Enright Family Collection (119 page)

Artie was sniffing maniacally around the small fenced-in garden. Matt peered over the fence and sighed in disgust at the mess. He could have sworn
that Chief Monroe had said that the kids hadn’t gone near the house, but Aunt Hope’s kitchen garden had clearly been the object of some kind of tear. He’d make sure he mentioned it to the Chief when he stopped down at the police station later on.

“Come on, boy.” He called to Artie, who sped past him, nose to the ground as if on a scent, and set off across the field. Maybe he’d make a stop at the wishing tree, though he knew in his heart that the things he had wished for that day could never come true.

It would be enough, Matt reasoned, if a few hours at Pumpkin Hill would take the heaviness from his heart. More than enough, if he left later that day having found just a touch of that serenity that had always been there for him over the years. He whistled to Artie, who’d taken off toward the woods, and the dog ran back to him, chasing down to the pond where his sudden appearance startled the flock of Canada geese that had wintered over at Pumpkin Hill. Artie scolded them for trespassing, barking fiercely. When the geese had all sought sanctuary at the opposite side of the pond, Artie lay down on the muddy bank, pleased with his success, and rolled onto his back so that Matt could rub his stomach.

“Oh, you are so proud of yourself, aren’t you?” Matt laughed. “Scared those birds clear across the pond. You’re some fierce guy, you are.”

Ragged fronds of last year’s cattails lined one side of the pond, and it was there, Matt suspected, that the ducks hid from Artie. Too early in the season for frogs, he knew, and too soon for the turtles to have emerged from hibernation beneath the warming
mud. Before too long there would be both, along with minnows and all manner of pond life. As a boy, Matt had spent endless hours here, sifting through the layers of life that gathered in, on, or near a country pond, from tadpoles and water-skimmers to dragon-flies and the occasional heron, raccoons, and deer. Over the years, he’d come to know them all. His love for the wildlife that populated Pumpkin Hill had been influential in his decision to become a veterinarian.

“Come on, Artie.” Matt leaned down and patted his dog on the back to get his attention. “Let’s take a walk.”

With Artie at his side, Matt walked the width of the back field, noting the proliferation of weeds—most noticeably dandelions—that had sprouted up where his aunt’s market crops—potatoes some years, soybeans some others—had once grown. Hope would be getting the soil ready for seeding, had she lived for one more spring. She’d be cleaning up the equipment—the tractor and the tiller—that would be used to plow under whatever might have sprung to life where the cash crops would be sowed. She’d dig deeply, turning over the soil, making sure the earth was warm and ready for planting. In another month or so, Matt pondered, she’d have close to sixty-five acres set in seed, the other acres being comprised of pond, woods, and the area close to the road where the house and the outbuildings sat.

He missed Hope, just as he missed his father, and his mother. Dr. Espey wouldn’t be around forever, either, and Laura ... well, he was losing her in a different way. The thought that sometimes life
seemed like little more than a series of losses swept over him and pinched him around the heart. He was still thinking about life and loss as he wandered toward the old tree. Without thinking twice, he sat down and leaned back against the trunk, trying to focus more on the many happy days he’d spent right here in this spot. It relaxed him a little, and he braced his hands behind his head, entwining his fingers, and closed his eyes. He smiled to himself, recalling how Laura had always repeated the local legend about how if you fell asleep under the wishing tree, you’d see the face of your one true love when you woke up.

“Not hardly,” Matt mused. “Unless we count Artie ...”

Artie found his master fast asleep and lay down beside him, his head on Matt’s lap. And there Artie stayed, until he heard the tires of the Jeep crunch on the stone drive. He sped off to investigate the intruder.

Georgia pulled up next to the farmhouse, as close to the back door as she could get. As Laura had promised, Tanner’s had everything. She had purchased a week’s supply of groceries along with a pair of sturdy canvas and suede garden gloves, a large bag of birdseed, and several boxes of extra large plastic lawn and leaf bags. She had called Laura on her cell phone and was telling her just that, as she turned off the engine and reached for the door handle at the exact second that the black beast attacked her car.

“Oh!” She screamed and backed away from the driver’s side window. “Oh!”

The dog—it
was
a dog, she felt pretty certain, though it was acting more like a vicious bear—
snarled and barked and growled through the glass. Thoroughly frightened, Georgia screamed again.

