Dog Gone (18 page)

This sounds like the Lyon from a year ago, before he'd built the wall around himself. “I've got to get Dead End to a safe place,” I mumble into his shirt.

Lyon squeezes me tighter. “Running off won't change anything. Haven't you learned that from G.D.?”

“I've got money,” I tell him, my voice small.

He releases me, steps back. A dense sigh leaves him. And he wilts some. “Dill, you and I got to start understanding that we have to face some things in order to get them resolved. If our dog has been killing sheep, we've got to deal with that. Folks shouldn't have to worry about protecting their animals from pack dogs. And what about my store? Keeping a dog that kills isn't exactly good for business.”

I push away from him. “But Dead End…”

Lyon holds up a hand before I can even try to say
is Mom's dog
. The toothpick slides to one side of his mouth. “I don't want to argue.” He pushes his fingers back through his hair and sighs again. “Let's make a deal. You and Dead End come home. We'll keep him inside and on a leash until this whole dog pack mess gets resolved.
If
he is
not
a sheep killer,
then
we'll take him back to Sarah Doyle for some retraining, to get him to stop running off. Okay?”

A grin splashes over my whole face and I dance inside. “Deal,” I say.

“Okay.” Lyon plants a warm kiss on my forehead for the first time in months. His big hand squeezes my shoulder. “Go get our dog.”

*   *   *

“From now on, you'll sleep beside my bed,” I tell Dead End as Lyon's truck tires crunch our driveway gravel. “After Lyon fixes your shoulder. He's real good at patching wounds.” He should be. He's cleaned and doctored enough of my cuts, scrapes, and banged-up bones. Because Mom had a habit of panicking when I got hurt. She could never stay calm enough to be my nurse.

The dog licks my face. He'd have swung his tail in
O
's if we'd had the room in the cab. This makes me feel a warmth that has been missing—at least until Cub shoots out of the garage, coming right at the front of Lyon's truck.

Lyon throws the truck into park and leans out of the window. “What're you doing here, son? You should be home, sleeping. The sun is barely up.”

“People have been callin',” Cub gasps between panting breaths. “My house. Your house. Skeeter told anyone who'd listen that we've been keeping a sheep killer.” Cub turns to me, his face as red as I've ever seen it, his eyes as wide as bottle caps.

I leap out of the truck, slamming the door closed behind me to keep Dead End inside. “Skeeter's lying again! That insect's a blood-sucking liar!”

“There's more.” Cub swallows hard, shifting from foot to foot. He glances at Lyon, and then looks back at me. “Sheriff Hawks came by my house last night when no one answered the door here. He's got photographs. One of the farmers took pictures of the dogs goin' after his sheep. You know, for proof.” Cub looks at his feet. “One shows a blond husky.” He hesitates. “It's Dead End.”

My knees turn weak. My hands begin sweating and shaking.

“Now, Ms. Hunter believes Dead End attacked Plato.” Cub swallows hard, focusing on Lyon again. “Sheriff Hawks is lookin' for you and Dead End, Sir.”

The world begins spinning faster.

“That's it.” Lyon's no-nonsense tone echoes in the dark. He throws the truck into reverse, and whips it onto the lawn in a backwards U-turn until the headlights are pointing at the road.

His words explode in my head:
Dogs that go after livestock should be destroyed
. “Lyon! No! Don't!” I run at his truck, throwing myself in front of it. “You can't take Mom's dog! You can't!”

Lyon leans out the window. His face is rock-hard. “I'm sorry, Dill, but this dog is a threat.” His voice booms.

“But he's Mom's dog,” I blurt out. Tears leak from my eyes despite my fight to hold them back. “We had a deal! Mrs. Doyle can make him a good dog again!”

“Get out of the way, Dill. Please.” When I don't, won't, Lyon throws the truck into reverse again, backs up some, then shifts back into drive and steers wide around me.

I chase that truck with everything I've got. The tears come strong now. “Don't take her! You can't!” My soaked, wet cries get lost in the spitting gravel of our driveway. When I finally stop, breathing hard enough to pop a lung, sobbing to the point of shaking, I watch through blurry eyes as the truck tears down the road. Then I drop to my knees, grab handfuls of gravel and throw them as hard as I can at Lyon and his truck. “I HATE YOU!” I scream as loud as I'm able, my vocal cords close to snapping. “You took Mom away. I didn't even say good-bye. I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” And I crumple into a limp heap.

