Chasing the Dream

by Paige Lee Elliston

  “You’ll get no sympathy from me, Bobby,” she chided him. “I told you no, didn’t I? Nutsy’s food is as important to him as yours is to you.” She grinned at her own silliness as the collie lapped at her face. Amy knew that when mature, Bobby would recognize or understand perhaps a couple dozen words, and that, except for the tone of voice used, talking to a dog made as much sense as talking to a cactus. Still, it was fun, and the pup already seemed to know his name and a couple of other words.

  “Outdoors,” she said. “Want to go outdoors, Bobby?”

  The pup yelped excitedly, rushing toward the kitchen door to the outside. Nutsy finished his meal, watched the woman and the dog for a moment, and strode off to the living room for his morning nap.

  Amy held the door open, and Bobby charged out and ran in a long half circle across the still dew-damp grass, galloping flat out for no other reason than that it felt good. He skidded to a stop in front of Amy and dropped his rawhide knot at her feet. She hadn’t seen him snap it up from the ground on his run, but obviously he had. He stood, tail swinging, waiting for the throw. She was a little slow for Bobby’s taste, and he barked at her to hurry her up.

  As Amy cocked her arm to pitch the toy, she heard the thump of hoofbeats. She hurled the lump of rawhide and walked around the corner of her garage toward the sound.

  It was easy to tell the rider was Mallory Powers by the luxurious blonde hair that trailed behind her in the breeze she and her horse were creating. She sat on the tall bay with the unconscious grace of a lifelong rider. It was almost as if the horse’s moves—the gentle arcs and the quicker twists and turns—were choreographed for the event. Amy watched, enchanted by the woman’s skill and her communion with the animal she rode and controlled.

  Bobby stopped, and his toy dropped to the ground in front of him. He stood gaping, one forepaw raised an inch above the ground and his eyes focused on the huge animal running in the pasture beyond the fence. The breeze brought him the strange scent of this beast, and it was brand new to the puppy. As Mallory eased her mount through a fast figure eight, Bobby broke from his stance and raced toward the fence, driven by both instinct and curiosity. In his small mind, the creature was running from him, and his atavistic response was that of any dog: give chase. Amy yelled to the dog, but he, for the first time, ignored her call. He galloped toward the fence.

  The fence was a three-rail post and rail with an electric line between the ground and the first rail and between the top of the first rail and the bottom of the second one. Bobby sailed over the lower electric wire cleanly and hustled toward the horse and rider. The bay went wide-eyed as the yapping dog approached.

  Bobby charged directly at the horse, and the bay lost balance, skidded to the side, and lurched awkwardly off balance. Mallory handled the reins perfectly, shifting her weight to go with the momentum of the horse rather than against it, and held her seat as her mount caught himself before going down. He bucked a couple of times—crow hops, really—and attempted to run from the dog, but Mallory was able to rein him in.

  Amy was sure that horse and rider were going to crash. She stood at the fence and called frantically for Bobby. Mallory’s eyes pinned her in the same way a butterfly is pinned to a display board. Then she swung the bay to face the still-excited, still-barking dog, trying to show the horse there was nothing to be frightened of—no real danger to him.

  Amy clambered up and over the fence, ignoring the sharp jolt of an electrical shock when her leg brushed a wire, and ran toward the confrontation. She grabbed Bobby from the rear and lifted the squirming puppy to her chest. Her “Stop!” was almost a shriek, and it got Bobby’s attention. He stopped his squirming and started panting from the excitement. Mallory walked her horse to within a few feet of Amy and Bobby and reined in, her face a mask of anger.

  “That mutt almost cost a ten thousand dollar horse to have a wreck! He could have snapped a leg bone easily—making him as useless as your dog is. Don’t you know enough to keep him chained up if he chases stock?”

  “I’m sorry, Mallory,” Amy said, her voice quivering. “I didn’t know he’d—I didn’t...”

  “One of Jake’s boys sees that dog out here running the mares, and he’ll put a bullet in him, no questions asked—and I wouldn’t blame him.”

  “I really didn’t know that Bobby would—”

  “Seems like there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know about living in the country,” Mallory snarled. “Maybe you should’ve stayed in the city, where you belong.”

