Dream Country (24 page)

One wasn’t. He stood on four solid feet, wagging his tail as Sage bent down to see. He was no bigger than her hand, with brown-and-white spots and a friendly red tongue. “Hi,” she whispered.

He yapped at her, hopping friskily.

“Here you are,” David said from a cage at the far end of the row. “I’ve been looking for you.”

With all the dogs free, the barking had just about stopped. The silence was deafening, more frightening than anything Sage could think of—it would bring the farmer very soon.

Sage stared at the tiny puppy. She counted to three, then stuck him in her pocket. “Hurry,” she said to David, but he was one step ahead of her. She saw him wrapping his jacket around the dog in the cage, lifting her into his arms, heading for the door and easing it open. Across the driveway, the yelling had started again. Sage heard banging, and someone crying hysterically. She watched as David pulled his knife, went to the brown truck, and slashed all four tires.

The dogs slipped out the open door. Some of them stopped to sniff the grass, but most of them limped for the hills—puppies in their mouths. They didn’t stop for anything, didn’t even slow down. Their legs were bowed, their gaits were crooked and crippled, but their desire to escape was great.

“Come on,” David said, carrying his bundle up the road.

Sage hung back. She had the owl on her hand, helping her to see souls in all worlds. Her vision intensified, and she could almost see through the farmhouse walls. The young girl was huddled on her bed, hiding from her father’s blows. Sage and David were saving things: Why couldn’t they save her?

“Can’t we help? Can’t we take her with us?” Sage implored.

“No. Come on.”

“Please, David—”

“Our mission is the dogs,” he said. “She has to save herself.”

“But what if she can’t?”

“She can,” he said sharply. “I know from experience. Hurry.”

By the time they got to the car, the farmer had noticed the silence. The porch lights blared on, and the screen door slammed. David didn’t even take time to place the dog—wrapped in his jacket—in the backseat. Starting up the engine, he kept her on his lap. He turned the car around and pointed it down the road. Then he waited.

The farmer was yelling for his family to come outside and catch the dogs. His wife came running out, followed by two children. Sage saw the girl standing on the porch, and, petting the puppy in her pocket she felt a lump in her throat imagining the girl was glad that the mothers were free. David thrust the dog onto Sage’s lap and threw open his door. He leaned on the horn.

“Hey,” he shouted. “Asshole!”

“What? Did you steal my dogs?” the farmer screamed, running for his truck. “I’ll kill you—”

“You’re gonna burn in hell,” David yelled. “You’re gonna go to a place where the animals are cruel to you. Your kids are gonna hate you! They’ll run away and they’ll tell everyone who you are and what you did! Live with that, you asshole!”

The farmer started his truck, but the tires just flapped around the axles as if he were driving on pancakes. He jumped out again, pointing a shotgun as he started to run toward the car.

David climbed back in and did a long burn-out. Sage’s heart was racing as she heard the shotgun blast again and again. They were out of range, but it sounded like fireworks in her ears. Expecting David to drive back the way they’d come, she felt afraid they might be stopped by the police. But half a mile down the road, he turned right and began traveling west.

The road wasn’t marked or paved. Pine trees grew right down to the edge, the low boughs brushing the car’s roof. Sage looked over her shoulder, but the trees seemed to have closed the path behind them. The puppy squirmed free from her pocket and jumped into the backseat to make friends. The other dogs growled suspiciously, and the kittens hissed.

“Do you know where we’re going?” she asked.

“Of course I do.”

“How do you know—”

“I’ve been to that farm before. My mother traded them a bitch for a sire one time, back when we used to have setters.”

“Is this—” Sage asked, her heart in her throat, feeling the trembling dog on her lap. “—Is this the same dog your mother traded?”

“No, she’d have died a long time ago,” David said. “They don’t last very long. This is someone else, someone new. Let her out . . .”

Sage unwrapped David’s wool jacket as if she were taking the blankets off a baby. The dog inside was shaking like a leaf; her spine protruded from her back, and it was twisted like a corkscrew. She had only three legs, and when she tried to bare her teeth, Sage saw that they all were gone.

“What’s wrong—” Sage asked, horrified.

“She’s been tortured,” David said. “They all have.”

