A Dog's Way Home (13 page)

Let me tell you, that whole upstairs of their house could have held our entire house in Wild Cat Cove. I've never seen so many hallways and doors leading to lord knows where. Seemed like every other door, she'd point and say, “There's a bathroom if you need it.”

Loud
thump, thump, thump
ing came from behind one door. If the carpet hadn't been so thick, you could have felt the floor vibrating beneath your feet. Cheyenne pushed open the door and yelled, “Hey, Harley.” The music coming from the room about knocked me backward.

A big, tall boy turned from the computer on his desk. “What's up?”

Cheyenne pushed me forward. “This is my friend
Abby. Abby, this is my brother, Harley.”

Harley bobbed his head in my general direction. “Cool.”

“Hey,” I said.

“Where's the Momster?” Cheyenne asked.

“At the club, where she usually is,” Harley said.

Cheyenne rolled her eyes. “Totally.”

“Totally,” Harley agreed, and turned back to his computer.

Cheyenne led me down the hall to the last closed door. She pulled it open, and I stepped into another universe. Cheyenne didn't seem to think there was anything unusual about the fact that she had not only a bathroom in her bedroom, but a small kitchen and fireplace! Her bed sat in the middle of the huge room like an island amid a sea of clothes strewn across the floor.

But once I got used to her room, I felt like I was with Olivia in her room. We sprawled across her bed and talked and talked and talked. She told me how much she hated living in the city, how much she missed the farm they'd lived on in Leipers Fork.

“Hey,” I said, “isn't that where some of that
Tennessee Home
movie was filmed?”

She rolled her eyes again. “You saw that?”

I shrugged.

“Yeah,” she said. “That's the place. We have an old
farmhouse and about sixty acres out there. I even have a couple of horses.”

“Why'd you move to town?” I asked.

“My mom hates the country. Too far from shopping and the country club. She doesn't even like going out there on the weekends.”

I told her all about our place in Wild Cat Cove, about the apple orchard and Lake Inferior and the llamas, about Clear Creek and the willow tree.

We were both quiet for a while, then she said, “How come you know so much about dogs?”

I really hadn't planned on it, but the whole blessed story of Tam just came pouring out. And do you know what? She listened, really listened.

“I know it sounds crazy and all, but I just can't shake the feeling he's coming home,” I said. “That's a big part of why I was so upset when we had to move here.”

Cheyenne shook her head. “I don't think it's crazy. Haven't you ever read
Lassie Come-Home
or
The Incredible Journey
?”

Before I could answer, she jumped off her bed and went to one of her many bookcases. I thought Olivia had a lot of books, but Cheyenne had enough books to practically fill the Balsam County Library at home.

She tossed two books onto the bed. “Take them home with you. I've read them a million times at least.”

I glanced at the clock on her wall.

“Holy moley, I got to get home,” I said.

 

The tires of the black limo hissed on the rain-wet streets as we eased down my street. Mama's truck was in the driveway.

“I had a real good time today,” I said to Cheyenne.

She smiled. “Mutual.” She held Dusty to my cheek. “Kiss Abby good-bye,” she cooed. Dusty gave my cheek a dainty little lick.

“Bye, Mr. Richard, thanks again,” I said.

Mr. Richard touched the edge of his cap. “You're most welcome, Miss Abby.”

I ran up the walkway, jumped up onto our saggy little porch, and burst in the front door. I heard Mama and Daddy's voices in the kitchen. “Hey,” I called. “You'll never guess what!”

Mama raced out of the kitchen and locked me up in such a ferocious hug, she about broke my ribs.

She held me away from her. Her face was red and wet. “Thank the Lord, you're okay!”

I glanced from her to Daddy, standing in the doorway looking like a whipped puppy. “Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be?”

“Where in the world have you been?” Mama asked. “I've been crazy with worry!”

“I went for a walk,” I said. “I told Daddy.”

“That was hours ago, peanut,” Daddy said.

