Dog Gone (7 page)

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 garlic 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.”

“I'll make pork chops with apples,” I about scream as if I can distract G.D. from Cub.

But G.D. stays focused on Cub. “What'd you hear?”

Knowing that I'm getting as tense as a mouse at a cat show, Cub glances at me. But instead of taking the hint, he sucks in a deep breath and focuses on his boots. “Someone saw a blond husky attack Mr. Wilson's sheep. That dog killed one, Sir.”

“Dead End isn't a killer!” My voice cracks.

G.D. blinks at Cub. “Those sheep were attacked after Dead End left here?”

Cub pushes a hand over his stubble hair, and shifts on his boots. “Yes, Sir.”

The kitchen gets hotter, stuffier. G.D. sighs. “Then we've got to face this head-on.”

My stomach feels as if it's been turned inside out. My heart thuds in jackhammer beats. “There's nothing to face. Dead End's not a killer,” I say again, the anger in my throat busting out. “He's not even a half-decent watchdog. And he's never so much as snarled at the cats, the chickens, or any of our animals.”

“He came home covered in dung and blood the other morning,” G.D. reminds me.

“Probably from an old deer carcass!” I practically shriek.

“Listen to me, girl,” G.D. states plain. “Cub just told us that a blond husky killed sheep. Our dog is the only yellow husky dog around these parts, which means…”

“NO!” My tone, desperate and on the edge of tears, shakes the ranch. “Don't listen to Cub. Dead End
isn't
the only yellow dog around here. That sheep-killer description fits another dog.” I yank at my braid.

Cub's forehead wrinkles. He looks at me as if I've lost my mind. “What?”

“Another blond dog?” G.D.'s face crinkles with questions, but a spark of what has to be hope flickers in his eyes.

I gulp over a rock-hard lump that is now wedged in my throat. Mom used to say that a lie in your conscience feels worse than a bur in your shirt. Now I get what she meant.

“Amazing, huh?” My mouth races like a galloping horse. “Another yellow dog. Pointed ears. Big thing.”

Cub stares at me, his jaw hanging open as if it has become unhinged.

Color returns to G.D.'s bony cheeks. “Where've you seen this dog?”

“Around,” I squeak. “At the stable. It belongs to people on the other side of town.”

G.D.'s fingers massage the rings on his necklace. “Does Lyon know this dog?”

“I'm not sure.” I hesitate a second, my brain spinning. “This pooch is new in town.”

A satisfied smile spreads across G.D.'s face. A bit of sparkle returns to his tired eyes and he shrugs as if to say that he doesn't know about any of this, but he believes me. “That's a truckload of relief.”

“It's a load of something,” Cub mutters.

My pasted-on grin pinches and pulls. I feel as fake as a puppet tied up and tangled in too many strings.

“Imagine if Lyon got caught keeping a sheep-killing dog,” G.D. says. “Imagine him facing jail with everything else he's got weighing him down these days.” G.D. shakes his head. “All his years of struggling to earn the farmers' trust would be lost forever. That new store would get all his business.”

This about knocks the breath out of me. Why hadn't I thought about Lyon's hard work, his store, the huge new competitor that has been threatening to steal his customers?

Cub nudges my arm. “Where'd you say you heard about this other sheep-killin' dog?”