“Why her?” Sage asked, petting the ragged, patchy fur.

David didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes on the road, which Sage had just realized was a logging trail. She stared at David, saw the way he was struggling to keep his face and eyes blank. The markings on his face were still there, black and precise.

“Why her?” Sage repeated. “Of all the dogs, why did you take her?”

“Because she was the worst one.” David’s voice cracked. “She wouldn’t have been able to get away. I always take the worst one.”

“What’s her name?”

“It’s up to you. I named the others.”

“Jamie,” Sage said, thinking of her father waiting in Wyoming, of all the hardships she had gone through on her way to him. “Jamie” came from “James,” but it sounded pretty enough for a girl. Petting the scared dog, she thought of the young girl back on the puppy farm and prayed that she would get away, that maybe somewhere she had a real, better home to run away to. “Her name’s Jamie. And my puppy is Maisie.”

It rhymed with “Daisy.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

D
aisy walked up to the house to visit Dalton and came face-to-face with a stranger in the kitchen. The woman looked about forty, with brownish hair and eyes, and a pink sweater over a white uniform. She had tea and toast on a tray, but when she saw Daisy, she jumped and spilled it all over.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Daisy said, crouching down to help.

“Not your fault.” The woman kept her head down and away, as if she didn’t want Daisy to see her face. Daisy noticed a scar above her right eye and bruises on her inner arm.

After they’d wiped up the mess, the woman set about making more toast. The kettle had just boiled, and she poured more water into a clean mug.

“I’m Daisy Tucker,” Daisy said.

“I’m Alma Jackson.”

“Have we met before?” Daisy asked, trying to remember. The woman looked so familiar: a broad face with triangular cheekbones, furtive dark eyes, a high forehead. Plain ordinary looks that Daisy had seen before.

“No. Louisa just hired me. Just this week.”

“I’m sure, at least I think we’ve met before—oh, never mind,” Daisy said, smiling and shaking her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Thanks,” the woman mumbled, turning back to her task.

Daisy walked into the living room, wondering about the bruises on Alma’s arm. Dalton sat in his wheelchair by the window, watching a line of antelope cross the hillside. When he heard Daisy, he put down his binoculars and tilted his face up to kiss her.

“Daisy, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

“So are you.”

“Have you come to stay?” he asked.

“For now,” she replied. She wasn’t sure exactly what he meant—how much he remembered about where she’d been—but she didn’t care. She had always been inordinately fond of Dalton Tucker, and she felt content just to sit by his side and hold his hand.

“Have you met the Hun?” he asked.

“The Hun?”

“Old what’s-her-name, out in the kitchen. Louisa hired her from somewhere way down in the Rydell family gene pool. A nasty one, isn’t she?”

Daisy smiled. “She looks tired. You’re probably working her too hard.”

“She’s here spying for Todd. Don’t think I don’t know it, either. How Rosalind got herself born into a clan like that—”

“I think you mean Louisa,” Daisy said gently.

Dalton looked stricken. “Did I say Rosalind?”

She nodded.

“Jesus, hit me next time I do that. You’re Daisy—I got that right, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t count as much.” Daisy laughed.

“Very true, very true. She’s gone downtown to rehearse with her new guitar player, wants to make me jealous. Should I be?”

“I haven’t met the guitar player,” Daisy said. “But Louisa is gorgeous. She gets better as she gets older. Forget about my name and just remember hers.”

“Hard to forget yours, Daisy,” Dalton said. “You’re my only daughter-in-law.”

“You’re my only father-in-law,” Daisy said.

“You gave James a run for his money. Never brought anyone around the ranch after you left.”

“Never?” she asked. She knew it wasn’t her business, but she couldn’t help wanting to know.

“Nope. Never. You were it. Maybe still are. I don’t know. He doesn’t talk. Just rides and ropes and works . . . maybe he talks to Paul. Go ask him.”

“That’s okay . . .” Daisy’s gaze moved from Dalton to the room. She saw Rosalind’s shooting medal, her violin, and all the family pictures arranged on the wide stone mantel: Daisy and James’s wedding picture, the twins’ birth pictures, Sage wearing her red cowgirl hat, Jake smiling from up on Scout.

