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A cutting Idaho wind, laced with the bawling of cattle, blew across the pasture and whined in Tuck Malloy’s ears. Winter would come soon. Squinting, he studied the tops of tall evergreen trees undulating against the horizon. Soon the verdant grassland would turn the color of fresh-baked bread, and the blue of the sky would deepen to rifle-barrel gray. Snow would shroud the land, covering the hills and filling in the gullies. Imagining that biting cold made his arthritic joints pang, an unwelcome reminder that he was seventy-three and not getting any younger.
Tuck sighed, wishing he were anywhere but on his neighbor’s, Jared Prince’s, land. Unfortunately, there was an unspoken rule among ranchers in this area that a call for help from a fellow cattleman never went unheeded without good reason—and Tuck hadn’t had a believable excuse to stay home. He’d grumped to himself as he’d driven here with his horse in the stock trailer, but now, saddled up and ready to go, he’d resigned himself to a long day. He enjoyed working with cattle. He’d focus on that and try not to let Prince get his goat.
Tuck guessed his animosity stemmed from the other man’s abusive treatment of his wife before she finally found the courage to leave him. She’d been a scrawny thing, and as timid as an oft-kicked dog. Tuck had seen her sporting bruises too many times to believe she was merely accident-prone. Jared Prince was a woman beater, no two ways around it, and Tuck had no use for men of his ilk.
Cows bellowed as Tuck and other neighboring ranchers edged their horses into the milling herd. Jared hadn’t castrated or marked last spring’s calves yet. He was a lazy fellow and a procrastinator to boot. The aim today was to get all the postponed work done. Tuck disapproved of Jared’s timing. Early castration was less stressful for a calf, and physical recovery was normally faster. It was also easier on the men doing the work when the calves were small.
Tuck pointed his gelding, Bolt, at a calf. His horse was well trained and only needed to be shown which critter he was supposed to single out. Mike Polson, the owner of a ranch a few miles south, manned the gate of the crowding pen. Just as Tuck pushed his first target inside the enclosure, he heard a canine yelping. It was the high-pitched cry of an animal in awful pain.
Tuck turned in the saddle to see whose dog had gotten hurt. His blood heated when he realized it was Jared’s female blue heeler. Though her belly was swollen with pregnancy, Jared had chosen to work her today. Apparently, she had done something wrong, because Jared was leaning sideways in the saddle to jolt her with a cattle prod. The poor thing turned onto her back in surrender, giving her owner an opportunity to shock her swollen teats.
It took a great deal to make Tuck see red. Over the years, he’d turned a blind eye to a lot of things that disgusted him, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t tolerate animal abuse. Without thinking it through, he bumped his heels against Bolt’s sides and the astonished horse jumped into a run. Tuck headed straight for Prince, still astride his mount, and leaped from the saddle onto his back. They both plummeted to the ground. Upon impact, Tuck rolled, struggled to his feet, and grabbed the prod that Prince had dropped. Pushing the pronged end against the fly of the other rancher’s jeans, he pressed the trigger.
Prince screamed and huddled to protect his groin. Tuck didn’t hesitate and shocked him a second time on the back of his neck where bare skin was exposed. All Tuck got were those two chances to give Prince a taste of his own medicine. Then someone grabbed the prod and jerked it from his hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Polson had abandoned the gate and run over to intervene. “Damn, Tuck. Hotshots are for animals!”
“Not for a pregnant dog that’s workin’ her heart out. I’d like to shove it up the bastard’s ass and light him up like a Christmas tree.” Tuck swung out of the man’s hold, picked up his Stetson, and strode back to his horse. “Y’all can turn a blind eye if you want. All I care about now is findin’ that poor dog and takin’ her to my place, where she’ll be safe.” He scanned the area. The blue heeler was nowhere in sight. “Which way did she go?”
Polson pointed. “Down yonder toward the river.”