“Oh, well, I walked and walked and do you know the next thing I knew I was right in downtown Nashville, and then there was this girl hollering for help because her little-bitty dog had gotten loose and was about to get squashed out in traffic, so I—”

Mama whirled on Daddy like some crazy person. “See? What did I tell you, Ian?”

Daddy held his hands up like he was fending off a rabid dog. “Now, Holly, she's okay, isn't she?”

“Mama,” I said, tugging on her sleeve, “let me tell you the rest of what happened. I'm just getting to the really
good
part.”

Ignoring me, Mama said, “Don't you get it? This is
not
home! It's one thing in Wild Cat Cove or even Harmony Gap to let Abby go off on her own exploring all day. But not here!”

“But Mama…”

Mama glared at me. “Go to your room now, Abigail Andrea Whistler,” she snapped.

 

Later that night, Mama came into my room. “Can I come in, Abby?”

I set aside
Lassie Come-Home
. “If you're done yelling at me.”

Mama sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “I'm sorry, honey,” she said. “I was scared.”

She climbed in beside me on my bed. She wrapped me in her arms—something she hadn't done in a long time—rocked me just a tiny bit. I listened to the
thump thump
of her heart.

Finally she said, “Tell me the rest of the story about your day, Abby,” and I did. I told her all about riding in the limousine and how Cheyenne's house not only had big white pillars on the outside, but on the inside too. “And do you know what, Mama? Cheyenne even has a little kitchen in her bedroom, and a bathroom,
and
a fireplace too!”

“Good gravy,” Mama said.

Then I told her about all the things Cheyenne and I have in common and how she misses her home in the country too. “You sure can never tell about folks, can you, Mama?”

A
car door slammed; the faint sound of voices. Tam raised his head from the icy river and cocked his ears toward the house.

He worked his way up from the riverbank through the new snow. Maybe the old woman was back and she would feed him dinner, stroke his head. Two days had passed since she left, and all the kibble was gone.

He heard that name that was almost his name but not quite. “Sam!” floated down through the woods from the cabin. Tam stopped at the edge of the woods. It was not her voice.

Doc Pritchett cupped his hands around his mouth and called again. “Sam! Come here, Sam!”

Randall ran his hand through his black hair. “How the heck was I supposed to know she had a dog? She never told me she had a dog. I'd sure never seen one.”

“And when was the last time you actually visited your mama?” Doc Pritchett said.

Randall shrugged. “A couple weeks before Christmas, I guess. For a day or two.”

The vet didn't say anything, just studied the front yard.

Randall pointed to the tracks on the porch. “Looks like he's been here, though. Maybe he's just out sniffing around, chasing a rabbit or something.”

The vet shook his head. “He's a sheltie, not a hound. Shelties don't hunt.” He squinted at the tracks in the snow. “If he's close by, why doesn't he come? Lord, your mama's going to pitch a fit if we don't find that little dog. She's gotten real attached.”

Tam watched the two men on the porch. If it were just the old man, he'd have shown himself.

But the tall, dark man was there too. The one who had yelled at him and hurt him. As hungry and lonely as he was, Tam would not show himself to that man. Ever. He turned and followed his own tracks back down to the river.

As dusk stretched across the meadow, Tam went back to the cabin. The car was gone. No sound came from inside the house. The scent of the two men was faint.

And the front door, closed.

Tam barked once. This was what he had done at another home—a big white house at the top of a hill—when he was ready to come in. Someone always came. This time, no one did. Tam barked again, louder. Then he scratched at the door, something that always brought the words, “No, Tam!” But the door would open for him anyway. Not this time.

Tam trotted down the steps and around to the back of the house. Sometimes the old woman came and went from that door. It was closed too, and no amount of barking and scratching opened it.

Tam went back around to the front of the cabin. He had lived there for more than two months. She had always been there. Food and warmth had always been there. Now the cabin was silent. No smoke spiraled up from the chimney; no light in the windows.

