Echo Mountain - Lauren Wolk Page 0,12

pocket.

Then I cleaned my knife by plunging it into the dirt and scraping it against a rock again and again before slipping it, too, into my pocket.

Until now, the sap from this tree had healed our small wounds, glued the tip of my mother’s finger back on after she sliced it nearly off with a carving knife, made us new skin when we needed time to knit ourselves back to whole.

I didn’t know if it could fix anything already scarred over, but I saw no harm in trying, though I knew it would make an unholy mess.

I also knew a mess was not the worst thing that could happen.

There was no jewelweed yet—the spring too fresh for that—so I contented myself with balsam for the time being, happy in the knowledge that there was mustard, powdered and waiting in a tin in our kitchen. And cinnamon, too, though not much of it. Vinegar and onions. And mud, of course, whenever I wanted to make it. Honey, soon, if I could manage to steal it from a thousand bees. Maybe the next time the Lockharts went to market for coffee and salt they could ask for ginger, too, though I would have to find a way to pay for it.

I was filled with such thoughts as I ducked back out from under the drooping branches of the balsam tree, picked up the pail of milk, and turned toward the Petersons’.

And realized that I was not alone.

* * *

—

On the path ahead of me was a creature I’d never seen before, his paws braced, head low, ears pricked.

At first I thought coyote, but it wasn’t. Too big.

And then I thought wolf, though I’d seen only one of those. But he wasn’t a wolf, either. Too . . . blunt. Not enough snout.

And then: dog, though not the kind I knew.

Wild dog, maybe.

He had a big head, a lean body, and was well brindled—some of him brown, some red, some gray—with an ample tail and a coat still winter-thick.

Even from five paces away, I could see an enormous tick hanging from above one eye, so full of blood it waggled as the dog tipped his head to one side, his face fiercely curious.

I didn’t move.

“Who are you?” I said carefully.

As if in answer, he took a slow step toward me, his eyes dropping from my face to the bucket of milk in my hand, then lifting to my face again.

I carefully set the bucket down and took off the lid.

But when I looked up again, the path was empty.

If he’d been my dog, I would have called him Ghost.

Chapter Ten

I waited for the dog to reappear, but there was no sign of him.

I waited some more, hoping he would come back. Hoping he wouldn’t.

Nothing.

So I put the lid back on the bucket and started again toward the Petersons’. I wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. But I was careful, watching for the dog as I climbed.

“Samuel!” I called, though he usually ignored me and was, besides, bound to be with Mr. Peterson by now, following him around like a shadow, yammering about nothing of importance. He seemed to crave the company of men lately, and I couldn’t blame him. I knew he loved me and Esther and our mother, but I also knew how much he missed our father.

“You must be careful around a horse, even a friendly one,” Mr. Peterson was explaining to Samuel as I reached the edge of the yard and found the pair of them examining the hoof of a big tawny workhorse named Scotch. “If you hurt him, even by mistake, he might very well boot you over the hill.”

I watched as Mr. Peterson showed Samuel how to cradle Scotch’s hoof in his left hand so he could clean it with his right. “There, that’s it,” he said, as Samuel carefully dug out a wad of accumulated muck. “You’re born to it.”

Samuel looked up at Mr. Peterson, smiling, and caught sight of me standing at the trailhead, the milk in my hand.

“Took you long enough.” Samuel put down the hoof and straightened up.

“Did a big dog come through here just now?” I asked, but they both shook their heads.

“No,” Mr. Peterson said, glancing over his shoulder and around the yard. “No dog at all.”

“What big dog?” Samuel asked.

“That’s what I want to know,” I said.

“What did it look like?” Mr. Peterson asked, a little worry on his face.

I thought back. “He was . . . rough looking. Brindled. Nervous.”

Mr. Peterson