Dog Gone (11 page)

I shoot into the ranch, ripples of sweat skidding down the sides of my face.

“I hear that new store has an incredible computer system and data bank. And I hear it sells high-powered guns with scopes and all kinds of wild technical stuff,” Doc Kerring says with too much enthusiasm. He sits with his broad back to me, leaning over our kitchen table—a sight I've seen too many times.

Lyon, slumped in his usual seat, holds his forehead in his hands. “Yup. That new store is something else. Farmers can even pick up gun permits there.”

I stop short and stare at my riding boots because I can't look at Lyon for another second. I should let him know what's been going on with those farmers. I should tell him about Dead End. My hands go to the end of my ponytail, pull hard at it.

“Dill?”

When I look up, Lyon is staring at me. A toothpick droops between his lips. When I don't move, he stands; it takes him only two long strides to get to me.

“G.D.?” I barely squeeze this out, can't get out anymore.

Lyon's huge hands start to reach for my shoulders, but he stops himself, deciding to stay behind his wall. His hands drop to his sides. “G.D.'s resting. In bed.”

At least he hasn't been taken to the hospital.

Doc Kerring, a walrus with a stethoscope, pushes himself up from his chair and turns to face me. He rubs the thick folds under his chin and presses his lips together, blinking a lot from behind his round, silver, wire-framed glasses—his serious,
we need to talk
look.

Lyon nudges me toward the kitchen, but I don't move.

Doc Kerring doesn't smile as he walks toward me. “Morning, Dill.” He blinks again, clears his throat. He always does this before he delivers a shot, a pill, or bad news. “Dill, your granddad needs to go to the hospital for some tests.”

I start backing away from the word
hospital,
shoot a glare at Lyon. How could he even think about sending his father there after what happened to Mom?

Pale as a peeled potato, Lyon's expression seems to plead with me. “Dill, the doctors will help G.D.”

“Oh, yeah, the way they helped…” I stop short, still unable to say
Mom
out loud. I also don't ask, with sarcasm fueled by bubbling-hot anger, if the same hospital doctors will put poison into his blood and call it
treatment
the way they did with her.

Normally, Lyon would have a real problem with my sassy attitude, but now he seems to have no more energy than a bag of wood chips.

“Do I hear my girl?” G.D.'s voice trickles out from the guestroom that has become his bedroom.

I sprint across the kitchen and down the short hall to him.

Thick, warm shadows hang like ghosts in this room. The pulled-down shades hold in oily medicine smells. G.D. is on his back under a thin sheet. One of his bird-claw hands clutches the gold chain and rings, now outside his white T-shirt. The Civil War cane leans against the end of the bed as if waiting to be called into service again.

“Thought you had a riding lesson this morning, girl.”

“You're more important than riding,” I tell him, adding a wink because he knows there was a time when not a whole lot was more important to me than riding.

“Don't be giving up your lessons for me. They're about the only thing that gives you any kind of break from all the missing and the hurt.”

I turn to the windows. “G.D.? Why are the shades down? You love sunshine.” My voice wavers. My fake smile twitches. My hand goes to where his fragile hand rests on top of the sheet.

The pillow crinkles. The linen rustles as G.D. tries to push his old body up into a sitting position. “Old age is the devil's playground, Dill.”

I sniff. “You'll be okay.”

His fingers curl over mine in a weak, bony squeeze. “You know, even though the last nine months have been rougher than words can say, I've loved being with my only grandgirl. Makes me think I should have settled in with you folks earlier, the way you always asked me to.”

I swallow hard, blinking fast, needing to refocus before the tears come. My eyes find a framed picture on the table beside G.D.'s bed: a black and white photograph of G.D.'s wife, Bets. Beside her, another frame holds a color picture of a puffed-up and proud, grinning Lyon holding a seven-year-old me on a pony. Mom had taken that picture. When she didn't have any more children, she'd tried to become a professional photographer. But she never took pictures of anyone or anything except Dead End and her animals, G.D., Lyon, and me.

“That photo shows when you and your pop were happy.” G.D.'s voice comes out as dry and as cracked as old shoe leather.

