Scott heard his dog, Kaylah, the moment he awoke on the first morning in the new house. The sound confused him. He thought he was back home in Truckee and that Kaylah was calling him to hurry out for their morning run. At home it had been their special time together, while the sky still ran pink with streamers attached to the California sun at the horizon.
Now he focused on the wall nearest his bed. It wasn’t papered with the little drummer boy pattern he’d awakened to practically every morning of his life, until now. This wallpaper had dull yellow flowers on it. Behind the flowers was a design the color of a pale winter sky. Great, he thought. I get to start each day looking at that weird stuff.
He rolled over and punched his pillow hard, angry with the remembering. Now it all came flooding back as Kaylah called again, a lonesome, sad sound drifting up from the barnyard to the third-floor bedroom.
I don’t belong here, Kaylah seemed to be calling. I want to go home. Scott pulled the covers over his head, burrowed deep, away from the sound, away from the hurt the sound brought back. He pictured Kaylah sitting outside, his white muzzle turned upward, his mouth a perfect O as he bayed his sadness.
Poor Kaylah, Scott thought. He’s only a dog. How can I explain to him what happened? How can I tell him that Mom lost her head over some guy named David Hartfield and married him, just like that, only eight months after Dad died? How can I tell Kaylah I feel the same way he does about leaving home and moving to Montana, to the middle of nowhere?
Scott sat up abruptly. How could Mom forget so fast? How could she marry again, and so soon? Sure, she was lonesome after Dad died. And seeing Mr. Hartfield at her high-school reunion was probably fun, but she didn’t have to marry him.
Kaylah bayed again, longer and louder this time, and Scott knew he had to do something fast. If Kaylah woke Mom and Mr. Hartfield, they could get angry enough to make him give his dog away. In fact, Mom had hinted before they moved that Kaylah would be better off staying behind with friends in Truckee. But no way could Scott let that happen. Not unless he stayed, too.
Holy mackerel! Now Scott remembered something else. Last night he’d tied Kaylah in the barn so he wouldn’t try to go home. Now he was outside, sitting by the back door.
Scott jumped out of bed and padded across the bare floor. Jeez, it was cold up here. Only the middle of October and he was freezing already. At least there was one good thing about it. The snow might come sooner and last longer. Somehow, some way, he would race again.
He raised the window and leaned out, looking over the pitched roof of the porch below.
“Kaylah,” he called in a hoarse whisper. “Cool it, boy. I’ll be down in a sec.” Scott dressed quickly in jeans and a flannel shirt. But where were his socks? Had he already put them away in the dresser? Yes, there they were, his favorites with the blue band around the cuffs.
As he pulled them from the drawer, he glanced up and saw his reflection in the mirror. He still looked the same; that much hadn’t changed in his life, anyway. Everyone said he looked like Dad and he couldn’t argue that. The same chunk of wheat-colored hair flopped over his eyes. Mom called their color Scottish blue. And his frame was like Dad’s, beanpole tall and skinny, though no muscles yet to speak of. He’d better start lifting weights and beef up because he’d need more strength for what he wanted to do.
He slipped on his socks and carried his shoes as he hurried down two flights of stairs, hoping he’d meet no one, especially Brad Hartfield. Why did Mr. Hartfield have to have kids anyway? Particularly a real winner like Brad? Scott didn’t want to explain to anyone, but especially not to Brad, that he needed to comfort a homesick dog and that maybe in the comforting he’d feel comforted, too.
As he stepped outside and stood on the back porch, Scott breathed in the icy air, then quickly put on his shoes. Before he could get them tied, he was nearly knocked over by Kaylah’s powerful body hurled against him in a frenzy of wagging, licking, and barking.
“Hey,” Scott said, laughing. “Stop it, will you?” He sat on the porch steps and tied his shoes while Kaylah nudged and nuzzled him. Then he threw his arms around the dog’s neck and burrowed his face in the soft, thick ruff. Scott smelled his earthiness and knew he must have spent some of the night in the barn with the other animals before he broke the rope to come outside.