Tuck mounted his gelding as Prince scrambled to his feet. “That bitch belongs to me!” he yelled, thumping his chest and taking a step toward Tuck. “I already have buyers for her pups. You’ll take her over my dead body!”
“That can be arranged,” Tuck replied in a level voice. Prince stopped in his tracks. For the first time in his life Tuck felt capable of murder. He turned his horse toward the stream. Then he stopped to drill Prince with a glare. “A piece of advice to you, Jared. When I come back with that dog, stay the hell out of my way.”
When Tuck reached the rocky bank of the river, he searched for the blue heeler’s tracks. After ten minutes, he felt his pulse slow to a normal rate, but even though his anger had diminished, he didn’t regret what he’d done and knew he never would. At least once in every man’s life there came a moment when he couldn’t stand aside and do nothing.
A picture lingered in his mind of the dog, and the thought of her whelping out here alone made him heartsick. Even if she found shelter, she’d endure a cold night. She’d also have no food, and once her pups were born, she’d be hard-pressed to hunt. It didn’t seem fair that such a loyal and hardworking animal should suffer like that, and he hoped he could find her before darkness fell.
He combed the riverbank until dusk. Tomorrow , he vowed as he turned back. He’d return at first light to search again, and he wouldn’t stop looking until he found her. She had more grit and stamina than a lot of men he knew, and she deserved a better life.
* * *
Once his ranch chores were done, Tuck spent nearly every afternoon for almost a month scouring the riverbank for Prince’s dog. At the end of each day, he swore it would be the last. Looking this long for an animal that might already be dead was crazy. Only, for reasons beyond him, he couldn’t give up the search. She couldn’t have traveled far. She’d been about to whelp the morning she ran away. Had she been able to leave her pups long enough to hunt for food? Had she found some shelter to shield herself and the babies from the wind? The questions haunted him and deprived him of sleep at night.
He’d learned from a friend that the blue heeler’s name was Molly. He’d called her so many times that he’d grown hoarse. If she heard his voice, would she come to him? She might be so frightened of men that she’d hide instead, and Tuck couldn’t say he’d blame her.
The rockiness of the shore made it difficult for him to find tracks, and even when he did come across some in sandy stretches, they were blurred by wind and rain. He couldn’t be sure if they’d been left by a dog or a coyote. Was he getting warm, or was he miles away from where Molly had holed up? If her puppies had survived, they’d be almost four weeks old by now. He wondered how many she might have had. Five, maybe six? Even as few as three would have suckled away the nutrients she needed to survive herself.
Toward the end of that last day, Tuck still didn’t want to give up, but the weather forecast offered him no choice. About a week ago, it had turned colder, and tonight a foot of snowfall was predicted. He couldn’t ride his horse through deep drifts when the ground underneath was so uneven. Please, God, let me find her.
He didn’t know why it was so important to him to rescue a dog. Maybe it was because he’d failed others so many times that he was loath to do it again. He’d done a poor job of raising his daughter, Lisa, allowing her to grow up expecting her every wish to be granted. Then, despite symptoms he should have recognized, he’d let his wife, Marge, die of cardiac arrest. Only a few years after that, he’d hemmed and hawed around before taking his granddaughter, Crystal, away from her neglectful parents. As a result, the child had been emotionally damaged before he got custody. Just once, he wanted to make a difference. Just once, he wanted to think ahead, react in time to change an outcome, and be able to say, “I did it right this time.”
He’d ridden several miles upstream since early afternoon. When he turned around, he knew it would be a long, cold ride back to his stock trailer. He began the trek with a heavy feeling in his chest and the metallic taste of failure on his tongue. He called Molly’s name intermittently as he guided the gelding over the rocky ground. About halfway back to his starting point, he spotted what appeared to be a smooth, smallish boulder wedged under a high-water washout in the bank. Only, something about it made him stop and stare. Then he noticed a spot of rusty brown, and his heart started to pound.
“Molly?” he said. “Molly, come here, girl.”