That's when I notice the newest framed photo of Mom, clicked off the Christmas before she got sick. It's a fine picture of her snuggled up next to Lyon. He's turned away from the camera, but she's smiling into it, happy and healthy and ready to hop out of the silver frame. G.D. turns his head to stare into her eyes. This makes my throat close up. Quickly, I focus on a fourth frame.

This photo shows the warm eyes, yellow pointed ears, and panting enthusiasm of the cutest dog in the world. I can almost hear his thick tail thumping the kitchen floor. I can almost see him sitting beside Mom's bed, watching over her, licking her hand, whining and pacing around her bed as she moans in her restless sleep. Some images come this way, unwanted and uninvited.

If our dog was here now, he'd be fussing and staying close to G.D., too.

“That's a good picture of Dead End,” I mutter, my voice trickling out.

G.D. lets go a heavy sigh, sounding like Lyon. “Changing the subject—every bit as bullheaded as your pop.”

“Everything will be great.” My voice splinters.
Everything will be great
belonged to Mom, and always brought comfort. But out of my mouth, it sounds empty. I quickly clear my throat. “G.D., can a dog be bad once in a while, but still be good overall?”

The pillowcase crinkles again as G.D. turns his face to me and squints. “What's on your mind, girl? What are you getting at?”

Since when has he lost his ability to see through me? Like Lyon, G.D. has always known me better than I know myself. Not willing to share my itching doubts about Dead End, I shrug, stiff and uncomfortable in my own skin. “I've been thinking about those pack dogs. That's all.”

G.D. grunts and turns his head away from me. “You're worried about Dead End. You're wondering if he could be part of the pack.” G.D. sucks in a long breath. “Me, too. Wish I could get him to that shelter in Utah. That might be the only way to save the dog's hide. But I can't get anywhere now.”

G. D.'s free hand moves across the sheet, toward me. I drop my free hand to his twig bones and tissue-paper skin. “Lyon and that doctor want me to go to the hospital,” G.D. says in a low and weary voice. He turns his face back to me, his sky-blue eyes moist. “Think I might go.”

A volt of fear rips through me and rattles my bones. “No! You can't. You won't come back.” I turn away from him and focus on his old trunk at the back of the room, trying to stay calm, trying not to remember.

The trunk holds his wandering souvenirs: the floppy hat from the South Carolina sailor, a blanket from New Mexico, and a handmade, turquoise-decorated dog collar that G.D. puts on Dead End during special occasions, like July 8th, the day G.D. brought the pooch to us; the day we always celebrated, complete with Mom's chocolate cake, as Dead End's birthday. My free hand goes to the pocket that holds the picture of Mom and Lyon. “You promised me that you wouldn't go to any hospital, ever.”

“Dill.” Lyon's commanding voice bounces off the doorway. “Dr. Kerring says G.D. needs to go to the hospital. This is different than when your mother…”

“Lyon.” G.D.'s voice, weak but firm, interrupts. “I've changed my mind. I'm not going after all.”

“But Pop, we agreed.…”

“Changed my mind, son.”

Lyon looks at me, his eyes wide and startled. Then he looks back at G.D. “But the hospital's the best place for you right now, Pop. Dr. Kerring said…”

“Made up my mind,” G.D. repeats, interrupting.

Lyon's lips go tight over the toothpick, nearly snapping the thing in two. “Dill,” he says, turning his face to me. “You can't let your fear keep G.D. from getting the care he needs.”

Doc Kerring adjusts his silver-framed glasses as he comes up behind Lyon. “Mr. MacGregor, the hospital…”

“No.” G.D.'s hand lifts from mine and then thumps onto the sheets. The birds outside seem to stop chattering. “I don't need a test to tell me that I'm as old as dirt. No one can stick a tube in my arm and give me back thirty years.”

Lyon sighs, and steps up behind me. “Okay, Pop. Get some sleep.” His big, firm hand comes down onto my shoulder, and then guides me to the doorway.

When I glance back at G.D., he winks.

“Everything will be great,” I mutter to him. But first, I have to find Dead End. I have to get that dog home.

CHAPTER 9

BLACKIE

“Hey.” My tone is dull, heavy. Stepping into the grain room, I wipe at my damp forehead. Even though my riding lesson ended twenty minutes ago, I'm still as limp and as wet as a used washrag. The day's heat is already sticking to me like new flypaper.