Now Scott glanced up and saw the Hartfield’s farm dog come around the corner of the barn. He stopped when he saw Scott and Kaylah.
“Kaylah,” Scott whispered, looking into the dog’s dark, almond-shaped eyes. “We’re too old for this mushy stuff. Besides, look who’s watching. It’s that dumb Bruno. Bruno and Brad, what a combo.” Scott untied the frayed rope from Kaylah’s collar and smoothed the silvery ruff around it.
Now Bruno sat down and began to scratch. He must be part retriever, Scott thought, taking in the long, wavy fur and plumed tail. Maybe his mom was a Golden, and his father a traveling man.
“Come on, let’s see where you stayed last night, Kaylah.” Scott jumped up and Kaylah padded down the steps after him. They crossed the barnyard quickly, Scott’s shoes crunching on the gravel surface.
Just before stepping inside the barn, Scott glanced back at the house. Was that someone watching from a second-floor window? Maybe his sister, Caroline, was awake, too, bothered by the strangeness of this still, flat land.
No, not Caroline. Caroline wouldn’t be bothered. She’d been having a great time since they arrived yesterday afternoon. And last night at supper, she was so giggly with Mr. Hartfield that Scott had been ready to throw up. Give her food to fill her roly-poly eight-year-old body and she’d be a happy traitor anywhere. She didn’t miss Dad, not for a minute.
“Come on,” Scott whispered. His hand automatically searched for the light switch on the right-hand side of the door and flipped it on. Instantly the barn was flooded with brightness, and he had to blink several times as he followed Kaylah inside. A lone milk cow in her stall glanced up at them as she chewed on her cud.
Scott followed Kaylah down the aisle, while two quarter horses stirred uneasily in their stalls on the left. Across from them an Appaloosa put her nose over the stall gate. Scott stopped to scratch the warm muzzle. “Here’s a friendly face,” he said to Kaylah, but the dog had moved out of sight into an empty stall at the far end of the barn.
Scott knew that’s where he’d been headed, knew that’s where the dog intuitively would go. He hurried down the aisle now and stepped into the stall. Kaylah stood beside the sled, waiting.
For a second, the eager look on the dog’s face nearly broke Scott’s control, his promise to himself that he’d never cry again. Twelve-year-olds don’t cry. How many times had he told himself this before he finally buried the tears somewhere back in Truckee, back with Dad?
He shook his mind free, forced it to move to something else. Looking at the sled more closely, he tried to give it a close inspection as Dad would have done. He sighed. It hadn’t fared too well in the move from California.
What did he need to do first? He was grateful that the runners looked okay because he’d never be able to repair them. He’d never have the patience to bolt ash board pieces less than two inches wide over runners of plastic. The broken basket slats presented no problem because they could be mended with some epoxy and clamped together until the glue dried. What luck that the warped-wood brushbow hadn’t been damaged. It still was poised in its upswept arc, curved higher to take deep snow with ease. Sleds are truly beautiful, Scott thought.
After these few repairs the sled would look nearly the way it had when Dad built it. It was a thirty-five-pound racing model, almost eight feet long, but built higher and slightly wider to suit Dad’s frame.
He had lashed each joint with tough nylon, mortising wood to wood first, leaving some joints loose so the sled could give way gracefully over bumps, while others were bound tightly to permit a twisting action around curves.
Scott remembered that the sled turned and tracked with a grace that took his breath away as he watched. It was a champion’s sled, he thought, and it will be again.
“We’ll race again, wait and see, Kaylah.” He ruffled the dog’s thick black-and-white coat. “But you have to be patient. You have to learn to wait. For starters, I’ve got to fix the sled and put in some jog time with you. And the biggest wait of all is for snow. But it’s going to be different anyway, with or without the wait. You don’t have a team to lead now. It’s just you and me.”
Kaylah looked up alertly, past Scott, to the stall opening. Then his tail began to wag as Bruno trotted in. Bruno wandered over to the sled, nosed it, then lifted his leg on a runner.
