any kids around for him to play with lately, since Brian moved away.”
The dog sat. Waited.
“Well, he’s not playing,” Quinn said. “And the kid doesn’t look much like he wants to.”
“It is raining.”
“When I was that age, I couldn’t have cared less if it was raining if there was playing to be done.”
Hayley laughed, a light, lovely sound that never failed to expand the warmth he always felt when he was with her.
“Not every boy is a bold adventurer such as yourself,” she teased.
“That’s what I get for being born before kids became tethered to a video game console.”
“Thank goodness.”
She turned her gaze back to the pair they were nearing. Cutter had reached out with his nose, and the boy had responded perfectly, holding out his hand, low and slow, for the dog to sniff. Someone had taught him, Quinn thought.
And then the dog rose and went forward, turning sideways to lean against the boy’s knees. The boy moved then, reaching to pat the dog. Cutter leaned harder. The boy’s fingers burrowed into thick fur. And Cutter leaned even more. They were just close enough to hear the odd sound the boy made before he leaned forward himself, wrapping his arms around the animal’s neck as if he were a life preserver. Cutter twisted his head up and back, and swiped his tongue across the boy’s cheek. A smile broke through, and only when he saw it did Quinn realize just how downcast the boy had seemed.
“You’re right, Cutter isn’t acting like he wants to play, either,” Hayley finally agreed. “In fact, he looks like...”
Her voice faded away. Quinn nodded. Spoke quietly.
“Yeah. He looks like he’s protecting.”
“Standing between that boy and the world,” she said softly.
Quinn let out a compressed breath. “I knew it had been too quiet these last couple of weeks.”
When the boy looked up at them, his expression wary, they stopped a few feet away. Cutter looked at them, his tail wagging in greeting. He made a quiet little whuffing sound, but never moved away from the boy.
Quinn held back slightly, letting Hayley take the lead with the child.
“Hi,” she said softly. “That’s Cutter, if you were wondering what his name is.”
The boy clung to the dog. “Cutter?”
That earned him another swipe of the tongue that made him smile despite his wariness.
“What kind of dog is he? I like how he’s black in front and brown in back.”
“We’re not sure, exactly. He looks like a sheepdog that comes from Europe.”
“Oh.”
“Are you here by yourself?” Hayley asked.
The boy’s expression went back to wary. His gaze flicked to Quinn, then back to Hayley. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“That’s a good plan.” Quinn spoke for the first time, gently. “But Cutter’s already introduced himself.”
“My mom says sometimes bad people use dogs or cats to try and trick kids.”
Hayley smiled. “Good for your mom. She’s right, and I’m glad she warned you about that. So why don’t you take us to her? Then we can talk to her and not be strangers anymore. And she can decide if it’s okay for you to get to know Cutter.”
The boy sighed. “She’ll say no. She’s mad again.”
“At you?” Quinn asked.
“Sort of. And at my dad.”
Hayley glanced at Quinn. He nodded; the boy seemed to talk more easily to her, understandably. “What did your dad do?”
“He said something bad about my father.”
Uh-oh, Quinn thought. Already into a domestic situation. Divorce, stepfather, that could get ugly. Except the boy had called him his dad. Did you do that with a step-father you didn’t like? Then again, the kid was very young. Maybe he was just calling him what he was told to call him.
“Your dad and your father don’t get along?” Hayley asked, using the boy’s terms.
“He’s really my uncle. My father’s dead.”
Hayley blinked again.
“Who’s your uncle?” Quinn asked, starting to feel as if he’d stumbled into some kind of comedy skit. But the boy’s expression wasn’t the least bit amused.
“My dad.”
Quinn wasn’t much good at guessing ages on kids this young, but he put this one at somewhere in the six to eight range. Six in size, but older in the sadness in his eyes. A kid that young shouldn’t be able to look like that. Younger even than the ten he had been when his parents had been killed. But at least this one still had his mother. And...whoever the father figure in his life really was.
“It’s my fault,” the boy said in a tiny voice.
Hayley moved then, closer. He knew this woman, knew she wouldn’t be able to just leave a child who sounded so miserable. He wasn’t sure he could walk away himself. Hayley teased him—lovingly—about being a protector to the core. Maybe she was right.
Hayley crouched in front of the boy on the swing. She didn’t say any of the things most would, like “I’m sure it’s not,” or “You must have misunderstood.” Instead, she simply asked, “Why is it your fault?”
The boy dug the toe of one sneaker deeper into the mud beneath the swing. “It just is. If I went away, then they’d be happy.”
Hayley went very still. Quinn understood. No child should feel that way, but to hear it from one this young was unsettling.
“I’m sure they would miss you terribly,” Hayley said softly.
The boy stayed silent then, as if he’d suddenly remembered he was still talking to strangers. Or as if he didn’t believe a word of it.
And Quinn suddenly realized Cutter was staring at him. That intense, unsettling gaze was unwavering, and by now Quinn knew all too well what it meant.
Fix it.
He no longer bothered rationalizing it, not even to himself. He’d simply had to accept, by virtue of an undeniable amount of empirical evidence, that the dog knew what he was doing and somehow communicated it to anyone who would pay attention. And he seemed to instinctively know who would get the message, just as he always seemed to know who was in trouble and needed his help.
The problem was Quinn’s, not Cutter’s. How was he going to explain to a dog that absent genuine abuse, Foxworth never interfered
