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Van followed the wildly waving signposts of their tailsasquicklyashecouldmanage.Thetailsplumed off in the direction of the horse paddock. Sheer panic robbed him of so much breath he had to slow down or black out.
The Tennessee Walking Horse would have arrived by now. She was a surprise for Mary, who’d said she wanted to try riding. Van figured they’d be able to keep the big mare exercised between the two of them, and if they liked riding as much as he thought they would, he’d buy a breeding stallion.
Thank heaven he hadn’t already bought the stallion. Walkers were known for their calm dispositions, as well as their smooth gaits. Stallions were far more temperamental.
Nobody, though, had ever said even a mare would be calm around a rambunctious Saint Basset puppy. Or, even worse, puppies. Although Pepe could cause enough trouble all by himself for a dozen puppies.
Van couldn’t run after Guinevere and Lancelot any more. It was hard enough to breathe at a walk. It was all he could do to move toward the paddock at all. He felt a tickle below his lip and swiped at it. His hand came away bloody. He’d bitten his lip, hard. He hoped it was the last blood he’d find. He feared it wouldn’t be.
Finally, he reached the paddock. The mare paced towardVan.Shelookedsowild-eyedthepuppieshad to be near here somewhere.
Van started to climb the fence, but he stumbled on a rock. No, it wasn’t a rock. It was a bone. A T-Bone. Van’s bark of a laugh escaped in one staccato burst. He had left a T-Bone steak in the sink to defrost. This bone was probably all that was left of his dinner.
But never mind that. He could be downright happy if this meant the blood he’d seen in the kitchen was only beef juice, not puppy blood.
But maybe the puppies were in danger now. If they had anything to do with the big mare’s wild eyes …
Van clambered off the fence into the paddock and jockeyed to catch the mare’s halter as she ran by. Damn. He missed. The horse tossed her head and veered away, her black mane dancing in the breeze against her glossy golden hide.
Her hind end came directly into Van’s view.
That’swhenVanfoundPepe.Hewasdanglingfrom teeth clenched firmly on the mare’s tail. The horse’s flashing hooves seemed fully as big as Pepe’s stubborn little body. They were lethal. He was fragile.
Van pounded a fist on the rail. Look at that. He couldn’t be trusted even to keep a puppy safe.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Screams of thePast
I
N A FLASH OFfear and panic and rage, Van lost sight of the Tennessee Walking Horse and the Saint Basset puppy and everything else in the right here, right now.
Aunt Cynthia had been right. He did have a dog when he was a kid. His dog was a bounding, beautiful, beloved collie called Leroy.
One night, Van forgot to call Leroy back in for the night. Van’s father came home drunk again. He hit Leroy with the car. Van saw the blood on the fender. He saw Leroy’s broken leg. The blood, the bone jutting out from shredded flesh. He cried.
His father wasn’t happy. If Van didn’t stop sniveling, his father said, he’d run the dog over with the car, not just nudge it a little. What was the dog doing out anyway? He’d told Van to stop fawning over the dog, but that didn’t mean he could forget about the stupid thing. Look what happened when he didn’t take responsibility like he should. The blasted dog wouldn’t have been hit if Van hadn’t let it wander around in the dark.
Hisfatherwasright.Vanhadmessedup,andLeroy was paying the price.
Van couldn’t stop crying. He tried, but he couldn’t. Not until his father got in the car and switched the engine on. He edged forward with his head hanging out the window and his eyes on Van. He didn’t stop until Van shrieked no, no, no, I’ll stop crying, I promiseI’llstop.Thefronttiresandthebumperwere mere inches away from whimpering Leroy.
Van’s eyes got so dry and popped open so wide they hurt, and he could hardly see.
His father got out of the car and said, that’s better.
Leroymadeawfullowmewlingsounds.Vanandhis father picked the dog up and laid him in the back of the station wagon. Van hadn’t known a dog could cry like that.
Van had been as gentle as he could be. His father, not so much. His hands were shaking, so maybe he tried, but couldn’t. His hands didn’t work too well sometimes when he’d been drinking, and even more in the mornings when he’d come home drunk the night before. Except for hitting. His hands always managed to do that.
He wouldn’t let Van come to the vet’s because he was a little ankle biter who would probably start sniveling again and might even run off at the mouth with some wild story about how the dog’s leg got broken.
Van watched the car and his father and his dog drive away. He wondered if his father would stop the carnexttime,evenifVanstoppedcrying.He’dbetter figure out how to not cry, just in case.
He’d better figure out how to take care of the dog righttoo.Gethimawayfromhisfather.Gethimaway from Van, too, who was too stupid to look after Leroy right, to keep him safe. He used to think Leroy loved him as much as Van loved Leroy, but that couldn’t be right. He didn’t deserve to have Leroy. He didn’t deserve to run around and play and be happy with Leroy.
The next day, he asked Aunt Cynthia if she would takethedog,becauseitwasn’tmuchfuntoplaywith now it had a broken leg.