“No, you don’t,” Scott yelled. “This is Kaylah’s, you can’t mark it for your own.”
Scott patted Bruno’s head a moment, then let him roll in the straw on the floor. Bruno was nearly the same size as Kaylah, but not as deep-chested nor as full-muscled across the shoulders. Dad used to say that any dog could pull a sled if he had the desire for it, so maybe Bruno could be on somebody’s team.
But not mine, Scott thought. In the first place he’s Brad’s dog, and in the second, he’s not a Mally. I want a matched team, all Malamutes, like the ones that Dad used to drive. None of this patched-up stuff for me.
Scott picked at loose pieces of wood on the sled, remembering. One by one the dogs had been sold during the months of Dad’s illness. It cost too much to feed them, Mom had said. And there was no one to work them, even when Scott insisted he was big enough. And old enough.
But Scott had to admit, even to himself, that fourteen powerful Malamutes on two teams had been a lot of dog power even for a man like Dad when he had been strong and well. Besides, Scott knew they had needed the money from the sale of the dogs, especially after Mom quit her photography job on the newspaper to stay home and take care of Dad.
But Dad had insisted that Scott be allowed to keep Kaylah, the best lead dog, and Mom promised. Now Kaylah and the sled were all that were left of Dad’s dream of winning. Unless … unless … Scott made them come true. And he would. He definitely would.
Kaylah and Bruno turned suddenly to the stall opening, ears alert. Scott turned with them. “What did you hear?” he asked them.
Brad stepped into the stall as if he’d been standing just around the corner for some time. His dark hair and eyes were younger versions of his dad’s.
“Do you always talk to your dog like that?” Brad’s hands were deep in his back pockets, his feet planted far apart as if he dared Scott to answer him.
“Don’t you ever talk to yours?” Scott tried to sound friendly, but he didn’t feel it. He’d known this guy less than twenty-four hours, and already he could feel the hostility between them.
Brad shrugged, stepped closer, and appeared to examine the sled. “Think you’ll ever get that thing in shape again? It looks pretty beat up to me.”
Kaylah bounded over to Brad and waited to be introduced, but Brad jumped back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“It’s okay, he’s friendly. Mallys are friendly dogs. They’re just so big, sometimes they scare people.”
“Who says I’m scared?” Brad’s dark eyes gave off sparks. “Dad says you can’t trust strange dogs. One almost bit my brother once.”
“This dog’s not strange,” Scott said. “I’ve known him since he was born.”
Brad put out a cautious hand, and Kaylah nudged it with his nose. Scott nearly laughed, sensing that Kaylah was coaxing, teasing Brad, wanting to play. Bruno watched and waited for an invitation to join in.
“What time does the school bus come tomorrow?” Scott asked, trying to think of things to say.
“A quarter to seven.”
“How come the bus leaves so early?” Scott felt irritated, having to coax every little bit of information out of Brad, word by word.
“Told you last night, we’re ten miles from Box Elder and the school we go to.”
That’s right, Scott thought. We went through this last night at the supper table, with Mom as the referee. How old are you? I’m twelve. How old are you? I’m twelve, too. Same age, same grade, wouldn’t you know.
Caroline had it better. She was two years younger than Howdy, Brad’s brother. Even though all of them would be in the same elementary school, Caroline would be in third grade while Howdy was in fifth. Different rooms at least.
Scott looked down and scuffed his feet in the straw on the floor. “I need to fix up a bed for Kaylah since he aims to sleep in here. Should have done it last night, but there was so much going on.” He spoke more to himself than to Brad.
They hadn’t brought much from Truckee. At least it didn’t seem like much at the time, but still they managed to fill a good-sized do-it-yourself moving van. By the time his furniture was hauled to the third-floor bedroom and the rest of the stuff unpacked, it had been time for supper.
“Does your dad always do the cooking?” Scott asked suddenly.
“Who else is there?” Brad said. His tone was sharp, and Scott wished he hadn’t asked. Mom had told him and Caroline about the first Mrs. Hartfield and how she had simply walked out a few years ago.
