My most valued treasures are squirreled away, as G.D. says, under this bed. The shoe box of my favorite letters and postcards from him, sent weekly from wherever he was. Lyon’s good luck silver dollar, which he gave to me to put in my pocket during horse shows. Mom’s overdue library books, which I still can’t bring myself to return. The silver-handled hairbrush that she’d had since she was my age. And the last of her gardenia perfume.
Less important, but still under the bed, lays the stomach-medicine-pink diary with the matching pen, still in cellophane packaging. Lyon bought this stupid thing after Mrs. Doyle told him that I need to get my feelings out about Mom, one way or another. But there’s no way I’m going to spill these in ink.
I push the diary aside and wrap my fingers around the small perfume bottle—my favorite treasure these days. After pulling it out, I carefully pop off the top, releasing the bone-deep comforting scent that sings Mom.
Mom. She’d be plenty disappointed in me for not telling Lyon about Dead End running off again, and for snatching Mr. Kryer’s warning. My lies are bad enough. You know better, I can almost hear her say.
The door to the garage opens, and then closes. Lyon’s boots stomp inside. “Dill?”
After replacing the top to the perfume bottle, I shove Mr. Kryer’s page into my back pocket before heading for the kitchen. “Lyon! You’re home!”
His big hands juggle overstuffed folders and the bagged dinner that I’d made. “Came by to finish the chicken with you and G.D.,” he says over a toothpick. “Where is he?”
I look over my shoulder at his closed bedroom door. “Sleeping.”
Lyon glances down at the brown bag. “Guess I am a little late.” The toothpick slides to one side of his mouth as he looks at me. “By the way, did you see where I put that flyer Bob Kryer gave me?”
I shrug, wondering if this counts as another lie.
“I got to find it.” Lyon turns away from me to dump the folders onto the counter. “A dog pack is bad news. Folks need to know about it.”
This stabs. My insides clench.
Lyon drops his bagged dinner onto the counter. “Did you notice that the flyer said something about a blond husky in the pack?”
“Oh?” My voice squeaks.
“Where’s Dead End?”
“Around somewhere,” I manage to get out. “Sounds like that new dog up the road, the yellow husky-shepherd mix that is running with the dog pack.” I’m not sure which feels worse, lying so easily, or knowing I’m half good at it.
“New dog?” Lyon pauses from flipping through papers, his back still turned.
“Yup,” I say, thinking you’d know the truth if you were home more.
If Lyon wasn’t all knotted up, he’d at least pick up on my shrugging and my clipped answers. He’d wonder about not having seen our dog. Lyon used to be the best at detecting my thoughts, moods, and actions. Mom called this his parent radar.
He pushes his fingers through his dark hair. “Fear of a dog pack will send the farmers to that new store for guns, traps, and poisons—all the things I don’t carry at MacGregor’s.” He scans the counter. “Dang. I forgot my receipts.”
“The sheriff isn’t going to let people use that stuff on dogs, is he?” My voice trembles.
Lyon lumbers back to the garage. “Out-of-control animals have to be stopped, Dill.” The garage door slams shut behind him.
My hand goes to Mr. Kryer’s flyer, which practically ticks like a time bomb in my pocket, reminding me that I’m not being fair to Lyon. The farmers will be more than mad if he doesn’t hang this warning in his store. Other flyers are sure to be plastered like wallpaper all over town. Lyon could get more. He would, too. He cares that much about his friends and neighbors.
That’s why I sidestep to the counter, and pull the paper from my pocket. As the garage door opens, I stuff the page into one of Lyon’s folders, and then jump back from it.
“I got a bad feeling about these dogs,” Lyon says as his boots stamp back into the kitchen, his hands gripping the folder of receipts.
“Me, too,” I mutter.
CHAPTER 8
OLD AS DIRT
The smells of horse, hay, and grain hang in the thick, stable air. Horses snort, shift, and stamp their hooves in nearby stalls. “You’re late,” I tell Cub. My hands itch to dump a pitchfork of dirty, stinking straw over his buzzed head.
Stepping into the box stall, he shifts on the untied laces of his work boots and plucks at his too-big, faded T-shirt. The Bayer family scent of bleach and fabric softener cling to his shirt and shorts, which are more wrinkled than used tissues. His mom shows her love for her family by the intense way that she does their laundry, but the woman hates ironing.
