Dog Gone (4 page)

G.D. shakes his head. “No wonder your mother labeled you her mustang. You're every bit as strong-willed and stubborn as one of those wild horses.”

Rugged and spirited, but also enduring,
she'd said. She'd been a swan: beautiful, graceful, and too delicate for country living.

G.D. reaches out, touches my braid.
Your hair is getting real long. It reminds me of my Betsey,
he'd told me only a few days ago. High praise.

But looking like the grandmother I never met isn't why I've vowed never to cut my hair again. Mom always cut it. Since she can't anymore, then no one will.

“Dead End hasn't gone back to his old ways,” I say, even though a little piece of me wonders if this is true.

“I hope not.” G.D. rubs the white stubble on his chin. “But something has gotten under his fur. Your mama, who could charm the rattle off a snake, got him to be a homebody, but now it seems he's back to being a free spirit.”

He's running from what is,
I don't say. “He'll settle again,” I do say. “You roamed around forever.” My voice wavers. “But you finally came to stay with us.”

“That's different. You all needed me. There's nothing like being needed to take your mind off your own heartache.” G.D. pulls his hand back from my hair before he moves toward the garden.

Whenever G.D. speaks of heartache, he means losing his wife, Bets. When she passed on, he put her wedding and engagement rings along with his own wedding band on a chain and fastened it around his neck. He sold his horse farm, gave away all he owned except his pickup truck, an old trunk, his knapsack, and whatever clothes he could carry, and took off.
Figured wandering about the country would take my mind off my misery,
he'd told me. Mom used to say that he ran from the cold loneliness of his loss. Whenever Lyon worried about this aimless wandering, Mom told him G.D. would settle down once he could be still enough to feel the heavy beats of his swollen heart.

I never understood this before, but these days I hardly get through breakfast without thinking about running, like Dead End, from the thick and sticky sadness that stains every inch of our ranch home.

“Dead End does have a mind of his own,” Cub says low.

“That doesn't make him a bad dog,” I snap. “Maybe it makes him a smart dog.”

CHAPTER 3

WISHING FOR
DEAD END

As I poke a spoon at the browning beef and sizzling onions, I wonder again how I'm ever going to find Dead End and haul his furry butt home before Lyon notices the dog being gone. The question sticks like gum to the bottom of my riding boot, smack next to another worry. Did I disappoint Ms. Hunter by not cleaning out the stalls first thing this morning, the way she expected me to? Sure, I finished the job this afternoon, after searching for Dead End, but Ms. Hunter wanted the work done early. She requires her stable to be run in an organized way. Upsetting her is about the last thing I need to do. Her stable is my refuge these days. The one place where I don't keep expecting to see Mom.

“Our dog could be anywhere,” G.D. mumbles from his seat at the kitchen table, more to himself than to me.

“I'm sure he hasn't gone far,” I say, picturing the dog sitting and panting near Mom in this very kitchen while she cooked or baked, both of them smiling and happy.

“The last time the pooch took off, Cub and I found him in the woods behind the stable.” I try to sound upbeat.
But the dog wasn't there this afternoon,
I don't add. “He's just confused right now.”

“Like you?” G.D. squints hard at me. He's always been able to sense my inner troubles.

I give him my
I don't want to talk about me
look.

“And you've been running around all day. So, why are you making dinner when we got a freezer full of casseroles, fried chicken, and covered dish meals?”

Because filling the ranch with Mom's cooking brings her close again,
I don't say. Being in this kitchen, her room, makes me feel like she could walk in here at any second. That everything could go back to being happy and as it should be. And because I think Mom would want me cooking her recipes. I always watched her cook, helped her gather ingredients, and measured for her while we talked about school, friends, and riding.

At least until she got down-and-out sick, and meal-making times became bed-sitting times, with me doing most of the talking and Mom listening, sometimes with smiles. Dinners became unimportant then, turning into frozen pizzas, canned soups, and cold cereal.

“I see what you're doing,” G.D. scolds. “You're avoiding what's happened.”