“My grandbabies,” Dalton said, following Daisy’s gaze. “I miss them. More every day.”

“I couldn’t let Sage come back to visit,” Daisy said. “She wanted to, but I just didn’t want her coming this close to where . . .”

“I gave them toy cows when they were born. Sage still have hers?”

“She does.”

“Good.”

Daisy nodded, looking into her children’s eyes. They looked so happy. Smiling into the camera, loving their life on the ranch. Growing up with horses, cows, dogs, a grandfather in the next house. Life had been so perfect, as close to paradise as a human family could get. Unable to bear Jake’s smiling face, she laid his picture facedown.

“Come here,” Dalton said.

Turning slowly away from the pictures, Daisy walked across the room. Dalton looked so old and feeble, a plaid blanket wrapped around his legs. But when he reached for Daisy’s hands, his fingers felt surprisingly strong.

“You can’t erase the past,” he said. “Or close the door on it. You shouldn’t even try to. You know how my Rosalind died?”

“Ssh,” Daisy said. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“The roof caved in on her. It was a snowstorm, and she was out in the pony barn with James. They were bringing oats and water, feeding the animals. Snow was falling, half sleet—full of ice. Two feet fell, and it was so heavy, the barn collapsed.”

“Stop, Dalton.”

“They were both trapped inside—my wife and my son. Where was I?”

Daisy blocked her ears. She thought of the day Jake had disappeared. She’d been playing with Sage, teaching her how to paint watercolors of meadow flowers.

“I was hauling some dumb calf off thin ice—didn’t want him falling through. You think I give a damn about that calf now? James crawled out, fifteen years old with a broken leg, and pulled his mother free. She was alive then. She lived a good long time—over an hour while he tried to get help—before she bled to death.”

Daisy pictured herself wetting the brush, showing Sage how to paint foxgloves and buttercups. She could see the dot-dot-dots of gold, stamens and pistils in the flowers’ centers. Her own voice came drifting back, telling Sage how inspiration comes from anywhere, from close by, from the ground around their feet. Daisy and Sage painting while Jake evaporated into thin air . . .

“You think I don’t wish I’d let that calf drown? That hour made the difference between her life and death. Oh, I hated that calf. Hated myself—for letting Rosalind die, letting James sit there and watch her.”

“You didn’t let her die. It wasn’t your fault.”

“That’s right,” Dalton said. “That’s how I see it now—but it took me a long time to get here. God must have needed her more than we did, me and James. She used to call him Jamey—did you know that? I stopped the nickname, though. Couldn’t stand how it made me think of her. Put that picture right, why don’t you?”

Daisy reached up on the mantel, took Jake’s picture in her hands. She dusted off the glass. Then she propped it up, facing straight at Dalton.

“Good girl,” Dalton said, his watery eyes boring hard into hers. “Don’t shut the door on the past.”

“I won’t,” Daisy whispered.

“It’s why I keep Rosalind’s medal out, even though I love Louisa.”

Daisy nodded.

“Louisa’s got a gig down at the Stagecoach tonight,” Dalton said. “Do me a favor and go for me? Take James along and make him give her a big wolf whistle. She likes it when the young guys go wild.”

“Don’t you get jealous?” Daisy asked, smiling.

“I turn green. But I let it continue because it makes her so happy.”

“I think it does make her happy.”

“Tell James to make it loud. Tell him your father-in-law said so.”

“Maybe I will.”

Alma walked in at that moment, setting the tray down by Dalton’s side. Dalton winked at Daisy, put a finger to his lips. She knew it was because he didn’t want her talking Tucker business in front of a Rydell, and she figured the only reason he’d allowed Alma’s hiring was to make Louisa happy.

Lifting her eyes, Alma glanced at the pictures on the mantel. She did a double-take, nearly spilling Dalton’s tea a second time. Daisy watched her, unsure of why she looked so stricken. One thing Daisy was sure of: Those bruises on Alma’s arm had come from a man’s hand.

“That’s my grandson,” Dalton said, seeing her stare at Jake’s picture.

“I was looking at the girl,” Alma said quickly. “In the little red hat.”

“My granddaughter,” Dalton said.

“Oh,” Alma said. “She’s cute.”