“We said we’d get the stable work done early this morning so we could go look for Dead End before my riding lesson. Remember?” Worrying about being late for my lesson makes me more cranky than usual and as tight as a pulled rubber band.
“Sorry,” Cub says. “Timmy and Jimmy, the idiot twins, locked me in the basement.” His face goes beet-purple as he stares at his work boots and kicks at hay pieces.
I dump old, wet straw into the wheelbarrow and stab the prongs of the pitchfork into more of it on the floor. “Okay, that rots, but we still need to find Dead End.” I stop, don’t say before he goes after more animals while listening for Skeeter, Jerry Smoothers, or anyone who might overhear me. “We got to find that dog before Sheriff Hawks does.”
Socrates, one of Ms. Hunter’s stable goats, clops up behind Cub and nuzzles his back pocket. When Cub doesn’t pull out a garden carrot right away, Socrates plants the knobs of his would-be horns into Cub’s butt and shoves him. Ms. Hunter has always said that she’d had both her goats dehorned for the safety of every rear end in the county.
“Nice hit, Socrates,” I mumble.
Cub gives me a prune-faced look. “Who spit in your cornflakes this morning, Dill?” He pulls out a carrot. Socrates grabs it and trots off, probably sensing my mood.
I yank the fork from bedding. “G.D. is real down. He hasn’t been eating. He didn’t even go to the garden this morning.”
Cub lets loose a sigh that weighs a ton. “Dill, I heard my mom on the phone with Mrs. Peterson this morning. Dogs killed two of the Petersons’ prize sheep last night.”
The pitchfork handle slips from my hands, smacking the wall. “That’s the second sheep attack this week.”
“Both while Dead End has been gone.” Now Cub kicks at straw.
“We got to get over there.”
“Dill, those dogs are long gone by now and…”
I lift my hand in a stop signal because riding boots scuff the concrete outside the stall. “Listening in, again, Skeeter?”
He steps into the doorway, gripping his silver-handled crop. “What do you two know about the sheep killings?”
Cub whips around fast, almost dislocates his head from his neck. “Buzz off, Mosquito-breath.”
“No, I won’t buzz off,” Skeeter whines. “The sheriff asked me to help him. I could turn you in.”
As I step toward Skeeter, to wipe the know-it-all grin off his face, Ms. Hunter’s riding boots smack the concrete fast, moving down an out-of-sight aisle. “Dill?” The tension in her voice echoes.
“Captain’s stall,” I call.
Ms. Hunter steps up behind Skeeter. She stands tall, as always, but her eyes are wide. Her mouth twitches.
She glances at Cub, then Skeeter before her blue-eyed gaze settles on me. “Dill, your father called. We need to reschedule your riding lesson.” She pushes past Skeeter and touches my shoulder in the same gentle way Mom used to do. My nose fills with the scents of saddle soap and horse. She blinks. “You need to get home.”
My heart jerks, and suddenly feels as if someone has punched it. I shoot out of the stall.
“What’s wrong?” Cub asks Ms. Hunter, the question echoing behind me.
“Dill’s grandfather,” Ms. Hunter tells him before I throw myself out of th
e stable and into the sun and heat.
The entire way home, as I pedal like some crazed maniac being chased by the devil himself, a thought tries to creep up from back in the crawl spaces of my mind: Could something being wrong with G.D. be a kind of punishment? Payback for my lies? Because somehow it makes sense that being good leads to rewards, while being anything less brings on trouble and heartache.
* * *
As my bike tires skid to a stop in our driveway, behind Doc Kerring’s dusty and dented station wagon and Lyon’s pickup truck, I almost stop breathing. It hasn’t been long enough since I’ve seen Doc Kerring’s old car on our property.
I shoot into the ranch, ripples of sweat skidding down the sides of my face.
“I hear that new store has an incredible computer system and data bank. And I hear it sells high-powered guns with scopes and all kinds of wild technical stuff,” Doc Kerring says with too much enthusiasm. He sits with his broad back to me, leaning over our kitchen table—a sight I’ve seen too many times.
Lyon, slumped in his usual seat, holds his forehead in his hands. “Yup. That new store is something else. Farmers can even pick up gun permits there.”