Slow, hesitant steps crunch the gravel behind me.

“She's gone,” I gasp at Cub in a trembling, snuffling voice. “I mean … they're gone.”

“I know, Dill.” He kicks at the ground, harder than usual. “I'm sorry.”

CHAPTER 15

GOOD DOG

I stare at the phone on the kitchen wall until it stops ringing. In the master bedroom, the answering machine finishes recording a fourth message. With a sigh, I start back to my bedroom.

When I get to the hallway, Cub turns away from the closed door of Lyon's bedroom and comes to meet me, stomping on the ends of his untied laces. “Dill, I think that last call might have been your dad again. His message sounded like it said something about Dr. Kitt and St. Bernard's Animal Shelter.”

I shrug, acting like I don't care, and step back into my bedroom. I return to G.D.'s knapsack, in the middle of the floor, and stuff Mom's bottle of gardenia perfume into the side pocket of it. Then I rub at the puffy, raw skin around my eyes. Less than a blink of sleep all night from grieving for G.D. and waiting for the time when Dead End and I could leave the ranch, combined with the drain from this latest drama, has left me feeling as if I've been dragged behind a train from Virginia to California. But the jar inside me sits empty, the lid blown off from my outburst at Lyon. After all that letting go, the emptiness (despite my tiredness) is clean and fresh—and tastes like relief.

“Lyon has been leaving messages all morning,” Cub reminds me, like I don't know this, don't recognize my father's deep voice on the machine in the other room, even if I can't make out his words.

I'd closed the door of the master bedroom when the phone first rang. I don't want to know what Lyon is doing.

“Lyon's either dumping our dog at a shelter or having Dr. Kitt…”
put Dead End to sleep
lumps in my throat. My head still aches. Another tidal wave of tears rises behind my eyelids, which feel as thick and as swollen as overcooked pasta.

Cub turns away, sniffing and wiping at his face in quick swipes.

“Why couldn't I convince Dead End to stay here with us?” My voice cracks.

“Maybe G.D. was right, Dill.” Cub's voice comes out shaky. “Maybe that dog has been on a mission to find your mom.”

I drop my head, push my knuckles against my eyes as if I can plug up the tears. How will I ever tell G.D. what has happened to his four-legged buddy? “I've got to get out of here.” I sniff.

“You can't run from a busted heart,” Cub says low. “That's not facin' life head-on.”

Before I can scream that I don't give a rat's rear end about facing anything head-on, a familiar rumble crawls up the driveway.

Cub turns his head to the sound.

The truck goes quiet. The door to the garage opens, stays that way for a long few minutes, then shuts again, slow. Lyon's boots thump. They're followed by a shuffling of feet. “Dill,” Lyon calls. “Where are you?”

Cub heads for the kitchen.

“Hey, Cub.” Lyon's voice comes out slow and heavy, tired.

“Hey, Mr. MacGregor, Sir. And…” Cub sounds as if the air's being sucked out of him the way his voice trails off.

“Where's Dill?”

I stand and hike the knapsack onto my shoulder. Fighting back more tears, I force myself into the kitchen.

Lyon and his toothpick come at me. “Dill, I'm sorry I had to leave you upset. And I'm sorry I didn't get home sooner. Did you get my messages? I had to drive…”

“I don't want to hear it. You took him away. You take everyone I love away—to die.”

Everyone freezes, including me. Because
die
isn't a word I've been using. And because at that moment, I see G.D. at the kitchen table, settling his bone-thin self into his usual chair. “G.D.,” I whisper with a smile in my voice. “You're home.” I go to him, wrap one gentle arm around his shoulders, and kiss his papery cheek.

He nods, pats my hand with his, gives me back a smile. “Can't keep this old hound down. No ma'am.”

When I straighten, Lyon reaches for my shoulders, but I turn away from his hands, still too mad to do business with him. “Dill, you said
die
. You finally said
die,
” he breathes, sounding relieved, even pleased.

The word brings on another gush of tears like water from a faucet. Lyon reaches for me again. I turn away, knowing how long he's been waiting to see me cry. His hands hit the knapsack.