  Amy stripped the belt from her jeans with one hand and held the dog with the other. Then she put the belt through his collar and back through its own buckle, fashioning a makeshift leash. She looked back to Mallory. “I said I was sorry for all this,” she said, her voice no longer trembling. “I can understand your being upset. I won’t let it happen again.” She paused for a moment. “But I’ll tell you what: I don’t need or want your opinion on what I do or where or how I live. You’ve been bitter toward me since the day we met. That’s up to you—that’s something I can’t control. But I’m sick of it, and I won’t listen to any more of it.”

  “You’re not sick of my man, though, are you?”

  Amy swallowed the hot reply that was a millisecond away from escaping her. Bobby, frightened by the tones in the voices he was hearing, by the tension in the air, tucked his face against Amy’s shoulder. “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” she said, voice level. “I meant what I said a moment ago, though. You don’t like me, that’s up to you. But I’m not going to put up with your craziness any longer.”

  “Is that a threat?” Mal asked. “Because if it is...”

  “Take it any way you want,” Amy snapped. “Just keep out of my life.”

  Mallory wheeled the horse, spattering Amy with small clumps of sod and grass, and galloped away without another word, leaving a residue of rage—and perhaps even hatred—in her wake.

  Amy led Bobby to the pasture fence, hefted him over it, and then climbed over herself, this time avoiding the electrical wires. The pup, tail between his legs, cringed in front of Amy as if she were going to hit him. “You know you were a bad boy, don’t you?” she said gently. She turned Bobby to face where Mal was loping her horse in a wide circle. “No,” Amy said sternly. “No.” He’s a bright dog, she thought. If I repeat this often enough, he’ll figure out that he needs to keep away from the horses. She shuddered slightly with another thought. If I wasn’t here with Bobby, I have no idea what would have happened to him.

  It was two nights later, just at dusk when the day was beginning to cool, when Jake turned into Amy’s driveway. Amy and Bobby, in the midst of a game of fetch with the beloved and now bedraggled rawhide knot, heard the truck and came to the front of the house from where they’d been playing in the back. As Jake got out of his truck, Bobby stepped in front of Amy protectively, watching this new person carefully. He didn’t bark or growl, but his stance indicated that he was on guard, that he realized his job in life was to protect Amy. Jake was impressed, and so was Amy.

  “That little guy knows his job already, doesn’t he?” Jake said. “He’s a beautiful collie, Amy. From the length of those legs and the breadth of his chest, it looks like he’s going to be as big as his daddy. And if he’s the dog Danny’s Sunday is, you couldn’t have a better companion. I’m real happy for you.” He crouched down and extended his right hand. “C’mon, Bobby. How about saying hello?”

  Amy touched the pup’s hip lightly. “Go on, Bobby,” she urged him. “Jake’s a friend. Go look him over.” Within a few moments after sniffing the offered hand and accepting some soft words and some stroking, Bobby was dancing between his new friend and Amy, basking in the affection of both of them as they walked around the garage to the backyard.

  Even in the fading light Amy could see that Jake’s eyes were a bit bloodshot and that there was a tension in his face she hadn’t seen before. “You look tired, Jake,” she said. “Long day?”

  “Too long
,” Jake admitted. “I had to go over to Porterville early to check out the new chutes they put in and make sure I’d have enough room in back of the gates for my stock pens.” He sighed. “Maybe if the cowboys were riding prairie dogs, there’d have been enough room. Some self-styled rodeo architect had figured everything just about as wrong as it could possibly be.” He shook his head wearily. “So, what should have been a quick inspection kept me there for five hours. Then we ran out of fencing—the pipes for the pens—and couldn’t locate... ahhh, nuts. You don’t need to hear all this.” He managed to put a grin on his face, but it was strained. “Anyway, I’m glad the day is finally over. I wanted to meet Bobby tonight, because I’ll be back at the Porterville fairgrounds again tomorrow and maybe the next day.”

  “I’m glad you came, Jake.” She touched his shoulder. “The good thing about horrid days is that they end. How about collapsing into the lawn chair while I get us some iced tea. Or would you rather have coffee?”

