“I did what?”

“You left me this dog? You tied this mean, godforsaken, dangerous dog to my tree? Why in God’s name would you do such a thing?”

He smiled. As if she hadn’t just screamed abuse on him up one side and down the other.

“His name is Darby. Used to be a show dog. Hard to believe, the way he looks now, isn’t it? But he’s a thoroughbred shepherd with a long, pretty lineage. The neighborhood kids used to play with him, he was that sweet and gentle…”

She crossed to the fence, her gaze sweeping the ground for a log big enough to brain him with.

“…belonged to Arthur Chapman. You remember him, don’t you? Quiet guy, lived down Cooper Street and across the creek, that property on the left after the bridge. Good man. Dog lover. But then Art got Alzheimer’s. Naturally, people realized he was getting strange, but you know how folks are tolerant in White Hills. So they just tried to let him be. Nobody realized that in his own house, he’d gotten mean, was beating and starving the dog. It wasn’t really his fault. He wasn’t in his right mind. Anyway-”

She couldn’t find a log. Lots of twigs in the grass, but nothing big enough to do any damage.

“Anyway, the neighbors finally figured out that Art wasn’t coping on his own. They called the cops, who called Social Services, all that. Everybody was prepared to take care of Art, but no one realized they’d find the dog in such a godawful mess.”

“You’re taking this dog right back.”

“Nope, I’m not. But if you don’t want him, you can call the pound.”

“I most certainly do not want him-”

“Of course, they’ll put him down,” Pete assured her genially. “They don’t have the time or means to turn him around. Actually, I’m not sure anyone can. But the pound, for sure, will believe it’s easier to put him to sleep. In fact, that’s probably what I’d do.”