I stop short and stare at my riding boots because I can’t look at Lyon for another second. I should let him know what’s been going on with those farmers. I should tell him about Dead End. My hands go to the end of my ponytail, pull hard at it.
“Dill?”
When I look up, Lyon is staring at me. A toothpick droops between his lips. When I don’t move, he stands; it takes him only two long strides to get to me.
“G.D.?” I barely squeeze this out, can’t get out anymore.
Lyon’s huge hands start to reach for my shoulders, but he stops himself, deciding to stay behind his wall. His hands drop to his sides. “G.D.’s resting. In bed.”
At least he hasn’t been taken to the hospital.
Doc Kerring, a walrus with a stethoscope, pushes himself up from his chair and turns to face me. He rubs the thick folds under his chin and presses his lips together, blinking a lot from behind his round, silver, wire-framed glasses—his serious, we need to talk look.
Lyon nudges me toward the kitchen, but I don’t move.
Doc Kerring doesn’t smile as he walks toward me. “Morning, Dill.” He blinks again, clears his throat. He always does this before he delivers a shot, a pill, or bad news. “Dill, your granddad needs to go to the hospital for some tests.”
I start backing away from the word hospital, shoot a glare at Lyon. How could he even think about sending his father there after what happened to Mom?
Pale as a peeled potato, Lyon’s expression seems to plead with me. “Dill, the doctors will help G.D.”
“Oh, yeah, the way they helped…” I stop short, still unable to say Mom out loud. I also don’t ask, with sarcasm fueled by bubbling-hot anger, if the same hospital doctors will put poison into his blood and call it treatment the way they did with her.
Normally, Lyon would have a real problem with my sassy attitude, but now he seems to have no more energy than a bag of wood chips.
“Do I hear my girl?” G.D.’s voice trickles out from the guestroom that has become his bedroom.
I sprint across the kitchen and down the short hall to him.
Thick, warm shadows hang like ghosts in this room. The pulled-down shades hold in oily medicine smells. G.D. is on his back under a thin sheet. One of his bird-claw hands clutches the gold chain and rings, now outside his white T-shirt. The Civil War cane leans against the end of the bed as if waiting to be called into service again.
“Thought you had a riding lesson this morning, girl.”
“You’re more important than riding,” I tell him, adding a wink because he knows there was a time when not a whole lot was more important to me than riding.
“Don’t be giving up your lessons for me. They’re about the only thing that gives you any kind of break from all the missing and the hurt.”
I turn to the windows. “G.D.? Why are the shades down? You love sunshine.” My voice wavers. My fake smile twitches. My hand goes to where his fragile hand rests on top of the sheet.
The pillow crinkles. The linen rustles as G.D. tries to push his old body up into a sitting position. “Old age is the devil’s playground, Dill.”
I sniff. “You’ll be okay.”
His fingers curl over mine in a weak, bony squeeze. “You know, even though the last nine months have been rougher than words can say, I’ve loved being with my only grandgirl. Makes me think I should have settled in with you folks earlier, the way you always asked me to.”
I swallow hard, blinking fast, needing to refocus before the tears come. My eyes find a framed picture on the table beside G.D.’s bed: a black and white photograph of G.D.’s wife, Bets. Beside her, another frame holds a color picture of a puffed-up and proud, grinning Lyon holding a seven-year-old me on a pony. Mom had taken that picture. When she didn’t have any more children, she’d tried to become a professional photographer. But she never took pictures of anyone or anything except Dead End and her animals, G.D., Lyon, and me.
“That photo shows when you and your pop were happy.” G.D.’s voice comes out as dry and as cracked as old shoe leather.
That’s when I notice the newest framed photo of Mom, clicked off the Christmas before she got sick. It’s a fine picture of her snuggled up next to Lyon. He’s turned away from the camera, but she’s smiling into it, happy and healthy and ready to hop out of the silver frame. G.D. turns his head to stare into her eyes. This makes my throat close up. Quickly, I focus on a fourth frame.
This photo shows the warm eyes, yellow pointed ears, and panting enthusiasm of the cutest dog in the world. I can almost hear his thick tail thumping the kitchen floor. I can almost see him sitting beside Mom’s bed, watching over her, licking her hand, whining and pacing around her bed as she moans in her restless sleep. Some images come this way, unwanted and uninvited.