Only, the dog didn’t move. If it was even a dog. After searching the woodlands that bordered the stream for so long, his eyes had begun to play tricks on him. He swung off the horse and walked toward the washout. As he drew closer, he could see the breeze furrowing the gray fur along the blue heeler’s spine. Molly. At long last, he’d found her.
He rested his hand on her back and felt the coldness of death. How many times had he ridden past this spot? Had she been here all along, blocking the opening of the hollow with her body to protect her babies from the cold? A tight, squeezing sensation assailed his throat, and for a moment, he could barely breathe.
“Aw, Molly,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, little lady.”
Tuck slipped his hand over her body to feel inside the hole for her babies. His fingertips encountered six smaller shapes, all of them pressed against her belly and as cold and stiff as she was. He could only wish that he’d found them sooner.
Just as he started to draw back his hand, he heard an odd sound, and the next instant, it felt as if a dozen needles stabbed his thumb. Startled, he jerked his arm from the hole. The face and front feet of a puppy emerged from between the upper lip of the washout and Molly’s body. Shrill barks and growls erupted from its scrawny chest, and then the little thing tumbled over its mother’s back and hit the rocks. Tuck had never in his life been so taken aback. Judging by the pup’s wobbly legs, it was weak with hunger and hanging on to life by a thread. But it had somehow survived and would have ripped him to shreds if it had had the size and strength.
“I’ll be damned. With all that attitude, you’re a boy, I bet.”
The pup jumped and gave another shrill bark, trying to bite his hand again.
“Well, let ’er rip!” Tuck felt a grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “You tryin’ to protect your family, little fella?”
The pup missed his mark, staggered forward, and then collapsed on his side. Concern wiped the smile from Tuck’s face. This baby was about to join his littermates on the other side. The thought appalled Tuck. But he had nothing by way of food to keep the pup alive while he made the long ride back to the stock trailer and then drove home.
Tuck pulled Molly from the washout to make sure all the other babies were dead. When he felt confident there was only one to rescue, he rested his hand on the adult blue heeler’s head. “You were a good dog, Molly. I’ll be back to bury you and your babies, I swear. But right now, I’ve gotta save your son.”
Scooping the puppy up in his hands, Tuck smiled again when the tiny blue heeler found the strength to growl at him. Granted, it was a faint growl, but it gave measure of his mettle. “You’ve got the heart of a lion,” he observed as he opened the front of his sheepskin jacket and tucked the puppy inside his shirt. “If I can save you, you’re gonna be one hell of a dog someday.”
Holding his left arm across his ribs to keep his new charge held safely against him, Tuck swung back into the saddle and clicked his tongue at the gelding. “Easy does it, Bolt. We’re carryin’ precious cargo.”
Tuck knew it would take at least three hours to get the dog to his ranch. Molly’s son wouldn’t last that long, not without sustenance and more warmth than Tuck could provide. He tipped his head back, pictured an aerial view of the surrounding terrain, and decided to head for Smokey’s Bar. As the crow flies, it was about an hour away. Tuck went there often at night to have a few beers with local ranchers. Most of them had raised puppies on a bottle at some point, and Nora, the owner and operator, kept a fire blazing in the potbelly stove all winter.
He turned Bolt in that direction and settled in for one of the most urgent rides of his life. It seemed like forever before he finally saw lights in the distance. Maybe Nora had a recipe for puppy formula and the ingredients to make some.
Only a few rigs dotted the parking lot, which sported more potholes than gravel. Tuck recognized most of the vehicles and counted their owners as friends. He was glad Prince’s red Silverado wasn’t there. He was in no mood for a run-in with Jared over ownership of this dog. He cradled the puppy against his chest as he dismounted. The buckskin chuffed and grunted as Tuck flipped the reins over the boardwalk railing.
“I know,” Tuck said to Bolt. “Time for your supper. I’ll be back out shortly.”