“Georgia! Georgia!” a terrified Laura yelled into the phone. “What is it?”

“Oh, go away! Go away!” Georgia was shouting.

“Georgia! What—”

“Oh, Laura! It’s horrible!” Georgia unhooked her seat belt so that she could back away from the window and the snarling jaws of the killer beast. “It’s the most horrible big black dog! He’s trying to eat his way into my car! And it must have rabies, it’s drooling and slobbering all over the window. I’m going to hang up and call Chief Monroe....”

“Wait a minute,” Laura said. “Did you say
big black dog?”

“Yes!”

“How big?”

“Oh, enormous-big! The biggest, fiercest dog I’ve ever seen!”

“Tell him to sit,” Laura instructed her. “Open the window and tell him.”

Georgia was certain she had not heard correctly. “What?”

“I said, open the window and tell him to sit.”

“Are you
crazy?
Laura, if I open this window, he’ll get me.”

“Georgia, trust me. Just open the window a little and tell him to sit.”

“Laura ...”

“Do it.”

Georgia rolled the window down just a hair. “Sit,” she whispered.

The dog lunged at the window.

“See?” she shrieked into the phone. “He wants in. He wants to bite me—”

“Georgia, that little whimper of yours would not get the attention of a child. Now, you tell that dog in no uncertain terms that you are the boss.”

“Laura, I’m not the boss! He is! You should see this thing, it’s bigger than I am!”

“I know he is, sweetie. That’s why I’m trying to tell you how to control him.”

Georgia paused. “How would you know?”

“It’s Artie. Matt’s dog. He’ll intimidate for a while—for as long as you will let him, or until he tires of the game.”

“Artie the water-dish Artie?”

“Yes.”

“He thinks this is a game?”

“Absolutely.”

“Bully the blonde?”

“Every chance he gets,” Laura laughed. “Now, say, ‘Sit, Artie.’”

Putting a name to the beast made it a little less fearsome.

“Sit, Artie.” Georgia opened the window a little farther.

In mid-lunge toward the window, Artie cocked his head to one side.

“Again, louder. More forceful.”

“Sit, Artie,” Georgia commanded sternly. And to her amazement, Artie sat.

“Hey, it worked!”

“Tell him he’s a good boy.”

“He’s not a good boy. He’s slobbered all over the side of my car and he scared me to death.”

“Georgia, do you want to spend the rest of the day in the front seat of your Jeep?”

Georgia rolled the window down a little more and peered down into the face of the beast. He was panting, watching her curiously.

“You’re a good boy.”

“Say it like you mean it,” Laura prodded her.

“You’re a very good boy.”

“Artie.”

“Artie,”
Georgia repeated. “You’re a very good boy,
Artie.”

Artie’s tail thumped the dirt.

“What’s he doing?” Laura asked.

“He’s wagging his tail and his tongue is hanging half out of the side of his mouth.”

“Good. Give him a reward.”

“Reward him for attacking me?”

“No. Reward him for stopping. What did you buy at Tanner’s?”

“The closest thing to wild-anything food that I have is birdseed.” Georgia turned and leaned into the backseat, poking through bags, and frowned. “No meat, of course. Salad stuff. Eggs.” Georgia paused, her hand on the egg carton.
Do dogs eat raw eggs?

“Carrots?” Laura asked.

“Oh, sure. I have carrots.” She reached into the closest bag and drew out the large bunch of organic carrots that sported their long leafy tops.

“Oh, good. Break one and call him to the car.”

“I really don’t think it’s carrots he’s after. I think he’d rather have my forearm.”

“Offer him the carrot.” Laura laughed. “Trust me.”

Georgia rolled the window down a little more.

“Here, Artie,” she called tentatively. “I have a nice carrot for you....”

The eager animal jumped up to the window, and Georgia tossed him the carrot, lest he get too close. His tail wagging merrily, he went around the front of the car and lay down on the grass, munching his prize with obvious relish.

“How ’bout that?” Georgia grinned. “Who’d ever believe it? A vegetarian rottweiler.”

Laura laughed. “Artie is a very special dog. I’m sorry he scared you, but he was only protecting his home from an intruder. You’ll be fine now.”

