Scott ran back to the house, feeling hot and cold, scared and dizzy. His breakfast lurched around in his stomach. Colored spots danced in front of his eyes. His breath felt all bunched up in his throat. No more dying, he thought. No more dying around me.
“Scott,” he heard someone yell. The sound came from behind him, yet it didn’t connect. It didn’t seem to have anything to do with him. “Hey, Scott …” But the rest of the words drifted away like smoke as he ran.
Finally, finally, he neared the house and barn. Where would they be? Inside? Outside? Try inside first! Doing dishes together. Lovey-dovey dishes.
Bruno ran around the corner of the house and danced his greeting, nearly tripping Scott. “Beat it,” Scott yelled. “Git.” He clattered up the back porch steps, taking them two at a time, and charged into the kitchen.
Mom and Mr. Hartfield stood near the sink, their arms around each other. Scott knew they’d been kissing. They had that look. But right now he didn’t care what he’d interrupted.
“Dog,” Scott managed to gasp, and pointed toward the woods. “Hurt. Hurt bad.”
“Not Bruno,” Mr. Hartfield said, looking at the dog on the back porch.
“Kaylah?” Mom’s voice sounded suddenly choked and full.
“Strange dog.” Scott pulled in a long deep breath. “Brad said your neighbor …”
Mr. Hartfield brought his fist down hard on the counter. “Damn him.” Then he was in motion. “I’ll get some things from the barn and follow you.”
“I’ll get dressed.” Mom ran from the room.
Then Scott was running back to the woods, Bruno at his heels. He saw Brad and Howdy running toward him.
“Scott,” Howdy began. “You’re acting so weird.”
“Did you see a ghost?” Brad asked, smirking.
Scott didn’t break his stride, didn’t bother to waste effort on words. He kept running until he was back in the woods, crashing around trees, stumbling over fallen branches and broken tree roots.
Which way? Which way? “Kaylah,” he called. Why couldn’t he see Kaylah? Why didn’t he bark?
Bruno ranged ahead, sensing the need for it, his nose to the ground. “Easy,” Scott said. “Don’t scare anybody.”
Then Scott saw Kaylah, nose down, tail up, standing guard and waiting. Scott ran over, pushed him aside and knelt beside the injured dog.
“Don’t die,” he whispered. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Mr. Hartfield came, and a minute later, Mom and Caroline. Everyone began to talk and ask questions at the same time, until Caroline burst into tears and Brad told her to shut up. Then Caroline cried louder, and Mom led her away. All the while Mr. Hartfield was bent over the dog, finally wrapping him in a tattered horse blanket and carrying him back to the barn.
“Is he still alive?” Scott asked as they went inside. But no one answered. No one knew.
“Put him in here, Dad,” Howdy yelled, running toward the stall with the sled in it.
Mr. Hartfield put the dog down gently, on the straw-covered floor and looked up at them. “Brad, call Doc Hansen,” he said.
“He’s a horse doctor.”
“He’s a vet. Now go on.”
Brad left as Mom came in. “I’m heating water and I’ve brought some rags,” she said. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“That’s a start,” Mr. Hartfield said.
Mom and Mr. Hartfield worked over the dog while they waited for the vet. No sound came from the animal, no movement, nothing. Just a bag of bones, lying there, hurting.
Finally Doc Hansen came and shooed the kids and Kaylah and Bruno out of the stall. Mom and Mr. Hartfield stayed with him, and their voices rose and fell in quiet waves of words.
A long time later, Doc came out. “That’s a strong dog in there,” he said. His thin gray hair stood up, like wires, around his head. “He was shot in the leg, but it was a clean shot. No bones broken, but a lot of blood lost, so it’s going to be touch and go for awhile. Let’s hope the antibiotics do the job, although some TLC will help. Think you can handle that?” Small wrinkles creased his face when he cracked a tired smile.
Mr. Hartfield came out of the stall. “We’ll all help,” he said. “Meantime, spread the word around, Doc. If anybody’s missing a nearly grown rust-colored setter, this is probably him.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Mom said. “I’ll take his picture and maybe the newspaper in town will publish it. We ought to find his owner that way.”
