This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(59)

When a distant sound catches my ear, I home in on it, thinking, Eric. It’s not the sound of people, though. It’s water. The rushing water of the river I’d seen from the ledge.

Good, I’m on target. We’ll go another couple of hundred steps, and if Storm doesn’t track down Dalton, we’ll swing east and try to find our way back to Jacob’s camp.

Storm gives a happy bark and looks at me, tail wagging.

“You smell Eric?” I say.

She whines and dances.

I smile. “Okay then.”

She takes off like a shot. I jog after her. The ground is more open here, and I can easily track her as she runs. I don’t see anything ahead, but she very clearly does, tearing along, veering to the left, me jogging behind, my footfalls punctuating the burble and crash of water over rapids—

Water.

River.

To the left.

That’s what Storm is running to. Not Dalton, but the one thing she can resist even less than fleeing prey: the siren’s call of water.

I shout, calling her back, but she keeps running. I don’t know if she literally can’t hear me, being too far away, or if she figuratively can’t hear, the call of that water too great.

Damn it, we need to work on this. Buy a whistle and train her to come to it.

We also need to seriously consider that pool. It might help with her water fixation. I can’t blame Storm—Newfoundlands are water dogs. She’ll even try getting into the shower with us if we don’t close the door.

I’m chasing her at full speed, but I’m not worried. We’ll be delayed for a few minutes while she splashes and plays. Then I’ll continue on with a very wet but happy dog.

I hear the crash of the water over rocks, and I realize I know where I am. We came this way a couple of months ago with Anders, just as the spring thaw was setting in. He saw this river, rock-filled and fast-running, and said it’d be perfect for white-water kayaking. Dalton said sure, if he could—

My steps falter as I remember the rest . . . standing on the edge of rock and looking down at the river as Dalton said, “Yeah, if we can airlift you down there.”

Down into the canyon river, fifty feet below.





32





“Storm!” I shout. “Stop!”

She doesn’t slow. I yell louder. She keeps going.

I need a whistle. I need a leash. I need to do more goddamn training with her.

All of which is a fine idea, and perfectly useless at this moment.

We reach the rocks, and she’s leaping over them, heading for that gorge.

“Storm! Stop!”

I shout it at the top of my lungs.

Less than a meter from the edge, she stops. Then she looks back at me . . . and begins edging forward, like a child testing the boundaries.

“No!”

Another step. A look back at me. But, Mom, I really want to go this way.

“No!”

I’m moving at a jog now across rocks slick with moss. Storm has taken one more careful step toward the edge. Her nose is working like mad, picking up the scent of the water below.

“No.”

Please, no. Please.

She whines. Then she takes another step, and she’s almost to the edge.

“Storm, no!”

Goddamn you, no. Damn you, and damn me for being the idiot who didn’t bring a lead.

She’s stopped mere inches from the edge.

As she whines, I hunker down and say, “Come.”

Whine.

“Come. Now!”

She looks toward the edge.

“Storm, come!”

I hear a noise. At first I think it’s the water below. It must be. It cannot be what it sounds like.

Storm is growling. At me.

She growls again, jowls quivering.

My dog is growling at me.

I know it can happen. I’ve read enough manuals to understand that a growl is communication, and not necessarily threat. What it communicates is a clear no. A test of dominance. Yet it feels like a threat. Like I have failed, and she’s questioning my authority. Telling me she’s not a little puppy anymore.

“Storm,” I say as firmly as I can.

Don’t show fear. Don’t show hurt.

She lowers herself to the rock in submission, as if I misheard the growl.

“Storm. Come here.”

Still lying down, she begins belly-crawling toward the edge.

“Goddamn it!”

I don’t mean to curse, but my words ring through the canyon. She whines. Then she continues slinking toward the edge.

My heart thumps. There are only a couple of feet between us, and I want to lunge and grab her by the collar and haul her back from the edge. Yet if she resists at all, we’ll go over.

I keep moving, as slowly as I can, trying to figure out how to get her back without turning this into a deadly tug-of-war.

Please, Storm. Please come back. Just a little. I can grab you if you come a few inches my way.

She puts her muzzle over the edge, and I have to clamp my mouth shut to keep from screaming at her, from startling her into falling. She lies there, looking down. Then she glances back at me. From me to the river below. Her nose works. She whines.

“I know it’s water,” I say as I get down onto all fours. “I know it looks wonderful. If we keep going down the ridge, there’s a basin. You can swim there. I promise.”