Girl, Stolen(42)

Cheyenne took a deep breath. Let it out. Coughed for a few seconds, then got it under control. She had to forget about everything. Ignore the dog. Not think about Griffin. Not wonder if he was dead. She had to focus on getting out of here before the men came back.

Waving the antenna in front of her, she took a few experimental steps. It wasn’t nearly long enough, and it was too flexible. Still, it was a lot better than nothing. Once she reached the woods, she could replace it with a long stick.

She started off. Behind her, Duke whined, low in his throat. She realized he had stopped barking. She could hear his breathing. The sound reminded her so much of Phantom.

Cheyenne turned. Not knowing if there was a moon out or how well the dog could see in the dark, she was careful to keep her face turned to the side, so he wouldn’t think she was challenging him with a stare. She kept still, with her arms at her sides.

“Good dog,” she said. She stretched each word out and kept her voice soft. “Did I scare you? I didn’t mean to.”

Duke whined again.

Cheyenne kept her words flowing, each one slow and soothing. “Do you ever get tired of being on that big chain? Do you ever just want to get out of here? To be free?” Her voice had been trembling, but now it strengthened. It was a crazy idea, but then so was walking through the woods whacking the underbrush with a car antenna. “Do you want to just go? Do you, Duke?”

Very slowly, she reached into her coat pocket. Her fingers closed on a piece of kibble. With an underhand toss, she threw it in his direction.

A yip let her know that she had spooked him. How many times had someone shied a stone at Duke? But he must have figured out it wasn’t a stone, because next he made a curious little whuff. The chain rattled, and she heard him whine as he strained forward. The kibble must be out of reach.

She threw another piece. Another whine. On the third toss, a snuffle, followed by a gobble, told her that he had managed to retrieve it.

He caught the next piece of kibble in midair. She heard the big jaws snap closed. Another low whine. Begging.

Cheyenne wondered if Duke had ever begged before in his life. Or if anyone would have listened if he had.

With each bit of kibble she took a step closer. Finally she was close enough that she could feel his warmth. Making a fist of her hand, she held it out, still not certain that he wouldn’t snap it off in a single bite. Instead he sniffed. She felt the dampness of his cold nose, and then, incredibly, a warm wet tongue. So Duke was a dog after all, despite what everyone else thought.

Moving with infinite slowness, Cheyenne placed the palm of her hand on his head. Duke trembled, but did not otherwise move or make a sound. She scratched behind one ear. When she moved her hand to his other ear, he pressed against her fingers, urging her to scratch right there, just as Phantom would have. She felt herself calming down, and she sensed that Duke was, too.

Tracing their way down his neck, her fingers found the place where the heavy chain clipped onto the metal choke collar with a simple toggle. Could she walk him on the chain? She took a few steps away from Duke, letting the links play through her fingers. No. The chain was far too long and heavy.

Then Cheyenne thought of her belt. She walked back to Duke and began to scratch his head again. Even though every bit of her screamed that she had to get out of here as soon as she could, she knew she couldn’t hurry without risking spooking him. With her free hand, she undid her belt buckle. Awkwardly, she rolled it up one-handed, slowly slipping it loop by loop from her jeans.

She didn’t want Duke to see the belt loose, in case he felt threatened. Who knew if Duke had ever been whipped?

Cheyenne amended the thought. She knew.

All the while, she kept up a steady stroking with her other hand, tracing the shape of his head. Duke, with his short, flat fur, felt nothing like Phantom, yet it was as if Phantom was with her now.

When she had the belt free, her fingers tucked the end of it underneath Duke’s collar. He whined, quivering under her touch, but otherwise didn’t move. Threading the belt through the metal loop, Cheyenne pulled it until it became a makeshift leash. As if she were holding Phantom, she found herself taking her normal stance, her left leg ahead of her right, with the dog’s head next to her left thigh. Then she held her breath as she unclipped the chain.

“Duke, forward,” she said. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

The dog whined deep in his chest but didn’t move.

“Duke, forward!” she said again. “Hop up!” Phantom would have known that meant she wanted to go fast, but what did Duke know? Then she felt him gather himself.

And they were off.





THE WIND CREATES THE TREES