“Morning, Dill.” Cub looks up, slightly squinting at me the way he does when trying to read my mood.

“Sorry I'm late. Even though I didn't get here on time, Ms. Hunter let me ride the full hour.” Horses crunch grain and snort. The sweet scents of molasses, corn, and oats mix with my favorite stable smells of hay and saddle leather. “Guess I missed feeding the horses this morning.”

Grain spatters into a steel garbage can. “No big deal.” Cub lowers the bag of feed and looks smack at me. “Has Dead End come home?”

Focusing on the toes of my dusty riding boots now, I shake my head. “No.”

Cub grunts. “I was hopin' you were late because he'd shown up.”

“No. I was late because G.D. wanted to talk more about how I need to face life head-on.” I grind my boot heel into a corn kernel, mashing it, sick of hearing about what I should and shouldn't do. “He keeps trying to get me to go with Lyon to…” I hesitate. “You know.”

“Fairfax.” Cub goes to one of the traps that Jerry Smoothers keeps placing around the stable, trying to cut down the mouse and rat populations. With a kick, Cub springs the trap, making its jaws bite closed so that it becomes harmless. I swear the kid would sacrifice a toe to keep even a mangy rat from getting a whisker caught in a trap. “How's G.D.?”

“He slept right through our usual breakfast time. Another reason I'm late.”

Cub makes a grunting sound which might as well say
that's not good
. He knows G.D. usually gets up before the rooster crows.

I suck in a breath. Even during my lesson, I couldn't shake the image of G.D., looking too brittle, making his way from his bedroom to the kitchen. “He'll be fine once Dead End comes home.” My voice, like my insides, trembles.

Cub raises his eyebrows, showing his doubt.

“Once Dead End comes home, everything will be great,” I say again, barely getting this out, trying to believe it. But even Mom's words sound weak today.

“What if Dead End doesn't come back?”

“I've told you—he
will,
” I snap. “He's a good dog. Sad, but still good.”

Cub kicks another trap shut. “Dill, maybe the dog bein' missing isn't what's bothering your grandfather. Maybe G.D. really does need to go to the hospital.”

I shake my head hard because I don't have any more words to argue with.

Cub flips over the now-useless trap with his boot toe. “And that's why Donny has started calling you Cleopatra, Queen of Denial.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Because you never come over anymore and won't talk to my dad about what's happened. Because you won't deal with…” Cub stops. “Well, you know.”

I don't breathe. Donny talking about me? Cleopatra sounds great, but
Queen of Denial
? Calling me
Queen Freak
would sound better.

“Get it?” Cub grins. “Denial sounds like Nile. Cleopatra was the queen of the Nile.”

“Yeah, I get it,” I bark.

Before I can get all over Cub about whatever else Donny might have said about me, the sound of boots coming fast down the aisle stops me. Ms. Hunter pauses in the grain room doorway, her eyes wide with alarm, the fingers of her right hand wrapped around her small cell phone. “Dill, Cub. Have you seen Dr. Kitt?”

Cub jerks his thumb left. “Black Bart's stall.”

Ms. Hunter whips around, her long red braid flying. The frantic thud of her riding boots echoes through the stable.

“Come on,” I say low to Cub, waving at him to follow me.

At the end of the aisle, I stop, and stick my arm out to stop Cub from shooting past me. As we peer around a corner, Ms. Hunter jogs past two stalls and then slows at Black Bart's space.

“Give us a look at that leg, Bart,” Dr. Kitt says in his raspy, sandpaper voice. He always refers to himself as
us
or
we
when he speaks to his animal patients.

Ms. Hunter grabs either side of the doorway of Black Bart's stall as if she needs to hold herself up. “Ian, Ned Jonas shot a dog. About ten minutes ago.”

I gasp, slapping a hand over my mouth. Cub makes a sound like he's about to lose his breakfast.

“
Shot a dog?
” Dr. Kitt's question comes out breathless. “Ned Jonas wouldn't swat a fly if it bit him.”

I grab Cub's arm and yank him into an empty box stall.

“Your wife called a few minutes ago.” Ms. Hunter lifts her cell phone. “Ned Jonas got ahold of her. She said he sounded frantic. Something about dogs chasing his sheep. He shot at them.
Hit one!
”