The crisis having passed, Laura was suddenly struck with the obvious: Artie. Matt.

“Ah, Georgia, I think I should warn you ... ,” Laura began hesitantly.

“Oh, I think we’re okay now.”

Having dispatched the carrot, Artie returned to the window, and Georgia handed him an apple. The big brown eyes of the dog glazed over with ecstasy as he returned to his spot on the grass. “I think he’ll let me out of the car and into the house, don’t you?”

“Oh, Artie will be fine. You’re his new best friend. But, Georgia—”

“Oh, Artie, you are such a handsome boy.” Georgia opened the door cautiously. “Such a good boy.”

The dog’s tail smacked the turf. Mashed up chunks of apple dribbled through his big smiling dog-mouth.

“Piece o’ cake,” she told Laura. “Thanks for the help. Right now, I’m going to unload the car. The danger’s past. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

“But Georgia—” Laura sighed as she realized that Georgia had already disconnected the call, thinking
all was well at Pumpkin Hill. A snarling Artie was nothing, Laura knew, compared to a snarling Matt.

Artie could be beguiled by a carrot, tamed with an apple.

It was going to take a lot more to maneuver past Matt.

chapter nine

The sun had dropped lower in the sky when Matt awoke and found himself beneath the tree in the middle of the field, his neck miserably crinked from being held in so awkward a position. He muttered a curse and tried to massage the back of his neck only to find that one arm had fallen asleep in protest of having spent the past two hours tucked behind his head. Matt stood up and tried to shake the blood back into his left arm while he rubbed his neck with his right.

“Artie,” he called when he realized the dog was nowhere in sight.

He whistled, long and loud. Once, twice, then looked around, expecting to see the big black dog streaking across the field in his direction. Nothing moved except a few low-hanging branches of the tree as a bit of breeze stirred up.

Concerned when the second whistle brought no more response than had the first, Matt walked with brisk apprehension toward the farmyard, fearful that
Artie had chased something across the road and was, at that moment, off and running to parts unknown. He was still rubbing the back of his neck when he reached the grassy area between the barn and the old chicken house. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

A tiny, trim blond woman tossed a stick halfway across the drive, with Artie in hot pursuit of the prize. From the distance, Matt could hear her laughter as Artie jumped into the air and caught the stick like a Frisbee. She patted her blue-jeaned knee and the dog trotted back happily to her, wagging his tail as he presented her with the stick to be tossed again.

It was the blonde from the inn. Matt was certain of it, even without seeing her face. Her hair—palest silk in the late afternoon sun—hung almost to her waist as she gathered it with one hand, catching it in something that held it in one long sweet line down her back. She moved with the same grace with which she had crossed the parking lot that day at the Bishop’s Inn, effortlessly flowing like an easy stream on an April morning. She had made him think of music then, and now, for some odd reason, she made him think of a jewelry box Laura had gotten for Christmas one year. It had been made of pink leather, and inside stood a tiny dancer that twirled to tinny music when the lid was opened.

Matt’s heart sank when he realized that he was more than likely still sleeping under the tree. A woman like this didn’t cross your path twice in real life—except in dreams.

Artie strutted across the yard, cheerfully showing off, nuzzling her hand and wagging merrily when she
bent down and scratched behind both of the dog’s ears at the same time.

Matt watched in fascination as his dream woman—a fairy princess, if ever he’d seen one—continued to play toss-the-stick with his dog.

Several minutes passed before Artie spied his master and decided to include Matt in the game. The dog raced up the drive, stick in mouth, then stopped about five feet from Matt, challenging him to chase him and try to take the stick from his mouth. Matt had taken no more than two steps toward Artie when the dog turned and raced back toward the blonde.

What could Matt do but follow?

Besides, in dreams,
he was thinking as he chased his dog toward the farmhouse,
the beautiful princess always showed up, sooner or later.
He was halfway across the drive, wondering if he appeared to be running in slow motion the way people always did in TV dreams, when his left foot rolled over a large stone, causing his foot to twist and sharp pain to shoot through his ankle.

That’s when it occurred to him that maybe this wasn’t a dream. After all, things weren’t supposed to hurt in dreams, and here he was, going down on one hand with knives of heat running up his left leg.