Dalton agreed, asking Alma if she had kids of her own. “Two boys,” Alma answered. Dalton asked her their names, whether they liked to hunt and fish, and Alma began to answer. But Daisy hardly heard. Alma had barely been able to take her eyes off Jake’s picture.

Why had she lied? Daisy wondered.

Try as she might, Daisy said, she couldn’t see herself going to the Stagecoach Tavern while Sage was still out there alone. She wanted so much to be in the audience—and not just because Dalton had asked her to. She said she had always loved Louisa’s music, hearing her sing, being part of the excitement of a performance. But she wanted to stay near the phone—on the ranch, at least—in case Sage called.

Louisa listened to the younger woman, touched by the things she said.
And
by the fact that Dalton had put her up to calling. Louisa had her makeup on and her hair done, and she was letting a third coat of polish dry on her fingernails—an alluring autumnal shade called “Pumpkin Frost.” She had the phone wedged between her ear and the bar wall, trying to ignore the guys making a beer delivery behind her.

“You should listen to Dalton,” Louisa said, “and get yourself down here.”

“I’m sure the place’ll be full to the rafters without me.”

“Well, it will.” It wasn’t immodest if it was true, and she knew for a fact the place would be packed tonight.

“Dalton was so alert,” Daisy said. “I guess he’s having a good day.”

“He has them now and then,” Louisa said. “Not as often as before, but we’re grateful when they come.”

“I wanted to ask you something about Alma.”

“Oh, did Dalton put you up to that, too?” Louisa asked, frowning. “Honestly, just because her sister is married to Todd—”

“It’s the way she looked at Jake’s picture,” Daisy said. “Do you know why she’d even notice him?”

“Well—” Louisa began, but she bit her tongue. Didn’t Daisy know how everyone had talked way back then? Jake’s disappearance had caused a huge stir. This was Wyoming, where everyone knew everyone else. There was so much communal worry and anguish over the missing boy—posters hanging on shop doors, tips he’d been spotted everywhere from Lander to Salt Lake City. There was also a fair share of vicious talk and terrible suspicion, and for a long time, most of it had fallen on Daisy and James. People always suspected the parents: Louisa was sure Daisy had known.

“Tell me, please,” Daisy said urgently.

“Well.” Louisa made the words sound as kind as she could. “From what Tammy told me, Alma’s boys would be about the twins’ age. I’m sure she remembered the news about Jake and she was just looking at his sweet face, thanking her lucky stars . . . that something bad hadn’t happened to one of hers. That it was him instead of them.”

“Oh,” Daisy said after a long silence.

“She’s a simple soul.” Louisa wished she could give Daisy a hug, wanting to chase away this most recent pain. “She doesn’t mean you any harm. Her home life is ugly—they live in some squalid little place up north, too many animals and not enough money to feed them. The family suffers for it. Her husband drinks. She comes off a little unpleasant because she has a hard life.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Daisy said.

“I wish you were coming tonight.” Louisa heard her guitar player start to tune up. The drummer brushed the cymbals, and they began to rehearse the music. She felt a thrill and a sadness—both at the same time.

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell Dalton this night’s for him.” Louisa choked up, wondering whether he’d ever sit in her audience again. He seemed to be getting better, but he was aging before her very eyes.

“I will.”

“Dedicated to the one I love,” Louisa said. “Tell him, will you?” She saw Todd walk in, give her a big wave from the saloon doors. Louisa turned, pretending not to see him. He had really opened a Pandora’s box, asking her about Dalton’s will. Now she found herself cleaning drawers and boxes, straightening papers, doing everything to avoid the place she knew it had to be: Dalton’s safe. When Dalton asked her for a kiss, she wondered whether he had ever really loved her at all. Louisa should have insisted on a proposal instead of just moving in all those years ago. She had thought their love would lead to marriage. Dalton had wanted to spare James thinking someone could take the place of his mother. But even now, Louisa wanted nothing more than a ring on her finger.

“Have a good show,” Daisy said, her voice flat.

“You bet I will,” Louisa said, with all the false cheer she could muster. She wiggled the fingers of her left hand. A diamond would surely look nice. The pearly amber shade of Pumpkin Frost on her long nails would really set it off.