isn’t messing around with this situation,” G.D. says, placing the paper back on the table.
“That’s bad,” Cub mutters. “What if Mr. Wilson sees Dead End’s picture and pegs him as the dog that killed the…” Cub slaps his hand to his mouth. His wide eyes seem to scream I can’t believe I said that! His face goes rash-red.
G.D. squints at Cub. “What’s this?”
My fingers itch to grab a dishtowel and cram it into Cub’s big mouth as I stare at him, willing him to zip his lips. But asking him to swallow back the truth is like asking him to gulp down a truckload of garden vegetables.
“Spit it out, son.” G.D.’s tone takes on a hard, no-nonsense edge.
Shuffling, Cub stares at his feet with wide eyes that tell me he wishes he was anywhere but here right now. He licks his dry lips. “Dill and I heard Mr. Kryer tellin’ Mr. Smoothers about dogs that attacked Mr. Wilson’s sheep, Sir.”
Dog Gone Page 5