  “Tea would be good. I’m about coffee-ed out today. Thanks.”

  “You look like you could use something to eat,” Amy said. “I don’t have much of anything on hand, but I picked up some cold cuts and a quart of potato salad from the market today. What do you say?”

  This time the smile was real. “Amy, I’d give you your weight in uncut diamonds for a sandwich, and I love potato salad.”

  Amy laughed. “The diamonds aren’t necessary—but greatly appreciated, anyway. Give me a couple minutes.” As she walked to the house, Jake extended his legs in front of him, crossed his boots at the ankle, and relaxed for what was the first time in several hours.

  The drink, sandwich, and two helpings of potato salad reinvigorated Jake. “That was great, Amy. Just what I needed,” he said, setting his plate and glass on the picnic table.

  Amy moved her lawn chair a bit closer to Jake. They watched Bobby chasing insects, his milk teeth clacking together as he attacked. “Mighty hunter,” Jake observed. “If I slammed my jaws together like that, I’d need thousands of dollars worth of orthodontia.”

  They talked comfortably as they watched the sun begin to set. Amy took Jake’s dishes inside, and when she returned she saw he’d moved the two chairs close together. She smiled and sat without commenting. Jake reached over and touched her hand.

  “I heard you had a run-in with Mallory.”

  “Yeah. I’ve had Bobby along the fence several times today near your mares, telling him no. He’s catching on. There won’t be any more horse chasing.”

  “I don’t know how much damage he could really do unless he ran a panicked horse through a fence or something,” Jake said. “But it’s good he’s learning. He’s going to be seeing horses for a long time.” He hesitated for a moment. “But that’s not the point. Mallory overreacted. There was no reason for that.”

  “Well, she was angry. But I agree, she overreacted. There was no reason for some of the things she said to me. I... I simply don’t understand her.”

  “I don’t know that I do, either.” The hand that had touched Amy’s now came to it again, this time holding it. Their fingers intertwined naturally, as if they’d held hands many times before.

  “She’s hard to figure out at times,” Jake went on. “She has a lot to offer—she’s pretty and bright and can be as sweet as a kitten at times. A heck of a trainer too. I really... well... anyway, I’m sorry about what happened. I’ll talk to her about it.”

  “That’s not necessary. Let’s let the whole thing go, OK? It’s not worth causing more trouble over.”

  Fireflies had begun to flash their signals to one another by the time Jake released Amy’s hand. “I’d better get home,” he said. “I still have a couple calls to make. I think I have a vet lined up for the rodeo, but I need to confirm. I waited too long on that, assuming I had Danny again this year.” They stood and walked to the front of the house. Bobby, tired from his bug hunt, walked behind the couple.

  They stood at Jake’s truck. For a heartbeat, Amy was certain Jake was going to lean forward and kiss her. He seemed to be thinking the same thing, but he didn’t act on it. Still, Amy knew that something had happened tonight, something that brought them closer together, that brought them beyond strictly neighborly feelings.

  “Thanks again for the feed, Amy.”

  “Any time at all.”

  “Well, then,” Jake said. He climbed into his truck. He was suddenly grinning like a ten-year-old at a birthday party. “This was good.” He started his engine and backed down the driveway.

  “It was good,” Amy said to the darkness.

  The coffee in Amy’s Mr. Coffee had been on the burner too long for her taste; she dumped it in the sink and prepared another half pot. When it had completed its cycle she poured a cup and returned to her spot at the kitchen table. Bobby and Nutsy sat side by side on the floor and stared up at her, hoping for a bit of table scrap even though she wasn’t eating anything.

  Amy shifted uncomfortably in her chair, straightened her back, and prepared to type. “Let’s get to it, girl,” she said aloud. Her voice must have conveyed some tension. Bobby started, his eyes on her face. Nutsy industriously licked his paw, paying no attention to the words that had bothered the dog. Amy reached down and rubbed Bobby’s neck until his tail wagged. “I wasn’t talking to you,” she assured him.