If our dog was here now, he’d be fussing and staying close to G.D., too.
“That’s a good picture of Dead End,” I mutter, my voice trickling out.
G.D. lets go a heavy sigh, sounding like Lyon. “Changing the subject—every bit as bullheaded as your pop.”
“Everything will be great.” My voice splinters. Everything will be great belonged to Mom, and always brought comfort. But out of my mouth, it sounds empty. I quickly clear my throat. “G.D., can a dog be bad once in a while, but still be good overall?”
The pillowcase crinkles again as G.D. turns his face to me and squints. “What’s on your mind, girl? What are you getting at?”
Since when has he lost his ability to see through me? Like Lyon, G.D. has always known me better than I know myself. Not willing to share my itching doubts about Dead End, I shrug, stiff and uncomfortable in my own skin. “I’ve been thinking about those pack dogs. That’s all.”
G.D. grunts and turns his head away from me. “You’re worried about Dead End. You’re wondering if he could be part of the pack.” G.D. sucks in a long breath. “Me, too. Wish I could get him to that shelter in Utah. That might be the only way to save the dog’s hide. But I can’t get anywhere now.”
G. D.’s free hand moves across the sheet, toward me. I drop my free hand to his twig bones and tissue-paper skin. “Lyon and that doctor want me to go to the hospital,” G.D. says in a low and weary voice. He turns his face back to me, his sky-blue eyes moist. “Think I might go.”
A volt of fear rips through me and rattles my bones. “No! You can’t. You won’t come back.” I turn away from him and focus on his old trunk at the back of the room, trying to stay calm, trying not to remember.
The trunk holds his wandering souvenirs: the floppy hat from the South Carolina sailor, a blanket from New Mexico, and a handmade, turquoise-decorated dog collar that G.D. puts on Dead End during special occasions, like July 8th, the day G.D. brought the pooch to us; the day we always celebrated, complete with Mom’s chocolate cake, as Dead End’s birt
hday. My free hand goes to the pocket that holds the picture of Mom and Lyon. “You promised me that you wouldn’t go to any hospital, ever.”
“Dill.” Lyon’s commanding voice bounces off the doorway. “Dr. Kerring says G.D. needs to go to the hospital. This is different than when your mother…”
“Lyon.” G.D.’s voice, weak but firm, interrupts. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going after all.”
“But Pop, we agreed.…”
“Changed my mind, son.”
Lyon looks at me, his eyes wide and startled. Then he looks back at G.D. “But the hospital’s the best place for you right now, Pop. Dr. Kerring said…”
“Made up my mind,” G.D. repeats, interrupting.
Lyon’s lips go tight over the toothpick, nearly snapping the thing in two. “Dill,” he says, turning his face to me. “You can’t let your fear keep G.D. from getting the care he needs.”
Doc Kerring adjusts his silver-framed glasses as he comes up behind Lyon. “Mr. MacGregor, the hospital…”
“No.” G.D.’s hand lifts from mine and then thumps onto the sheets. The birds outside seem to stop chattering. “I don’t need a test to tell me that I’m as old as dirt. No one can stick a tube in my arm and give me back thirty years.”
Lyon sighs, and steps up behind me. “Okay, Pop. Get some sleep.” His big, firm hand comes down onto my shoulder, and then guides me to the doorway.
When I glance back at G.D., he winks.
“Everything will be great,” I mutter to him. But first, I have to find Dead End. I have to get that dog home.
CHAPTER 9
BLACKIE
“Hey.” My tone is dull, heavy. Stepping into the grain room, I wipe at my damp forehead. Even though my riding lesson ended twenty minutes ago, I’m still as limp and as wet as a used washrag. The day’s heat is already sticking to me like new flypaper.
“Morning, Dill.” Cub looks up, slightly squinting at me the way he does when trying to read my mood.
“Sorry I’m late. Even though I didn’t get here on time, Ms. Hunter let me ride the full hour.” Horses crunch grain and snort. The sweet scents of molasses, corn, and oats mix with my favorite stable smells of hay and saddle leather. “Guess I missed feeding the horses this morning.”
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