Scott sighed a long, ragged sigh that scraped his insides. What if it had been Kaylah? He bent down and hugged him fiercely, burying his face in the deep ruff of fur around the dog’s throat. Tomorrow he’d lock Kaylah in the barn before he went to school so he wouldn’t follow along to the bus stop, through those terrible woods. He wouldn’t take chances with Kaylah.
Scott smelled bacon frying the next morning as he hurried to the second-floor landing. And there was the smell of cinnamon too. That’s right, Mom was taking over the cooking today. She was starting off with her worldfamous cinnamon rolls. That’s what Dad used to call them.
“What are you smiling at?” Caroline stood in the doorway of her room, looking sleepy and suspicious at the same time. Her dark red hair looked hopelessly tangled and her dress was buttoned all wrong.
“You, dopey,” Scott said. “Better hurry up. The school bus comes in twenty minutes and that doesn’t leave much time, especially if you want to see how the dog is.” Already Scott had begun to think of him as Rusty.
“I almost forgot about the dog,” Caroline said. “I’ll hurry real fast.”
Mom turned from the stove, and Mr. Hartfield looked up from the table when Scott walked into the kitchen.
“Morning,” Scott said.
“Morning, Scott.” Mr. Hartfield pointed to a chair at the table. “Sit down, have some breakfast. These rolls are the greatest.”
“They’re world-famous,” Scott said, glancing at Mom. He began to button his jacket.
She flicked him a look of remembering before she asked, “Where are you going? You can’t go to school without breakfast.”
“I want to see how the dog is,” Scott said, “and lock Kaylah in the barn so he won’t follow me to the bus. Will you let him out later this morning?”
“Sure,” Mom said. “Here, take a roll with you. They’re nice and hot.”
Mom was right. The roll was warm and tasted the way he knew it would. He stood on the back porch and turned up his jacket collar, looking for Kaylah.
Oh, no. What if he’s gone back to the woods? For a moment Scott’s feelings burned his throat. He swallowed crumbs of the roll and felt as if he would choke on their hugeness. They seemed to take forever going down.
Then Kaylah appeared in the doorway of the barn, waiting for him.
“There you are,” Scott said, running across the barnyard. “You’ve been playing nurse.”
He ran inside the stall and knelt beside Rusty. “Morning. I think Mom’s got plans for your breakfast later on.” He had smelled rich beef broth simmering in the kitchen. Mom always gave it to their sick or pregnant dogs at home in Truckee.
Rusty blinked several times at him. This morning his deep amber eyes had lost their glazed look.
“I’ll be back later and tell you all about my first day of school here in the wilds of Montana.” Now Kaylah returned and sat down in the straw near Rusty. “Take good care of him, Kaylah.” Scott shut the stall gate firmly before he left.
Scott thought about Kaylah and Rusty during the long bus ride into Box Elder, and he thought about the new school waiting for him. Kaylah seemed to be forming an instant attachment to Rusty; perhaps he missed the companionship of his old team. So why didn’t he show an interest in Bruno? Maybe because the farm was Bruno’s territory, his turf, and Kaylah knew he was an outsider, like Rusty. Like me, Scott thought. Me, too.
Don’t get too close, Scott wanted to say to Kaylah. It hurts too much when you get close to someone and lose him.
Scott had Phys. Ed. during first recess, the same time as Brad. Fortunately they weren’t picked for the same kickball team, so Scott didn’t have to talk to him. Scott hadn’t really talked to anyone yet, just sort of drifted along, wishing the day would end. Suddenly he missed Jamie with an intensity he could feel.
Kickball is dumb, he thought. So are most sports in school. Why don’t they teach something exciting like sled-dog racing? For a moment Scott pictured himself coming to the teacher’s rescue. The teacher hadn’t had any experience so he called on Scott, and Scott showed the guys how to handle a sled, how to harness the team, and how to win. Oh, yeah. On the big day …
“Hey, watch it.”
