“Here, boy.”
Thomas whistled, and the dog yelped again. Stepping over a fallen tree, Thomas cut through a stand of pines and rejoined the trail down the hill from the ranger’s station. He wondered if Darren was in his cabin or walking the trails as he liked to do during the warm season. A bee buzzed at Thomas’s head. He brushed it away and followed the whimpers.
When he stepped within ten strides of the dog, the animal lowered into a crouch and growled.
“Easy there, buddy. I won’t hurt you.”
He took a cautious step forward. The low growl rumbled through Thomas’s bones. His heart hammered with the possibility the dog was rabid. Even if it wasn’t, a cornered, injured animal demanded caution and respect. Thomas dropped to one knee. Through the tall grass, he could see the emaciated dog, patches of fur missing, the animal’s ribs clearly defined.
“I’m coming closer, all right?”
The dog disagreed. Its hackles rose, fur standing erect as Thomas shimmied through the weeds. His eyes followed the ridge, hoping Darren was close enough to help. Dogs escaped campers all the time, so there was a fair chance the ranger kept an extra leash. Except Thomas didn’t see a collar on this dog. No tags to identify the owner. Even if he convinced the dog to trust him, how the hell would he get it back to the truck?
Thomas remembered the beef jerky pouch. He fished the package out of his pocket and tore off a piece. Crept closer.
The dog bared its teeth. The fangs were long enough to rip Thomas’s throat out if the dog lunged.
“Here you go, boy. You look hungry.”
He tossed the jerky at the dog’s paws. The canine locked eyes with Thomas. After a tense moment, the dog sniffed the jerky and gobbled the food in one bite. A split second later, its head shot up, orange and black eyes burning at Thomas. Then it sniffed the air, its focus on the package in Thomas’s hand.
“Oh, you want more?”
Thomas tore a small piece and tossed it half a foot in front of the dog, forcing the animal to crawl out of hiding if it wanted to eat. The dog eyed the bait for a heartbeat as the wind played through its coat. Now that he was close, Thomas saw the dog was only a pup despite its impressive size. Large paws with sharp talons. Siberian Husky? When the dog shifted forward, it issued a high-pitched squeak and lifted its front paw. Thomas eyed the thorns piercing the padding, the dried blood. The same leg had a nasty gash down the front.
“That’s an easy fix, boy. Let me help, and you’ll be on your feet in no time.”
Right. How could he remove the thorns without the dog taking his head off? It settled on its belly, paws splayed out. As it snapped up the jerky, Thomas ripped another piece. This time he held it in his palm, arm extended. It took all his will to stop his arm from shaking. He loved dogs, felt more comfortable around canines than he did people. But this was no ordinary dog.
The snout edged closer as the monstrous pup sniffed the air. No growl. That was a good sign. Thomas was mid-blink when the dog snatched the dried beef off his palm. His heart leapt into his throat as the dog chewed. That could have been his hand.
Thomas didn’t recall moving toward the dog with the last of the jerky. Before he knew what he’d done, one hand was stroking the dog’s fur as his other held the food, palm-up as before. To his shock, the dog licked his face before turning its interest to the jerky. With the dog distracted and eating, he plucked two thorns from the dog’s paw. A yelp and a growl. Then another lick across his cheek.
He worked the last of the thorns out of the padding. Beneath the summer sun, he pet the pup, careful not to touch where the dog lost its fur. The exposed skin looked pink and irritated, and the gash needed attention—a cleaning, antibiotic, and a bandage. Easier said than done.
When Thomas rose, the dog stood with him and nuzzled his thigh.
“Are we friends now?” Thomas patted the dog’s head and searched the trail. “Whether we choose the ranger’s station or the truck, it’s a five-minute walk. But I don’t have a collar or a leash. How should we handle this?”
The dog cocked its head.
“What if I run to the truck and grab a rope out of the back? You wait here, okay?”
As Thomas turned down the trail, the dog limped after him. Thomas held up, and the dog stopped at his feet.
“So you want to come with me. I suppose that makes things easier. Follow me, boy.”
Dragonflies hummed along the path as the man and his new best friend trekked back to the lake road. The F-150 rested on the shoulder where he’d left it. Thomas opened the door, and the dog sat on its haunches and stared up at him.
“Good thinking. Better not test that leg until we fix you up.” He closed the door and locked it. “See that A-frame over there? That’s my place. Let’s you and I take the easy way home, and I’ll come back for the truck after you’re settled.”
Windows covered the bulk of the A-frame, letting in brilliant light. This was the house his Uncle Truman built when Thomas was a child. He spent many nights sleeping in the guest house beside the lake to escape fights with his parents. Now he followed the two-tiered ramp he’d installed during the spring to accommodate Scout, Naomi’s wheelchair-bound teenage daughter. His neighbor’s car sat next door. He’d also paved
