“Dill, it’s crazy to take Dead End all the way out to that shelter G.D. talked about.” Cub grinds the toe of his unlaced work boot into the floor outside my bedroom. “What’re you gonna do when, or if, you get there?”
While trying to ignore the headache that is hammering my skull, I finger the photo of Mom and Lyon in my pocket, checking to be sure it’s still there. My swollen eyes have gone blurry from too many tears. “The last thing G.D. asked…” Dead End snuffles and then licks my cheek. I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his thick neck fur as a fresh sob, heavy and hot, pushes up my throat, sucking up the little bit of energy I have left. “He asked me to take care of Dead End,” I say when I get a grip on myself and lift my face. “He knows this is what Mom would have wanted, too.” I stuff a tube of antibiotic ointment and a box of bandages for Dead End’s wounds into G.D.’s leather knapsack. Weathered as an old boot, the thing holds his smell. A scent something like the inside of a cedar chest full of saddle leather. Whenever he paused from wandering to visit with us, he always had this knapsack. It’s hard to picture him traveling without it.
Sniffing, I wipe at my nose, and then drop and reach under my bed for the coffee can that I’ve been using as a bank, stuffing my stable pay away, saving for a horse or even a stable of my own someday. “I’m going to hide Dead End at that shelter until all the dog pack trouble blows over.”
Cub plants his hands on his hips. “How are you gonna get across the country?”
I pull out the coffee can and sit up. “I told you: Tomorrow morning, when Jerry Smoothers heads to Ohio to pick up those horses for Ms. Hunter, Dead End and I will be hiding in the trailer.” My fingers pluck at the two hundred and sixty-two dollars in the can. Fifty-two cents roll on the bottom as Dead End pokes at the can with his nose.
“What about getting from Ohio to that shelter? G.D. said it’s in Utah. That’s clear across the country.”
“We’ll walk and catch rides the way G.D. used to do when he stopped driving, before he came to live with us.” The brochure and map crinkle as I pull them from the back pocket of my jeans. “I found these in G.D.’s trunk.” Cub leans into my room, squinting as I point at the brochure. “The address is right here.”
“Dill, that shelter is too far away. It’s not safe to catch rides.”
“If I don’t go, Dead End could be…” Unable to say shot or put to sleep, I return the map and brochure to my back pocket and then stuff my savings into my front pockets.
“What about Lyon?”
I grab my jean jacket and put it beside G.D.’s knapsack. “He’ll probably be relieved to be rid of me. You know, like he’s relieved to be rid of Seymour the goat, the rabbits, and Double and Trouble, the cats.”
“You’re wrong, Dill.”
“Whatever,” I choke out, my head spinning, my chest tight. “I’ll call Lyon when Dead End and I get to Ohio.”
Cub shakes his head, looking disappointed.
“Come with me.” I stare smack into his eyes. “Why not? You’ll get away from all your chores, your brothers, and your responsibilities—you know, the garden and all the church functions.”
Cub squirms, not looking at me straight on. “Donny and Danny never told my dad or Mr. Peterson about Dead End.” And then he shrugs. “That garden and all those church functions aren’t all that bad.” Cub stays focused on his unlaced boots. “Truth is, watchin’ you these last few months, seein’ how bad it is to be without a whole family…” He hesitates, jabs his toe at the molding again. “Guess you’ve shown me a thing or two about appreciation, Dill.”
“Good.” My voice has an edge of resentment. “It’s about time you realize what you have.” My envy is raw and obvious now because I’m too worn out to tamp it down any longer.
Neither of us says another word for a long moment. Cub shifts from foot to foot. When Dead End goes to him and pushes at his hand, asking for pets, Cub ruffles the dog’s ears and takes in a big breath. “I don’t think you should leave, Dill. Runnin’ off isn’t going to make this mess go away.”
I look away from him because something tells me he’s right. Still, I stuff another bottle of water, a paper plate, and a small plastic container (for Dead End’s food and drink) into the knapsack and yank the zipper closed. “I got to go” is all I can get out.
* * *
I close Dead End and myself into my room early, and crawl into bed before Lyon gets home so we don’t have to see him. And by some miracle, he leaves me be, doesn’t even knock on the door after returning from the hospital.
I don’t set my alarm because I don’t need to. There’s no way sleep will be coming my way tonight. The minutes crawl because I won’t breathe easy until Dead End and I are in the trailer, rolling toward Ohio. But eventually, hours later, the pooch and I sneak out of the ranch without getting caught. We make it to the stable by four A.M.
All around the spare stall where we sit hidden behind bales of hay, waiting for the first sign of sunrise, horses snort and stamp. I consider going to Crossfire, but I’m not sure I can take saying good-bye to him. Besides, the stable darkness feels mud-thick. Bats squeak in the rafters. Rats and mice skitter behind the walls.
“Eat up,” I tell the dog as I dump kibbles from a plastic bag onto the paper plate. And then I pour water into the plastic container. “Once it’s light, we’ll go find the trailer.”
I barely finish the sentence when Dead End’s head pops up from his food. He stops chewing and his ears lift. His body goes rigid.
The door at the front of the barn rolls, sliding open. Slow, booted steps, heavy and too familiar, echo on cement. Thud … thud … thud …
Click. Yellow light, more startling than an explosion, fills the stable. “Dill, it’s me. Where are you?”
Lyon. Every inch of me goes as stiff as a plank. “Be quiet,” I whisper low, stroking Dead End’s back. “Be a good dog.”
“Dill. I know you’re in here. Cub couldn’t stand the thought of you running off. He called the house, told me what you’re about to do.”
My fingers curl as if around that kid’s scrawny neck.
“Come on out, talk to me.” A long pause. “I know you’re upset about G.D., but he’ll be okay. Weak from a few health problems that we’ll have to cope with, but he’ll be home today.”
I gasp, leap up, and almost run to Lyon—until Dead End tips his head, questioning me with his big eyes.
Lyon sighs. “Dill…” His voice shakes. It never does this. “Come out. Talk to me the way you used to do. Please.”
He might as well have stomped on my heart with his huge work boots. Since I can’t sit still a second longer, I wipe at my eyes and under my dripping nose. I tie Dead End’s leash to the twine of a hay bale because I don’t need the dog getting all worked up and excited over seeing Lyon right before we leave. Then I kiss the pink-scraped snout. “Be good. Stay,” I whisper in a quivering voice.
He sneezes, thumps his tail.
Hay rustles as I push past bales, wiping leftover tears off my face. I can hear the echo of Lyon’s steps, can picture him moving back and forth and side to side in that awkward shuffle that shows he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
He turns around when I clear the corner, his dark hair still sleep-messed, his eyes wide and full of fear. He chews hard on the end of a toothpick. Then he shoots at me—a two-hundred-pound bullet in a denim shirt.
“Dill…” His voice evaporates as his big arms wrap around me in a bear hug. The old Lyon. He still smells of the hospital, but I don’t care. “You’re too young to take off, go wandering the way G.D. did,” he says into my hair. “And I’m nowhere near ready to let you go.”
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.”