EightRiding down the lane, Bridget yelled for Wire to stay, but the dog loped stubbornly alongside. She’d knelt to him. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll be back in two or three days.” He hadn’t understood, and with Papa Henry gone too, she wanted to dismount and pull him into her lap for her comfort as well as his. She wouldn’t give into the weakness. Wouldn’t risk him to the long, cold ride.
They reached the end of the lane, Wire panting. “Stay!” She raised her arm, pointed at him. “Stay!”
He whined but dropped back on his haunches with sorrowful looking eyes.
“Stay with Papa Henry,” she said. Don’t let anyone open his box and take pictures. “Stay with him.”
The road was empty. The shortest route into Omaha meant crossing Nettle Creek—frozen solid this time of year—and going through Bleaksv
