“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.”