Dog Gone (6 page)

Waiting for him to say something about the sheep-killing dog pack, I don't breathe as I watch his square face with its wide, flat nose—a steer's face.

G.D. nods. “Raising yourself some sirloin, Fred?”

He mentions top round and from there the two of them chat about beef, G.D.'s friendliness mixing with Mr. Barley's matter-of-fact farming tone. G.D. invites the farmer inside, but he says
no, thanks
. That's when I breathe again, excuse myself by mumbling something about needing to get to my riding lesson, and return to the kitchen.

I barely reach the pancakes when Mr. Barley clears his throat. “Also want to tell you that I've been made a sort of deputy sheriff,” he announces without masking his pride. “Seems dogs attacked some farm animals. The farmers are having fits, are talking about getting their mitts on guns to protect their livestock. Sheriff Hawks smells trouble. He wants me to teach those farmers how to properly aim at a target before the bullets start flying.”

I near fall nose-first into my breakfast.

“Say,” Mr. Barley adds with too much curiosity in his voice. “Where's your dog?”

I'd have passed out if G.D. hadn't suggested, “Around somewhere.”

A couple minutes later, Mr. Barley leaves and G.D returns to the kitchen. “I'm not surprised the sheriff asked for Fred's help. He's a good shot. Could shoot a can off our back fence from New Jersey if he wanted to.”

I eye the big, thick pancakes. Lyon would want to know about the sheep attack, the farmers having fits about it, and the sheriff smelling trouble. Being aware of what goes on around here helps him run his store. So he'd be plenty disappointed in me for keeping information from him, especially the part about Dead End taking off.

“You owe your pop the truth about what our dog has been up to.” Deep parenthesis lines crease either side of G.D.'s turned-down mouth. “Did you hear what Fred said about the dogs?”

This makes Lyon's pancakes smell a lot less sweet, much more like disappointment.

“Our dog isn't part of the sheep attacks,” I snap, my tone rock-hard. “He wouldn't do that.”

G.D. tips his head up and down in what I'd call reluctant agreement. “It's hard to imagine him going after livestock, but then I've been around the barn enough to know that anything is possible. Animals aren't always predictable.”

“But telling Lyon the dog is gone will get that pooch a one-way ticket to a shelter.”

“Okay, let's see what today brings,” G.D. says. “But be careful, girl. I know what it's like to turn your back on what is. Why do you think I took off wandering like a hobo for years after losing my Bets?” His blue eyes puddle, which puts a big lump smack in the center of my throat. “Believe me, reality always catches up to you.”

I don't speak. Can't.

“It's a MacGregor trait to want to burrow like a rabbit to escape trouble, but I'm here to tell you that ignoring the truth of your problems won't make them disappear. Only facing then head-on does any good.”

I stare at my riding boots until the cane taps and the rings jingle back to the family room as G.D. mumbles something about how unfair life can be at times.

“Where're you going? What about our breakfast?”

He waves my questions aside. “Not hungry anymore.”

“But you've got to eat!”

“I'll be in the garden.” The back door squeals on its hinges, then slaps closed.

From the kitchen window, I watch him hobble across the backyard. Guilt gnaws at my stomach.

The door to the garage opens and slams closed again. “Hey, Dill.” Cub's voice drags like the bottoms of his boots.

I throw myself at the kitchen doorway, almost plow over him. His clothes smell of laundry detergent and bleach. “Did you find…?”

Before I can finish, he shakes his head
no
. Then he lifts his nose and sniffs, looking like a rabbit with a buzz cut. “Pancakes?”

“Never mind them. We need to find Dead End. What if someone sees him, picks him up?” I pull harder at my braid. “What if…?”

Cub's eyes go wide, showing concern. “What's got you all wound up, Dill? You drink coffee this morning?”

“Lyon noticed Dead End missing, started talking about taking G.D. to the hospital for tests. On top of that, Mr. Barley's going to teach farmers how to shoot dogs,” I rattle off like some TV newsperson gone berserk while announcing headline stories.

“Shoot at dogs? Jeez.” Cub scuffs his boots across the kitchen floor.

“We've got to find Dead End and get his furry butt home.”

“Dill, I can't spend all day helpin' you find Dead End. Donny says I got to help the twins fix fencing in our big field. He expects me to help him in our stupid garden again, too. He says I haven't been
pullin' my weight.
” Cub kicks at the floor. “I'm sick of brothers, chores, stupid gardens, and dumb vegetables. Good thing my mom likes you or I'd be home this minute helping her can tomatoes.”

He should have said
Good thing my mom still feels sorry for you.

Cub kicks at the floor. “I'm sick of Donny tellin' me what to do.”

Donny, Cub's oldest brother, the tall one with the dark eyes and hair, and the kindest smile I've ever seen. Donny sends all my girlfriends into giggles and whispers. His deep voice turns me into something like oatmeal. As much as I want to ask Cub questions, get him talking about Donny, Cub's mood screams that this isn't the time. Especially since he's never been even close to being okay with me talking about Donny. Not long ago, when I hinted at how nice Donny was after he congratulated me on a first-place ribbon I'd won in a jumping event, Cub started choking as if he'd swallowed a horsefly.

But now he keeps kicking at the floor. “I'm sick of my house. I'm sick of hand-me-down clothes, and I'm sick of too many church
functions
.”

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 if
s 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.”