He lay on the mat in front of the door with his bewilderment. He licked his paws over and over, a distraction from the hunger gnawing at his belly. He watched a barn owl hunting low over the far fields. A fox barked. Cold wind blew. Tam whimpered and curled up tight, nose buried under his tail.

The next morning when he awoke, he shook himself and stretched. Still, the fine web of his night's dream clung to him and burrowed in his heart—a dream of watching
a sweeping meadow from the edge of a porch; hearing the music of a girl's—
his
girl's—voice calling, “Tam! Come here, Tam!” the voice lifting him, carrying him to the safety of her arms.

He trotted down the porch steps and stood in the front yard. His wet black nose worked back and forth. The wind from the south held a certain sweetness. He took two tentative steps toward the cabin and stood in indecision. Tam whined.

Then another sense rose in him—the homing sense. It pulled on him like the needle on a compass. He looked back at the cabin. There was nothing there to hold him. Home was not this place with the old woman; home was not at the side of his coyote friend. Home was his girl. He belonged with her.

He shook himself again. Like a traveler waking from a long dream, he struck out and resumed his journey south.

 

Tam followed the New River as it ran south and west of the old woman's home. The hard freezes at night kept the top crust of the snow firm enough for Tam to walk easily on it. He set a steady pace, covering many miles.

On the third day, Tam hesitated. The river turned abruptly north. He followed it for two or three miles, then stopped. This going did not feel right. The farther north he went, the more his compass told him to turn back.

He came across the remains of a deer carcass. Foxes, coyotes, and bobcats had stripped most of the meat. Tam hadn't eaten for three days. He managed to work loose a few strips of meat and skin.

Tam drank from the river, then napped in the pocket of the roots of a fallen birch.

The next morning, he left the New River and struck out south. By evening of the next day, Tam crossed the invisible line from Virginia into North Carolina. He had no way of knowing that. He had no way of knowing he had more than two hundred forty miles behind him, and that the mountains would now rise higher, the forests would now become wilder.

What Tam did know was that the wind had shifted direction. The air smelled wet and sharp and urgent. By late afternoon, thick gray clouds piled against the tops of the mountains and ridgelines. Late that night, as Tam slept tucked up tight under a rocky outcropping on a high ridge, a storm roared in from the north. Great gusts of wind-driven snow curtained the ridgetop.

When he woke the next morning, a light blanket of snow covered his body. Weak light filtered into his makeshift den. A thick wall of snow sealed closed the opening from the night before.

Tam pushed against the snow with his long muzzle. The wind had packed the snow as hard as concrete. Tam
scratched at the snow wall with one paw. His claws barely left a trace.

Tam barked, then listened. The only sound was the beat of panic in his chest.

Then Tam heard a faint call from the laurel cove beneath the craggy rocks. He stopped panting and cocked his head to listen. The music of a coyote's howl drifted across the cove and up the rocky slope to Tam's white prison.

Tam barked in reply. The howl came again. He cocked his head to one side. Was it closer this time?

Tam clawed furiously at the wall of snow. His efforts made little difference.

He found a weaker spot in the wall. He felt a slight give beneath his paws. He clawed all the harder. Blood stained the white snow. His feet had grown soft during his months with the old woman. His shoulder ached.

He stopped and listened. Silence. He barked a high, seeking bark. Again, he heard the answer from below.

Feet bleeding, pain shooting through his shoulder, Tam broke through the white wall and into the sunlight. He fell onto the wind-packed snow, panting and blinking against the bright light. He licked the blood from his cut pads. One nail was torn away. He studied the snowbound forest for the coyote. He saw nothing. He barked once, then listened. His only answer was the caw of a raven.

He limped down the hillside to the laurel cove, his bloody footprints leaving a trail behind. If he could only find the coyote, he would be fine.

But there were no tracks of her. There was no musky smell of her, either. There were only the tracks of small birds, squirrels, and chipmunks.

Tam barked and listened. Then barked again. And again and again. At first he thought he heard her, but it was only his own voice echoing in reply. The coyote was not there. Tam threw back his head and howled his loneliness to the sky.