Jamie had thrust a faggot into the embers of the hearth; he pulled it out now and blew carefully on the ragged end of the torch until a small flame rose from the glowing wood. His frown relaxed as the fire took, and he smiled briefly at me.
“Dinna fash, a nighean,” he said. “It’s no but a dog. Truly.”
I smiled back, but there was still an uncertain note in his voice, and I quietly picked up the stone rolling pin as I followed him to the door. He lifted the heavy bar and set it down, then lifted the latch without hesitation and pulled the door open. The cold damp of a mountain night swept in, fluttering my nightdress and reminding me that I ought to have put on my cloak. There wasn’t time for that, though, and I bravely followed Jamie out onto the back stoop.
The noise was louder out here, but suddenly seemed less agitated—it settled into something like an owl’s cry. I scanned the hillside that rose behind the house, but couldn’t see anything in the faint flicker of the torch. Despite being so exposed, I felt steadier. Jamie might have his own doubts, but he didn’t think this mysterious dog was dangerous, or he wouldn’t be letting me stand here with him.
He sighed deeply, put two fingers in his mouth, and gave a piercing whistle. The noise stopped.
“Well, come on, then,” he said, raising his voice a little, and gave a second, softer whistle.
The woods were silent, and nothing happened for the space of a minute or more. Then something moved. A blot detached itself from the tomato vines around the privy and came slowly toward us. I heard feet coming down the distant stairs and the muffled sound of voices, but all my attention was focused on the dog.
For a dog it was; I caught a glimpse of golden eyes glowing in the dark, and then it was close enough to see the shambling, long-legged gait and the sinuous curve of backbone and tail.
“A hound?” I said.
“It is.” Jamie handed me the torch, sank onto his haunches, and stretched out a hand. The dog—it was what they called a bluetick hound, with a heavy dappling of blue-black spots over most of its coat—seemed to sink a little as it came to him, head low.
“It’s all right, a nighean,” he said to the dog, his voice low and husky.
“You know this dog?”
“I do,” he said, and I thought there was a note of regret in his voice. He stroked her head, though, and she came up close, tail wagging tentatively.
“She’s starving, poor thing,” I said. The hound’s ribs were visible even by torchlight, her belly drawn up like a purse string.
“Have we a bit of meat, Sassenach?”
“I’m sure we do.” The others were in the kitchen but had stopped talking, hearing our voices outside. They’d be out here in a moment.
“Jamie,” I said, and laid a hand on his bare back. “Where did you see this dog before?”
I felt him swallow.
“I left her howling on her master’s grave,” he said quietly. “Dinna mention it to the bairns, aye?”
THE DOG SEEMED visibly taken aback at sight of so many people flooding out onto the back porch, and turned away as though to flee back into the bushes. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave the smell of food, and kept turning in circles, with small apologetic wags of her long, feathered tail.
At length, Jamie succeeded in quelling the hubbub and making everyone go into the kitchen while he lured the hound close with small pieces of leftover corn bread soaked in bacon grease. I stayed, hovering behind him with the torch. The hound came willingly for the food, ducking her head submissively, and when Jamie reached tentatively to scratch her behind the ears, she let him, picking up the tempo of her wagging.
“There’s a good lass,” he murmured to her and gave her another bit of bread. Despite her hunger, she took it delicately from his hand, not snapping.
“She’s not afraid of you,” I said quietly. I didn’t mean to ask him; never would ask him. But that didn’t mean I didn’t wonder.
“No,” he said, just as softly. “No, she’s not. She only saw me bury him.”
“You’re not … bothered by her? Her coming here, I mean.” Plainly he had been disturbed by the howling; who wouldn’t have been? But I couldn’t tell now; his face was calm in the flicker of the torchlight.
“No,” he said, and glanced over his shoulder to be sure the children were out of earshot. “I was, when I saw her—but …” His greasy hand paused, resting for a moment on the dog’s rough coat. “I think it’s maybe absolution—that she should ha’ come to me.”
INSIDE, THE DOG ate ravenously, but with an odd delicacy, nibbling up the scraps of bread and meat with tiny darts of her head. It didn’t seem quite right, somehow, and I began to watch more closely. The children were entranced, taking turns to hold bits of food in their palms for her to take, but I saw Jamie frown slightly, watching.
“There’s summat amiss with her mouth, I think,” he said after a moment. “Shall we have a look?”
“Oh, let her finish eating, please, Mr. Fraser,” Fanny said, looking up at him, earnest. “She’s so hungry!”
“Aye, she is,” he said, squatting down beside them. He ran a hand gently down the dog’s knobbly backbone and her tail moved briefly, but her whole attention was focused on the food. “Why is she starving, I wonder?”
“Why?” I asked. I glanced at him, careful what I said. “Perhaps she’s lost her master.”
“Aye, but she’s a hound. She can hunt for herself—and it’s summer; there’s food everywhere. Master or no, she shouldna be in this case.”
Curious, I got down on my knees and looked closely. He was right; she was gulping the small bites of food, simply swallowing, with little or no mastication. That might be her personal habit, or perhaps any dog would do that with small bits of food like this, but … there was something wrong. Something not quite a wince, but …
“You’re right,” I said. “Let her finish, and I’ll have a look.”
The hound polished off the last of the scraps, sniffed hungrily for more—though by now her stomach was visibly distended—then lapped water and, after a glance at the assembled company, nosed Jamie’s leg and lay down beside him.
“Bi sàmhach, a choin … ” he said, running a light hand down her long back. Her tail wagged gently and she let out a great sigh, seeming to melt into the floorboards. “Well, then,” he said, in the same soft tones, “come and let me see your mouth, mo nighean gorm,” The dog looked surprised but didn’t resist as he rolled her onto her side.
“She is blue, isn’t she?” Fanny crawled closer, fascinated, and put out a tentative hand, though she didn’t quite touch the dog.
“Aye, they call this kind a bluetick hound—they’re the color o’ mattress ticking. Let her smell your fingers, lass, so as she kens who ye are. Then just move slow, but she seems a friendly bitch.”
Fanny blinked at the word, and glanced at Jamie.
“Have you never had a dog, Fanny?” Bree asked, seeing this little byplay.
“No,” Fanny replied uncertainly. “I mean … I remember a dog. From when I was very little. It—he—I remember petting him.” Her hand touched the dog’s back, and the hound’s tail stirred. “It was on the ship. I sat under the big sail when the weather was good and he’d come and thit—sit—with me and let me pet him.”