Francesca of Lost Nation by Lucinda Sue Crosby Read Free Book Online Page B

tail, flinging muddy droplets all over us with every swish.
    “It's some stupid old dog and he's after your roses and I've tried to chase him away, but he won’t go! Stop it, you stupid dog!”
    “Hush, Sarah.”
    I swear the dog stopped barking and sat down.
    “What a good girl,” Francesca went on quietly as she cautiously approached the stray. “That's a good girl. No one will hurt you. Here, girl. Come here, girl.”
    And the dog went right over to my grandmother and sat on her shoe. Francesca took the dog's face into the palm of her hand and examined it, looking into its deep brown eyes. How often I'd seen her commune with animals in that way.
    My grandmother guessed the dog was about a year old. “It could be part herding breed with a touch of Labrador,” she mused. “Look at the fine black hairs sprinkled across her back.”
    To me, it looked like a mutt and nothing but a mutt.
    “A very special mutt,” she said and added the dog was smart as a whip and possibly a good swimmer. “See the webbed paws?”
    Where had she come from? Francesca and I’d never seen her before, and we knew all our neighbors’ pets.
    Francesca blew softly into the dog’s snout. It made a joyful yelping noise and stood on its hind legs, bracing against Francesca’s pant leg.
    “Sarah, I think this dog wants something from you.”
    “From me? You’re the one she’s pawing. She doesn’t even like me. She practically bit me earlier.”
    Francesca drew her eyebrows together. “Perhaps it was a simple misunderstanding. No collar. Hmm. Well, if we’re to do the right thing by her, we’ll have to call her something. Why don’t you name her? I think she’d like that.”
    “Why should I? Muddy old thing.”
    “Be my Sweetchild.”
    There it was — her big weapon. It wasn't fair using that pet name, as it put me at a disadvantage. It was blackmail.
    “Penny?” I offered grudgingly. “How about calling her Brandy? Maybe we could call her Pepper or Tracey?”
    Francesca shook her head once, no.
    “Then, how about calling her Babe?” I asked.
    Oddly enough, my grandmother was keenly interested in a half dozen great athletes. Her two favorites were Il Bambino, The Sultan of Swat, and Babe Dedrikson Zaharias.
    Bambino, better known as Babe Ruth, was a gifted New York baseball player, acclaimed for his home run-hitting power, as well as his feisty personality and enormous appetites. Zaharias was a versatile champion, achieving outstanding success in a number of sports, most particularly swimming.
    So the name “Babe” was by way of being appropriate.
    “Here girl. Here, Babe,” I ventured. To my utter astonishment, the little red dog trotted over to me and sat down on my left shoe. I melted. And so “Babe” it would be.
    Just then, we heard the rumble of an automobile. A long, fancy, silver vehicle pulled onto the gravel drive from Thunder Ridge Road.
    Our houseguest had arrived.
    Francesca walked over to greet him. I followed close behind, my new best friend at my heels.
     
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 6
    Unfamiliar Territory
     
     
     
     
     
    I
    t was a glorious machine — long, sleek and meticulously polished. It certainly hadn’t been left out in the rain. Even from where I was standing, I could appreciate the depth of the perfectly painted silver-gray metal.
    Francesca motioned him to a spot behind the house under the elm.
    Matthew Mosley looked just as broken-down and diminished as he had at Mom and Dad’s party. If anything, I noticed his skin had developed a definite pallor underneath his tan, the mark of a body whose caretaker was careless. 
    He was neatly dressed; his shirt and trousers had seen an iron recently. One pant leg was split below the knee to accommodate the cast. His energy was low, and his vitality seemed pent-up, like a sleeping tiger. You could sense the raw power hidden deep inside. Even at my age, it was impossible not to be aware of the strength that was, for the moment,