Read Online Dog Gone by Cynthia Chapman Willis - Free Book Online

him . Cub swears that animals can sense the good and the bad in people.
    I say Stubs knows Skeeter fears her, as well as every other cat on earth.
    â€œIsn’t it time for your riding lesson?” Cub stays focused on Skeeter. “Time for you to bounce all over poor Miss Velvet’s back like some sorry sack of sand?”
    Skeeter’s eyes go squinty. “At least I have my own horse.”
    â€œYeah, and you should treat her better,” Cub snaps as Stubs slides closer.
    Skeeter points the whip at Cub. “Tell me what you were saying about killed sheep.”
    Before he can say any more, a gray blur shoots at him. Two front paws thud his head, a one-two punch to his skull. With a squeal that should have blown out every eardrum in the barn, Skeeter waves his arms, spins around like a top gone berserk, and almost smacks into the hanging strip of flypaper, thick with insect carcasses.
    I laugh so hard that I bend over and nearly choke. Cub laughs so hard that he nearly blows apple pie out his nose.
    Stubs, her ears flat to her head, hisses at Skeeter, then drops to the floor and takes off.
    When Skeeter’s fancy-pants boots finally settle, he whips around and searches, his eyes wide and wild.
    â€œDon’t worry, Skeeter,” Cub chokes out. “The big, bad kitty-cat’s gone.”
    I laugh even harder, have to lean on Crossfire’s shoulder to keep from falling over. Skeeter comes at me, glares over the horse’s back. Crossfire tenses and pulls at the lines that attach his halter to either side of the aisle, trying to step away from Dameon.
    â€œStop laughing at me or I’ll tell Ms. Hunter that you had something to do with those killed sheep,” Skeeter snarls. “Then you can say good-bye to being Miss Favorite, Dill. You won’t be riding any more of Ms. Hunter’s horses in any shows.”
    My laughter dries up. I glare at him. “Go fall off your horse.”
    â€œYeah, on your head,” Cub spits. “You’d sell your mother’s teeth to get Dill out of that show because you know she’s gonna whip your butt in every event, the way she always does.”
    Skeeter slaps the silver-handled crop against the calf of his boots. Crossfire throws his head up, yanks toward me, and slams a front hoof onto my foot. As razor-sharp pain tears through my toes, I plant my hands on Crossfire’s shoulder and push with all I have.
    The second he lifts his hoof, I belly flop up, onto his back as if getting onto him to ride bareback. I grab Skeeter’s collar, digging my fingers into the cotton. My braid falls forward, my glare practically drills into Skeeter’s face. “Don’t EVER scare Crossfire like that again!”
    Skeeter’s eyes about pop out of their sockets. His hair falls across his forehead. His cell phone falls, landing with a dull thud at his feet. “Get off me, MacGregor!”
    My mashed foot burns as hot as my anger, which, in these last few months, gets to boiling over any little thing. As Crossfire shifts, his head still high, his eyes so wild that the whites show, my grip on Skeeter tightens. I want to pound him, not only for scaring an animal, but for every bad thing that has happened in the last year.
    â€œLet him go, Dill,” Cub says. “Squashing Skeeter isn’t worth the trouble.”
    â€œWhat’s going on here?” The high-pitched demand and quick, uneven boot-steps can only be Jerry Smoothers.
    I let go of Skeeter, slide to my feet, favoring my throbbing toes. The minute I land, I check my back pocket, my fingers searching for the photograph of Mom and Lyon. Lucky for Skeeter, it hasn’t slipped out of my pocket during our scuffle.
    Cub’s face goes red as Jerry limps toward us.
    â€œDameon. Figures.” Then the man squints at me. “And what are you doing, Dill?”
    â€œTrying to groom the horse, Sir,” Cub says for me.
    â€œShe tried to strangle