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swinging door. “We’ve got to get this latch fixed. The wind keeps blowing it open.”
“Which is Chomper’s cue to bolt.” Devon stepped past him to peer outside.
“Don’t bother looking for paw prints. He’s too light, and the ground’s too frozen for him to make any imprints.”
“That’s not what I was doing. I was figuring out the detours he could have taken to vanish so quickly. And I was checking out the grounds to see where he might hide.”
“Any conclusions?”
“Where did you find him earlier today?”
Blake grimaced. “I see Cassidy’s filled you in on Chomper’s antics. I found him near the pond.” He pointed. “I have no idea why he went there. It’s frozen.”
“It’s got an eastern exposure. The sun was out this morning. He probably found a warm spot to play with whatever he’d stolen.”
“That would be my glove,” Blake supplied. “And the weather’s a nonissue. Chomper’s not picky when he’s in bandit mode.”
Devon shivered, hugging herself to stay warm. “Trust me, he won’t like this chill. The poor little guy must be freezing. It’s gotten windy, and the sun’s gone down. I’d suggest we check enclosed places. Places he’d be able to wriggle his way into, like a barn or an indoor arena.”
“We’ve got three indoor jumping arenas. They’re on the western portion of the property. The barn’s to the north. So are the feed and tack rooms.”
“Any other heated areas?”
“The wash stalls. They’re right next to the feed room.”
“We’ve got our work cut out for us. You take the arenas. I’ll take the barn area.”
Blake nodded, already in motion. “I’ll get our coats and some flashlights.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, Devon finished a quick search of the wash stalls. Dark, deserted—no signs of Chomper. As for the feed and tack rooms, the doors were shut tight. On to the barn.
She turned up her collar and headed in that direction.
The door was slightly ajar. Devon pushed it open and hurried inside. She reached into her pocket for a peanut-butter biscuit. “Chomper!”
A few surprised horses snapped around to stare at her. But no puppy.
She checked the stalls, one at a time.
“Good boy,” she called out in a voice filled with praise. “I’ve got a treat for you.” She made a smacking sound with her lips. “Yum. Come and get it.”
She heard the slightest jangling sound from the far end of the barn.
Now that could be a good sign. It sure sounded like a metal ID tag and dog license clinking together.
“Come on, Chomper,” she coaxed, veering in the direction of the jangle. “Peanut butter beats Crayola, hands down.”
Another jangle.
She reached the last stall, which was empty, and stepped inside.
There, settled on a pile of hay, surrounded by purple and green crayon wrappers, was Chomper. His head shot up when Devon walked in, and he wagged his tail proudly. His nose and snout were purple. His paws were green.
Forcing herself to keep a straight face, Devon squatted down beside him. “No, no,” she chided, taking away the crayons. “Those aren’t to eat.”
Chomper yipped in protest, trying to snatch the crayons away from her.
“No,” Devon said firmly. “No crayons.” She shoved them in her coat pocket.