“My mom cooks really neat,” Scott said. “You’ll really like her cooking.”
“Doesn’t matter much,” Brad said. “I’m not gonna be here much longer. As soon as I hear from my mom, I’m moving to Billings.”
Scott shrugged, wondering if Mr. Hartfield knew about this plan, whatever it was. Personally he didn’t care where Brad lived. “I have to find Kaylah’s dishes and kibble,” he said.
Scott left the barn and headed for the house, Kaylah trotting by his side. There was a light burning in an upstairs bedroom now, and Scott guessed that to be Mom’s room—rather, their room. Last night, on his way up to the third floor, Scott had seen Mr. Hartfield carry Mom over the threshhold into the room. His stomach still churned at the thought of Mom lying beside some other man who wasn’t Dad. It just wasn’t right. He kicked at a pebble and sent it flying.
Suddenly a wave of longing for the world he’d left behind in Truckee washed over him. Naturally he missed Jamie the most. Good old Jamie, his best buddy, had practically lived at their house. Morning, noon, and night he was there, learning sled racing from Dad, too.
Scott shook himself free of his memories. Why did happy times hurt so much in their remembering?
“Wait here, Kaylah,” he said at the back door. “I think your stuff is in the pantry.”
Mr. Hartfield turned from the sink as Scott opened the door. “Morning, Scott.” His booming voice took over the entire kitchen. “You’re up early.”
“Kaylah was making a fuss, so I thought I’d better settle him down.”
“I heard him. What’s his trouble?” Mr. Hartfield began measuring coffee into a pot.
“He wants to go home.”
Mr. Hartfield turned to look at him, a spoonful of coffee poised in mid-air. “He is home, Scott. Guess it will take him a day or two to adjust.”
“Maybe.” Scott glanced at the table set for six people. Three and three make six, but that’s all it makes, he thought.
“I have to get Kaylah’s food.” Scott looked around for the pantry. Which door was it? This house was so big and there were so many rooms and floors, he’d never learn where everything was. Suddenly he felt hot, sort of trapped, and the air wasn’t getting to his lungs. I have to get out of here, have to get …
Mr. Hartfield was standing in front of him now. “Scott, it’s going to take time for all of us to adjust. It will be a lot easier if we all try to be friends right away. How about it?”
His hand was outstretched before Scott, waiting for him to shake it. Scott looked at that powerful hand, the calluses worn to white toughness from the heavy work of running a wheat farm.
Oh, shoot, might as well, Scott thought. The back door opened and slammed as they shook hands. Scott looked over his shoulder to see Brad staring at him. He saw the warning in Brad’s eyes and quickly pulled away from Mr. Hartfield’s grasp.
“That dumb dog of yours bit me.” Brad spit the words out at Scott as if they were fruit pits.
“No, he didn’t. I was there—” Scott began.
“Not in the barn. Just now, he grabbed my hand.”
“Let me see, Brad.” Mr. Hartfield was at Brad’s side in two strides, looking. “I don’t know …”
“Kaylah doesn’t bite,” Scott said. “He’s never bitten anyone in his life, never even tried, never wanted to.”
“Then what do you call that?” Brad yelled, uncontrolled anger in his voice as he shoved his hand at Scott.
Scott stared at the red marks on the heel of Brad’s left hand. The marks could be anything at all, scratches from a nail, anything.
“I say you made a mistake,” Scott said.
“Are you calling me a liar?” Brad’s voice was as friendly as a snake’s hiss.
“That’s what I’m doing.” Scott watched him, wanting to punch his face out.
“Boys, ease off,” Mr. Hartfield warned. “This isn’t a fight.”
But it was, and Brad had won the first round. Even though Scott knew Kaylah would never bite under normal circumstances, being in a strange place, surrounded by strangers wasn’t normal. And Brad had won, no two ways about it. He’s planted a seed of doubt in everybody’s mind about the dog. Even Scott’s.