Dog Gone by Cynthia Chapman Willis Page A

can’t be.”

CHAPTER 5
    BLOND DOGS
    The swing and rhythm of Crossfire’s walk as we circle the ring, cooling down after an hour lesson, and the steady beat of his hooves against the soft dirt still distracts me some, but not for long. My concentration is tissue-thin this afternoon.
    â€œOkay, Dill, that’s enough for today,” Ms. Hunter calls from the center of the ring. She’s standing the way she always does during a lesson, her thumbs hooked into the hip pockets of her riding pants, but she’s looking disappointed as I turn Crossfire to her.
    â€œWell, that wasn’t one of your better rides,” she says in a gentle voice. “Crossfire is still racing the fences. You need to hold him back and concentrate on counting the strides between the jumps. We’ve talked about this before.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I say as I swing my right leg over the saddle to dismount.
    I feel her watching me, probably with those sympathy eyes that everyone keeps showing me. To avoid them, I start leading Crossfire back to the barn, reminding myself not to run.
    Ms. Hunter follows, of course. “By the way, Dill,” she says as she walks up beside me and Crossfire. “Dameon tells me he’s missing his crop.”
    My insides pucker. “I heard,” I say, fighting back the urge to call Skeeter a lying pile of cow muck. Ever since Skeeter accused Cub of slicing up his new saddle, Ms. Hunter gets suspicion in her voice whenever the Mosquito’s name pops up.
    But now she kind of smiles, like she gets my tension and understands it. “I’m only bringing this up because I promised his mother that I would. It’s an expensive crop.”
    â€œI’m sure,” I mutter, holding back from pointing out that if Skeeter’s mother really cared about him, she’d stop dumping him at the stable every time he annoyed her, which turns out to be almost every day. People around the barn talk about how his parents bought him a horse just to keep him busy. Even Cub agrees that this might be part of why Dameon is so hateful.
    â€œYou know I can’t take sides in whatever’s going on between you and Cub and Dameon,” Ms. Hunter adds. “But I don’t want anymore trouble around here, either.” She glances at me as Crossfire’s hooves clop onto the cement floor as we enter the barn. “You know, Dameon would be easier to get along with if you and Cub would include him in your activities now and again. The two of you are the only kids his age that spend any kind of time here, the way he does. I know he can be difficult, but you might keep in mind that he’s bored and probably lonely.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I say, even though I can’t see including Skeeter in anything except a thorough butt-kicking.
    As we get to Crossfire’s box stall, Ms. Hunter’s face stretches into a warm smile. “Hey, Cub, how’s every little thing?”
    Perched on a hay bale, he pauses from biting off another hunk of the apple pie slab I brought him (baked Mom’s way—with raisins in the filling and sugar on the pastry). “Well, ma’am. Thanks for askin’.”
    â€œGood to hear.” Ms. Hunter moves on, toward her office. “Don’t work too hard around here today,” she adds. “It’s too hot for hard labor.”
    She’s right. The early-afternoon heat feels thicker and itchier than wet wool, and it magnifies the stable smells of sun-baked hay and sweaty horse. I slip off Crossfire’s bridle, replace it with his blue halter, and then clip the aisle cross ties to it.
    â€œGood lesson?” Always willing to help me out, Cub hops off the bale and reaches for Crossfire’s bridle.
    â€œShould have been better,” I mutter. “Any sign of Dead End?”
    â€œNo.” Cub kicks at pieces of hay on the cement floor. “Dill, what if he’s one of the dogs that