His footsteps rang out on the weathered steps. He pushed hard on the door and let the snow-flecked wind at his back help blow him inside. Nora, whose long, straight hair had turned salt-and-pepper, glanced up at the sound of the bell. She wore her usual attire, an oversize T-shirt over faded jeans. An expression of concern moved over her square-shaped face.
“Dear God, Tuck. You got a busted rib? Did Bolt throw you?”
Tuck realized he was still hugging his chest with his left arm. “Hell, no, Bolt didn’t throw me. I’ve got one of Molly’s pups inside my shirt.”
A broad smile curved Nora’s mouth. Mike Polson swiveled on his barstool. “After all this time, you finally found Prince’s dog?”
Another rancher, named Dick Schneider, emulated Mike’s movement to give Tuck an incredulous look. “Well, Jared will be fit to be tied. All he does is whine about losing the money he’d have made on that litter. Purebreds, and he could’ve registered all of them.”
“I found her, but I was too late. She and the rest of the pups didn’t make it.” Tuck strode to the bar, reaching inside his jacket. “You got a heatin’ pad and a warm blanket, Nora? Even better, if you’ve got the fixin’s for puppy formula, I’ll celebrate.”
Nora shook her head. “I’ve got a blanket and heating pad, but I’ve never made puppy formula.”
Glancing down the counter at Polson, Tuck said, “If I remember right, your wife saved a bunch of pups when your Aussie’s milk didn’t come down. You think she’s still got the formula recipe?”
As Tuck withdrew the puppy from inside his jacket, Nora pressed her hands together as if she were praying. A glow touched her skin, blurring the wrinkles that fanned out from her blue eyes. “If that isn’t the cutest thing I ever saw!”
Tuck had admired the puppy’s gumption earlier, but he hadn’t assessed him for cuteness. Turning the little guy to study him, he couldn’t help but smile. All babies were cute, he guessed, but this one was downright handsome. Prick ears, outlined in black and furred within with curry, stood up at each side of his head like inverted shovel blades. The white blaze on his forehead veered off-center and ended just above his right brow, which looked as if it had been drawn with a charcoal pencil in a perfect arch. Temple splashes of rust offset his dark eyes. His nose was as brown and shiny as a raisin. Overall, except for more burnished markings on his chest and feet, his coat was the classic blend of gray and white common to blue heelers.
“He’s damned near perfect, ain’t he?” Murmurs of agreement made Tuck’s smile broaden. He told his friends about finding the pup and getting his thumb bitten. “So weak he could barely walk, but he was determined to protect his family. I said, ‘Let ’er rip!’ So that’s what I’m namin’ him—Rip.”
“You keeping him?” Mike asked. “You haven’t had a dog since Tabasco died.”
Tuck chuckled. “Nope, and it’s high time I change that.”
Nora whirled away, calling over her shoulder, “A heating pad and a blanket, coming right up. Mike, call your wife. If Molly and the other pups are dead, that one can’t be long for this world. We need puppy formula, fast.”
Mike fished his cell phone from his hip pocket. Bruce Smelt grappled for his as well. “Susan made puppy milk last spring. Maybe she saved the recipe.”
Tuck swung up on a barstool and slipped Rip back inside his coat until Nora could fetch bedding. When she returned, she made a fluffy pallet on the bar, plugged in the warming device, and rested her palm on it to test the temperature.
“It’s ready for him,” she said. “Just a gentle warmth.”
Tuck laid the puppy on the pad and pulled a corner of the blanket over him. “That’ll warm his bones. Poor whippersnapper.”
Bruce said, “Susan just texted back. She kept the recipe, and she has the stuff to make a batch. She’ll have it here in an hour and a half.”
“Good thing,” Mike inserted. “My wife can’t find her recipe.”
Nora slipped her hand under the blanket to touch the animal. “He’s painful thin, Tuck. Not much to him but fur and bones. What if he doesn’t last until Susan gets here?”
“He’s in God’s hands, Nora, same as the rest of us. He’ll make it or he won’t.”
Nora nodded. “Gonna break my heart if he dies. He’s mighty precious.”