I start to chop peppers, hammering the knife hard. “Maybe it just annoys the spit out of me how everyone within a five-mile radius has been bringing us meals for the last three months.” As if casseroles can plug the gaping holes that Mom has left. “Why does everyone think I can't cook any better than Lyon?” A guy who finds boiling water a challenge.

“Folks want to help, girl. That's all.” G.D. lets out a long breath. “Okay. If you insist on cooking, let your old granddad help.” But he winces as he tries to push himself up from his chair.

I wave him back down. “You're helping me plenty from where you are.” I try to sound cheerful—for him.

I'd never admit it, but cooking dinner does seem like a waste of time tonight, since Dead End has taken our appetites with him. And I'm sure not cooking for Lyon. He hasn't shown up for even one sit-down dinner since Mom left. He'd rather stuff down leftovers after midnight—or whenever he drags himself back to the ranch after work. Mom could always get him to come home for dinner, but not me.

“Got that chili recipe from a hitchhiker in El Paso.” G.D. eases himself back into the chair. “Gave it to your mama. She knew what to do to make it better than delicious.” G.D. shifts. “I miss everything about that woman.” He stares at his boots. “Never met anyone who loved dogs more than me, until Lyon brought her around.”

I concentrate on chopping more peppers. “I added extra beef, to put weight back on you.”

G.D. rubs his chin. “Don't count on that. But I'll eat my share. You're a darn good cook. Take after your mama.”

I smile. Compliments like that are sweeter than fudge, especially since I wonder if Mom had been teaching me to cook to get me ready to take her place in the kitchen.

“If I were a betting man, I'd wager that you'll be as long-legged and pretty as your mama, too.”

Now I really smile.

“You're a good combination of your parents.”

I've heard this before, but these days it gives me special comfort.

“Got your love of horses and your riding skills from Lyon and me. My boy has always been a top-notch rider. And he gets such a kick out of watching you ride.”

My smile goes flat. “You mean
used to
.” I return to the browning beef and stab hard at it. “Lyon doesn't go near the stable anymore. Not to watch me ride. Not to ride himself. Whenever I ask him when we'll ride again, together, the way we used to do, he says he's too busy at his stupid store.”

G.D. nods in that knowing way he has. He's told me before that Lyon escapes to MacGregor's Feed and Farm Store to keep busy while absorbing what has happened.

“Even Ms. Hunter's been asking about where he's been,” I mutter.

Good thing she doesn't hold Lyon's disappearing act against me. She still pays me to feed, groom, and exercise her horses, still gives me free riding lessons and lets me ride Crossfire in shows. G.D. figures Ms. Hunter likes that I make her horses look good by winning blue ribbons. Lyon says she respects how I put away my pay, saving for my own horse or even my own stable someday. Mom used to say that Ms. Hunter was simply a smart woman who recognized a hard worker and fellow animal lover.

But I wonder if Ms. Hunter has noticed how my heart has wandered away from its one-time focus on show rings, blue ribbons, and shiny trophies.

“Your pop can't be around the horses right now, or the smells of grain and leather,” G.D. says, his voice low. “They remind him of happier times.”

I stare at the chili. “All he does is work. He hasn't touched his guitar, whistled, or sung so much as half a note in the last year.” Even though the man couldn't hold a tune if it had a handle, I miss his singing the most. I miss sitting beside him, watching his fingers work the guitar strings as they guide his voice through a song.
He's hiding behind that wall he's been building around himself,
I don't say, remembering what I've overheard Cub's mom tell the minister. Ever since, I haven't been able to shake the image of Lyon behind stacked stones as tall as an oak tree.

My fingers find my right back pocket, where I keep the picture of Mom and Lyon that I'd laminated last week. I love this photograph of them on their wedding day—young, dressed up, polished. If their smiles had been any bigger, they wouldn't have fit in the photo.

G.D. grunts, shaking his head. “Your father's been burying himself in his work to escape the reality of…”

“Don't!” I jam my thumbs into my ears. After a minute of G.D. not moving his lips, I uncork my fingers, breathe. “Maybe Lyon doesn't want to be around
me
anymore.”

