Which wouldn't do any good. It's not the official income that counts. It's the hidden profits, from those who buy their way in under a false story.
"Oliver Brady is your responsibility, Sheriff," Phil says. "You only have to keep him safe for six months. I'm certain you can do that. If you can't, we'll need to find someone who can."
13
It's almost ten at night, and there's still enough daylight for me to squeeze in an hour of training with Storm. She's graduated beyond obedience lessons. We covered those as soon as she was old enough. We've passed manners training, too, which is particularly critical given her size. Greeting people by jumping on them ceased to be adorable about twenty pounds ago. By the time she's full-grown, even leaning in for attention could topple people. Roughhousing is for playtime and only with a select few people. For the rest, she must comport herself with queenly dignity.
Tonight's lesson is also critical for her breed: distraction and dominance training. She'll weigh more than me in a few months, which means I will physically be unable to restrain her. I'm putting her through her basic paces--sit, stay, come--while Dalton sits on the porch and tosses her favorite ball in the air.
"Storm . . ." I say when she looks his way.
Her ears perk, but her gaze doesn't move.
"Eyes on me."
Her head shifts, just enough so she can see me out of the corner of her eye.
"Uh-uh. Eyes on me. Both of them."
Her gaze shoots to me. Back to Dalton. He chuckles.
"Storm."
She sighs, a deep one, her jowls quivering. Then she looks my way and keeps her attention there.
Dalton fake-fumbles the ball. As it thumps to the ground, her head whips toward him.
"Storm," I say. "Eyes on me."
Another sigh, as she looks my way with a glower, like a teen saying, Happy now?
"Stand."
She does.
"Sit."
She grumbles at that, having clearly hoped the stand meant she was about to be released.
"Down."
She flounces to the ground. Dalton pitches the ball. It springs past us, and her muscles bunch.
"Stay."
She hesitates, muscles still tense. Then she gives in and tears her gaze from the ball.
"Are you ready?" I say.
She whimpers, body quivering. But she doesn't rise. Doesn't look at Dalton. Keeps her gaze on me.
"Wait . . . wait . . . and . . . go."
She leaps up and tears toward Dalton . . . and I see that sling on his arm.
"Shit!" I say. "I mean, no, wait--"
He falls on his ass before she can get to him. As she pounces, I'm running over with "Storm, no--"