Just then Rip pushed his nose from under the blanket and staggered onto the Formica countertop. Nora got tears in her eyes. “He’s hungry. If he bit your thumb, he must have teeth. You think he could eat a beef patty if I crumble it up for him?”
“Maybe.” Tuck glanced at Mike. “It’s blizzardlike out there. I need to get Bolt inside and fork him some hay. While Nora’s grillin’ a patty, can you watch my dog? I don’t wanna take him back out in that bitter cold.”
Mike reached over to move the puppy and bedding in front of him. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t fall. Can’t promise he won’t cock up his toes from hunger, though.”
Tuck nodded and swung off the stool. “Bolt put in a long day.” Angling a look at Nora, he added, “I’ll catch a ride to my truck and board him here for the night. I’ll happily pay.”
Nora flapped her hand. “Don’t be silly. What’s a few flakes of hay between old friends?”
Tuck refastened the front of his jacket. When he reached the porch, the wind cut through the sheepskin and chilled him to the bone. Bolt whickered and chuffed. Tuck could barely see him through the swirling snowflakes.
“Sorry, old friend.”
Tuck led his horse to Nora’s ramshackle excuse for a barn. Worried about the puppy, he made fast work of unsaddling Bolt, rubbing him down, and putting him up for the night.
“You’ll do fine now,” he said, reaching over the sagging gate to scratch the horse’s poll. “You did me proud today, Bolt. Always do. You’re a loyal friend, and that’s a fact.”
Once outside again, Tuck shuddered as he picked his way back toward the tavern. When he pushed back into the building, snow followed him inside and salted the rough-plank floor. He slapped his coat and stomped his riding boots on the rubber-backed carpet runner. “It’s too cold out there for man or beast. Thank you, Nora. Bolt appreciates the accommodations.”
Nora’s face bore an odd expression. She glanced at Mike. “I’m sorry, Tuck. They don’t listen worth a damn.”
Tuck stepped over to the bar and saw that Rip had his head stuck into Mike’s glass, his little tongue lapping beer at high speed.
“What the hell?” Tuck cried, reaching for his dog. “That stuff ain’t good for him! What are you thinkin’?”
Mike lifted a staying hand. “The beef ain’t done yet, and beer won’t hurt him none. At least it’s some nourishment.”
Tuck glanced at Nora. “Is beer safe for him?”
She shrugged. “He’s a mammal, just like us, and we drink it. Don’t see why it’d hurt a dog. I just worry because he’s only a baby.”
Mike tipped the glass at a sharper angle to give the puppy better access. “He’s starvin’. At least it’s something on his tummy until the burger’s cooked.”
Tuck wasn’t up-to-date on what was or wasn’t good for a dog. But he trusted his friends, who’d both raised litters recently. He also reasoned that beer had to be rich in calories. His three cans a night sure kept his belly riding proud over the top of his belt buckle. The tension in his shoulders relaxed.
“If you’re certain it won’t hurt him, I reckon it’s okay.”
“My grandpa gave his border collie a big bowl of home brew every night, and that stuff was strong enough to stand up straight and kick out behind. His dog lived to be seventeen.”
Tuck resumed his seat on the barstool. “He’s gettin’ his nose wet, for sure, and he does seem to like it.” Rip kept lapping. Then he suddenly stopped and lay down. Tuck peeked around to see the puppy’s face. The tip of his tongue protruded over his bottom teeth, and he had a happy look about him. Tuck couldn’t help but smile. “I reckon that’ll hold him until the formula arrives.”
Just then Nora emerged from the kitchen with a beef patty on a plate. When she put it on the counter and began breaking the meat into small pieces, Rip struggled to his feet and began eating. Nora laughed when the puppy devoured every morsel.
“I think he’s going to make it, Tuck. I truly do.”
Tuck hoped she was right. At one time his dog Tabasco had been his constant companion, but he’d been gone for almost ten years now. It was time for Tuck to have a new best friend.