I walk to Dalton. Storm erupts in a frenzy of anxiety, thinking I haven't understood her current requirements. I bend and lay a hand on Dalton's shoulder, and Storm helps, her black tongue rasping over his bearded cheek. He doesn't stir.
"Come on then, girl," I say, more in hopes of waking him than communicating with her. Still no movement from either guy.
I take Storm to the back door instead, which makes her even happier. The forest is there. The glorious forest. I snap on her lead while she wriggles. The door opens, and she's out like a shot, leaving me stumbling after her.
"We're going exactly this far," I say as soon as I'm off the back deck, shuffling through the calf-deep snow.
Storm disagrees. Vehemently. Voices her disagreement in howls that, while adorable, will not be appreciated by Anders's neighbors.
When I sigh, she senses victory and begins yanking on the lead, straining toward the forest's edge.
"Ten steps." Then I count them, as if she's a child. When I reach ten, the long lead takes her just into the forest. She piddles. Then she does more than piddle, which makes me glad I brought her out.
Once she finishes that particular bit of business, she decides it's time for a walk and begins straining again. I'm reminded of what Dalton said, that Newfoundlands are members of the mastiff family, and I feel it in that pull, the warning that she's going to need to be very well trained, because when she's full grown, I'll lose the war if she decides she wants to go somewhere I don't.
For now, I yank back with a firm no.
We battle it out for a minute before she stops. Just stops, and I feel a momentary thrill of victory. Then I see her, body completely still, nose twitching, eyes wide.
She whimpers. It's tentative, uncertain, and I jog over, reeling in her lead. I enter the forest. I don't think about that. I hear her crying, and I run to her, and she plasters herself to my legs. She's shaking, and I know it's not the cold. I bend to pick her up. As I rise, movement flashes to my left. I spin and see nothing.
It's dark. Truly dark. We can't have outdoor lights. To use indoor ones after dusk, you must pull your blackout blinds to avoid the glow that signals a settlement.
When I'd been standing on the forest edge, the moon had lit the strip of yard to twilight. Now, inside the woods, trees block all but a glimmer of moonlight, and I am suddenly aware of how dark it is. How quiet. And that I left my gun inside.
I'm straining to listen, but Storm is whining and burrowing into my arms, an armful of anxiety and fur and claws as she scrabbles to get closer.
"Shh, shh, shh," I whisper.
What did you hear? What do you smell?
If it was a person, you'd be bounding over for hugs and pats because that is your life experience with humans--love and attention.
And yet ...
I stand there, in the dark and the silence, and I remember Nana, when my father came across that yard to get me. She'd growled, and that had startled me, and I'd looked up to see him, and there was no outward reason for her growl. He wasn't bearing down on me. Wasn't snarling my name. Wasn't even scowling. My parents weren't like that. Sometimes I wished they had been. Sometimes I even wished they'd just haul off and smack me, because it would have been emotion, and I'd been so starved for any sign that they cared. I'd tell myself they must or they wouldn't try to keep me safe, but their kind of care always felt like putting the car in the garage or jewels in a safe. Protecting an investment.
My father had walked calmly into the yard that day. When he'd asked me to come with him, his voice was equally calm. He didn't lay a hand on me, but Nana had leapt up snarling, which of course, seemed only to prove his point that dogs were dangerous. The truth was that Nana recognized some sign that my father posed a threat, the same way a guy can offer to buy me a drink, as nice and respectful as possible, yet some sixth sense in my gut says to refuse.
Now Storm is desperately trying to hide in my arms from some unseen danger, and I can tell myself it's not human, but I know it is.
I just know.
My back is to the house. I take a step in that direction. Then another. I'm ready to wheel and run, but that means putting my back to him. I imagine the man in the snowmobile suit and that bar raised to hit me, and I know it might not be the same person, but this isn't a criminal investigation, where I need to consider all possibilities. I must seize the worst-case scenario and act as if it's the only one.
I'll be safe in a moment. Only a few steps to get out of the forest and another couple of dozen to the deck, and even if I don't make it that far, I'll be close enough to shout, close enough for Dalton or Anders to hear me.
Another step.
The squeak of snow underfoot. Not a crunch. Just a squeak. It's enough. I'm about to wheel and run, and Dalton's name is on my lips, but the moment that squeak comes, Storm flies from my arms, her back legs pushing to launch herself. She leaps in front of me, growling. I grab for her, but a shape moves in the forest, and she lunges, and I'm not gripping the leash. I don't even realize that until she's running and the lead snaps against my hands as it reels out.
I dive on it. Again, I don't think. I see that leash against the snow, and I dive, and I catch it. Something flashes, winking in the moonlight, like a steel bar flying from the darkness. It's swinging down at my dog, and I yank that leash so hard Storm yelps and flies backward, and I fly too with the momentum. I hear a shout of "Casey
!" and footsteps running, and I yell, "Here!" but Dalton's already racing through the yard. No coat. No boots either.
He barrels over as I rise, leash in hand. He stops and exhales, as if realizing I just stepped out for the dog, but then I say, "Someone's out here."
I'm clutching the shaking puppy, and Dalton has his gun out, moving in front of me, squinting into the darkness. I start to step back, and he's so close we're touching, and when I move, he reaches as if to grab me.