  She pecked out a scene. It wasn’t the most vivid episode she’d ever written, but it wasn’t terrible, either. The lines of dialogue that wound through the description and action sounded logical and natural as she read them aloud. Better than nothing, she thought. If I can keep it moving...

  The ringing of the telephone startled her. She took a deep breath before she walked to the telephone. “Amy Hawkins.”

  “Hey, Amy. It’s Ben. I thought I’d call and check on how Bobby is getting on.”

  Amy’s face broke into a smile. “Hi, Ben. He’s doing just great. He’s learning new stuff every day.” She imitated a drumroll. “And he hasn’t made a single mistake in the house. He goes to the door and whines or scratches at it when he needs to go out. What a dog, no?”

  “That’s great. Some of them are like that—my first Zack was. This Zack is much the same way, but I have to admit I’ve discovered a couple of damp spots behind the couch. They were probably my fault, though. I might have left him alone too long when I was held up on a job or doing an estimate. A pup can only hang on so long.”

  “I’ve been pretty scrupulous about taking Bobby out frequently. Actually, it’s a good break for both of us. It does me good to get up from my laptop and breathe some fresh air.”

  “I bet. How’s the book coming?”

  “Slow but... semi-sure, I guess.”

  “You’ve never told me what it’s about. I’d really like to know.” There was obvious interest in Ben’s voice—he wasn’t asking only to keep the conversation rolling until he could get to the real reason he’d called.

  “Well, I need to give you a preface first. My roommate in college was from Oklahoma, and she had a couple of diaries her great-grandmother had kept during the years of the Great Depression...” She went on synopsizing the plot, explaining the characters, trying to sketch the conflict and drama inherent in the story. When she was finished she drew a breath. “Whew! I’m sure I’ve told you more than you wanted to know.”

  “Not at all. It sounds fascinating—it really does. Ya know, my dad lived through the tail end of the depression here in Montana. You might want to talk to him sometime. He has lots of stories he loves to tell about those times.”

  “I’d like to do that.”

  “And he’d love the opportunity. He has a great story about when he used to ride an old plow horse to grammar school each day.”

  As Ben went on about his father’s tale, Amy couldn’t help but compare the conversation she was having with Ben with Jake’s stilted, self-conscious first telephone call. She grinned at the memory: “I don’t much like talking on the telephone.”

  “Amy?”

 
; “I’m here, Ben. Sorry.”

  “Anyway, the reason I called is because I was wondering if you’d like to grab something to eat at the café tonight and then come over to my place so I can show off a sideboard I’m making for a customer. I’ve just started the finishing, but the structure is complete. I’m really proud of this one, and I’d like you to see it.”

  “Oh, Ben—I’d love to, but I really can’t tonight. I’m sorry. Can we do it another night?”

  The silence was a little longer than Amy thought it should have been. “Sure, we can do it another night. I’ll call again, and we can set it up, OK?”

  The conversation fizzled to a tepid conclusion. You absolute moron! Amy badgered herself the very second she hung up. The novel would have kept for another few hours. What in the world were you thinking? A nice guy like Ben—the guy who brought Bobby into my life—and I can’t spend a few hours with him?

  And it’s not only gratitude for Bobby, she chided herself. I genuinely like Ben. Being with him the other night was something special.

  Amy walked away from the telephone and took her place at her computer. She’d clicked it off when she answered the telephone; now she turned it back on. Some kind of Freudian thing? I didn’t think I’d come back to work after my call? She watched the screen fill with figures and icons and listened to the mechanical mumblings of the boot-up process. She accessed her book’s next page on the screen and poised her hands over the keyboard, in a somewhat sloppy approximation of the basic position demanded by typing teachers. And then...

  And then, nothing.

  For this I turned down a date with Ben Callan?

  She jammed her chair back and strode into the living room, her gait as stiff as it would be if she were marching in a parade. Amy Hawkins didn’t frequently get mad at herself, but she was just that now. Her thoughts attacked her. I know exactly what the people around here would tell me to do: “Quit your whining and get a job, lady.” If writing books doesn’t work, you need to do something else. Being a starving writer is poignant and dramatic in novels—but in the real world it’s simply stupid, or lazy, or both.