G.D. arches his bushy eyebrows. “Going somewhere, girl?”

When I don't answer, Cub clears his throat. “We know what you did, Sir,” he says low to Lyon.

I glare sidelong at Lyon then. He turns to Cub. The toothpick goes still.

Cub looks at his feet and blinks fast. “I'm talking about putting Dead End to sleep.” His voice breaks apart.

“He was her dog,” I squeeze out, my voice thin.

Lyon's big hands come to my shoulders. I don't fight him this time, so he turns me to him. “Dill, didn't you listen to my messages?”

I can't even begin to answer him.

He sighs. “I didn't know you saw the dog that way.” Lyon hesitates. “I, uh, didn't even realize, didn't truly understand until talking with G.D. this morning, how furious you've been with me for taking your mother to the hospital. I should have known, but you wouldn't talk and I guess I…” He stops, takes in a deep breath as if for strength. “I'm sorry, Dill. Not for the treatments or for taking her to the hospital. I'm sorry because they didn't save her.”

His voice trails off. The sadness in it feels like my own, stabs my heart like the sharp point of an ice pick, chips away at the anger with his name on it.

“I thought about what you said—about taking Dead End to Sarah Doyle. The more I thought this over, the more it seemed like a good solution. So I took him to Doc Kitt to get that shoulder wound stitched up and to talk to him about dogs that start running in packs, start killing.”

Stunned and unable to speak, my swollen throat convulsing in after-crying hiccups, I stare at Lyon through soggy eyes.

“Kitt explained what's been going on, explained how once dogs start killing, it's near impossible to control or stop them,” G.D. puts in. “Instinct takes over.”

“That's why I took the dog north to Fairfax County. To Sarah Doyle. She and Mike have always loved Dead End. And their boys have been itching for a new dog since their old hound died,” Lyon adds. “They've got the perfect home for our dog. And they don't have sheep and livestock in their backyard.”

“Home?” What is he saying? Even though my tears have slowed, a cloud settles in my head, making me foggy.

“I didn't bring our dog to the Doyle's for retraining, Dill.” Lyon's face hardens as he stares into my eyes. “I gave them Dead End. To keep.”

An invisible fist plows into my belly, making me suddenly certain that I'm going to throw up. Everything goes blurry from the hot anger that bubbles up inside me. I want to scream, lash out, swing at something, anything. “WHAT?! You did WHAT?!”

Cub sniffs, looks up into Lyon's face. “Dead End hasn't been put to sleep?”

“No,” Lyon says without smiling. He glances at me, his eyes alert and maybe even a little afraid. “He'll be kept inside, be confined by a fenced yard, and be taken on lots of long walks, Dill. He won't have much of a chance to run off, but he'll have a fine life.”

“That beats any kind of shelter by a long mile, Dill,” G.D. tries to tell me.

Cub glances at me, then back at Lyon. “They got groundhogs up by the Doyles?”

I glare at Cub, ready to call him a traitor.

Lyon crinkles his eyebrows at us, looking confused for a second before he focuses back on me. “Giving Dead End to the Doyles is the only way to save his life. It isn't right that we keep a dog that kills sheep. This isn't fair to our neighbors or to their animals. I'm sorry, kiddo, but I really had no other choice.”

I'm sorry, kiddo
—the words Lyon used to say whenever I got sad, words that always made me feel better. They soothe some, but it's what else he's said that begins to sink into me, calming my belly like peppermint-flavored medicine: He's saved Dead End's life by giving him to the Doyles. This was the best Lyon could do, given his choices. And maybe this is something like what happened with Mom. Maybe he made the best decision he could when it came to taking her to the hospital, too. The thought warms me, spreads slow, and feels like the beginning of something bigger. But most of all, it pulls me a littler closer to him, closer than I've been in months.

Cub steps toward Lyon. “Do the farmers know what you've done, Sir? What about the sheriff and Ms. Hunter?” He shakes his head. “I'm bettin' Ms. Hunter will never let me and Dill near her stable again. And Sheriff Hawks will probably lock us up the minute he sees us.”

Good-bye to Cub's career in law enforcement. Good-bye to my riding lessons and the horse shows.

“I don't see you doing jail time,” Lyon says in his old, calming tone, as if he is reading my emotions, something he hasn't done in months.