Chapter 4

I started walking Thunder myself. Every morning, every evening.

Long walks in the state park trails just outside of town.

Old John barely tolerated the dog now that I was showing it affection. He'd kick at Thunder if he got underfoot, curse him for shedding.

Thunder, in turn, started to shy away from Old John, his tail tucking whenever the old man approached.

With me, he was different. Eager, almost joyful. He'd press against my legs, lick my hand.

I taught him commands. Sit, stay, come. He learned quickly, his intelligent eyes fixed on mine.

I always had treats in my pocket. High-value ones. Bits of cooked chicken, cheese.

Old John just had his heavy boot and his harsh voice.

One evening, I was walking Thunder near the edge of our neighborhood. It was dusk.

A patrol car, not Mark's, cruised by slowly. Australian Cattle Dogs weren't on the official "banned breeds" list for our specific town, but they were definitely "restricted" – meaning strict leash laws, muzzle requirements in public parks, and higher registration fees. Old John flouted all of it.

The officer slowed, eyeing Thunder.

Old John, who had unexpectedly decided to join me, tensed. He yanked Thunder's leash hard, pulling him behind a large bush.

"Stupid mutt," he hissed when the car passed. "Nearly got us a fine." He kicked Thunder, a sharp, brutal jab to the ribs.

Thunder yelped, cowering.

I stepped in. "John, stop it! It wasn't his fault."

I knelt by Thunder, stroking his head, murmuring soothing words. He licked my face, trembling.

Old John just spat on the ground. "You're making him soft."

But I saw the way Thunder looked at Old John then. A flicker of something cold, something resentful.

My sister, Emily, boarded dogs at her place. She knew animals.

"That dog, Thunder," she said one afternoon when I stopped by with Sophia. "He's too smart for his own good. And those eyes... he doesn't forget."

I asked her if she'd heard anything about where Old John got him.

"Funny you should ask," Emily said, toweling off a wet Labrador. "One of my clients, Mrs. Henderson, she recognized him. Said he belonged to a rancher way out in the valley. Gave him up because he was too much trouble. Kept getting out, opening gates. Said the dog held a grudge if you crossed him. Old John must have specifically looked for a dog like that."

He had. He'd found the perfect weapon.

A weapon that was slowly, surely, learning a new loyalty.

I started leaving Thunder's leash off in the house when Old John wasn't around.

He'd follow me from room to room. When Sophia napped, he'd lie by her crib, a silent guardian.

If I raised my voice, even in a pretend shout, he'd be alert, a low growl in his chest, looking for a threat.

He was bonding with us. With me. With Sophia.

And his resentment for Old John was a seed I carefully watered.