The ball hit him squarely on the head.
“Great catch,” Brad said, retrieving the ball and throwing it to a teammate.
Scott tried to concentrate, but it was hard when his brain wanted to be a million miles away. Ten miles at least, back at the farm with Kaylah and Rusty.
At lunchtime Scott walked into the cafeteria and hesitated. Some of the sixth-grade boys had dibs on a table to themselves, with Brad seated at the end as if he was president or something. He looked up and saw Scott, but made no motion for him to come over.
So I won’t, Scott thought. No way will I go over there.
He filled his tray and turned around, bumping into a girl who looked sort of familiar.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to plow into you like that.”
“No problem,” she said. “You’re Brad Hartfield’s new brother, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Crumb, what a handle.
“I’m Michelle Weaver,” she said. “We’re in the same room in case you hadn’t noticed.”
She wasn’t exactly a girl who’d get your attention, Scott thought, looking at her. Kind of washed out and a little on the bony side. Her jeans looked as if they were being worn by sticks.
“You want to eat with me?” she asked. “Or do you plan to eat right there in the middle of the aisle?”
Scott looked around. The tables were filling up quickly and there seemed to be no place else to go. And she was right. He couldn’t stand here, like the nerd of the week, especially since he knew Brad was watching.
“Why not?” Scott shrugged. “Lead the way.”
She wound her way among the tables, past the strange faces who turned to look up at him, mouths open, lunch exposed. Finally she arrived at a corner table, with only two kids seated there.
“This is where I always sit,” she said. She began to unload her tray.
He chose a seat across from her and removed the plate of tuna casserole and a dish of pale-colored jello from his tray. Before he sat down, a couple more kids arrived. Finally the table was filled and everyone began to eat, now and then glancing at him.
“This is Brad Hartfield’s new brother,” Michelle said after a while. “His name’s Scott something.”
“McClure. Scott McClure.” Next thing he knew they’d be calling him Scott Hartfield and he wouldn’t have that. Not even once.
“You’re from California,” a younger-looking version of Michelle said. “I heard at recess.”
“Right.”
“That’s my sister, Barbie,” Michelle said. Then she put names with the other faces at the table.
“So where’s your surfboard?” Robert asked. He laughed in a shrieking pitch that could be heard all over the cafeteria. Scott glanced around, feeling his face heat up, and saw Brad and his group staring.
“What are those Hollywood chicks really like?” Jeffrey asked.
Scott jabbed at his dish of jello. “There’s a lot more to California than surfing and the movies.”
“What’s the matter, can’t you take a little kidding?” Robert asked. He wound up to shriek again, but Scott choked it off with a glowering look.
“What did you do down there in California?” Michelle asked.
“I raced sled dogs with my dad.”
“No kidding?” Barbie asked. “You mean you had enough snow?”
“There’s more snow in some parts of California than some parts of Montana.”
“Did you bring your dogs with you?” Michelle leaned forward. Her pale blue eyes suddenly sparkled.
“I brought one, but I need more,” Scott said. “I need three. As soon as I have them, I’ll start their training, then enter races.”
“Sounds neat,” Michelle said. “Maybe we can watch you sometime.”
“Sure,” Scott shrugged. “Any time.”
“You really mean it?” Michelle asked.
Scott began to feel a little uneasy. Why was she getting so worked up? “Anybody can come to the races.”
Then everyone looked up and so did Scott, to find Brad standing beside him.
“Nice going, Scott,” he whispered. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.” He turned and walked away with a couple of guys, their snickers lingering behind them.
What was Brad talking about? Scott couldn’t figure it. Pick what? Pick who? He looked at the faces of the kids at the table. They were all looking at him, patiently waiting for him to go on with his talk of sled dogs.
Suddenly Scott understood. He was news. Somebody from somewhere else. He’d also invited them to do something, be a part of something, go somewhere. He had a sudden feeling that no one had done that before.
Then he knew what Brad was talking about. He was sitting at the table reserved for losers.