G.D. lets a huge sigh go. “It's not you.” He shifts in his chair, massaging the necklace rings. “Believe me, girl. It's not you. Your pop's trying to keep from thinking about your mama. He's running from his grief. Like you're doing with all your work at the stable and all the laundry and house cleaning you've taken on around here.” G.D. glances at the refrigerator. “And all the cooking.” He sighs again. “Ten people couldn't get as much done in one day as you've been doing.”

After a long, silent minute, he clears his throat. “Has Cub called?”

The desperation behind his question makes my chest ache worse. I shake my head
no
. “But he's got tons of chores that keep him from a phone,” I say even though I know Cub would have called if he'd seen Dead End. Before I can spit out another excuse, driveway gravel crackles. The rumble of Lyon's truck fills the garage.

G.D. and I exchange arched-eyebrow looks of disbelief as Lyon's work boots thump across the family room and enter the kitchen.

“Well, take my lunch and call me hungry,” G.D. says, grinning big. “Nice to see you home at a decent hour, son.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lyon grumbles over the toothpick that pokes out from between his lips. He'd almost started smoking again, a year ago, when the doctors told us that Mom was sick, but she'd made him promise that he'd never go back to tobacco. Instead, he chews through forests of toothpicks.

“I'm making dinner,” I tell him, sounding too hopeful.

“Smells good.” But he throws me a weak half smile that tells me he won't be sticking around for dinner. I can almost hear him say
I'm sorry, kiddo
—words he used to offer up whenever I got sad or disappointed, words that always made me feel better. Almost as soon as that half smile appears, though, it disappears. Faster than a shy rabbit.

Lyon thumps to the counter where we keep the mail. “I can't stay.” Charcoal crescents hang like hammocks under his bloodshot eyes. Shadows that weren't there a year ago. But then, a year ago, before Mom started going to the hospital for treatments, his black hair hadn't been edged with so much gray.

His latest toothpick slides to the opposite side of his mouth as he flips through envelopes. “I left some orders here, need to get them back to the store.”

Of course he does.

“Where's our favorite dog?” Lyon glances right, and then left, his gaze pausing on Dead End's rumpled fleece dog bed lying neglected in the kitchen corner.

“With Cub,” I spit out as if lying is something I do every day. “He took him for a long walk.”

Lyon's forehead crinkles, probably from confusion since Cub has never taken Dead End anywhere without me. But Lyon leaves my lie alone, doesn't poke holes in it. A year ago, he'd have picked up on this fib in a hummingbird's heartbeat. Because he knows me inside and out. But he's stopped paying attention to what I do, or stopped caring.

Shaking his head, G.D. looks away from me, grumbling his disapproval. “Sarah Doyle called again,” he tells Lyon after a minute that feels more like a week. “She wants you to get back to her.”

Lyon gives me a smug look that I've come to hate worse than canned peas. It says,
You and I both know why she's calling.
Then he tips his head down, as if focusing on me over the top of glasses, and silently asks, “You ready to go visit your mom's place under the dogwood tree yet, Dill?” He's thrown this question my way too many times already in the last three months. It always makes me tight. And my continuing refusal to go within ten miles of Fairfax County makes Lyon tight. I'd like to say that this makes us even, but it only makes me miserable. Before Mom got sick, Lyon and I went everywhere together.

“Why don't you both visit the Doyles this weekend and…” G.D. pauses before hitting the issue smack in the center. He glances sidelong at me as I get ready to cram my fingers into my ears.

“Sounds good to me,” Lyon says. “We'll go see where your…”

I mutter a solid “No” that cuts him off.

With a sigh that shows I'm exhausting him, Lyon flips more envelopes. “Apparently, Sarah Doyle and I are going to need a tow truck to drag Dill to Fairfax.”

I clear my throat. “I'm making G.D.'s southwestern chili,” I tell Lyon, hoping to change the subject while also tempting him into staying home. “I made cornbread, too, with corn off the cob mixed in. The way you like it.” The way Mom always made it.

Of course, he keeps sorting stupid envelopes. “I'm sure it's delicious, Dill.” Lyon drops the remaining mail on the counter. “Maybe I'll have some when I get home tonight.” Before I can offer up an argument, he turns to G.D. “How you feeling, Pop?”