She burst into tears.
“Daddy!” she screamed, stumbling backward. “Make him stop! He’s scaring me!” Her voice broke on the last word. One boot slipped in the leaves, and she would have fallen if Ethan had not reached her half a second later.
He scooped her behind him and put one arm out in front instinctively, palm open toward the dog.
“Easy!” he said, his own heart hammering. “Easy, boy. Back up.” The shepherd barked again, then twice more, the sound rough with urgency. Ethan shifted his weight, placing himself squarely between Ellie and the dog while feeling his daughter clutch fistfuls of the back of his jacket. He expected the animal either to bolt or to escalate. Instead, the dog did something stranger.
It backed off a step.
Then it turned its head sharply toward the leaf mound, barked once, looked back at Ethan, and pawed anxiously at the ground beside the leaves.
Ellie’s sobs softened into frightened hiccupping breath against Ethan’s shoulder. “I didn’t do anything,” she cried.
“I know,” Ethan said, without taking his eyes off the animal. “Stay behind me.” He lowered his hand slightly but didn’t drop his guard. The shepherd wasn’t focused on Ellie anymore. It barely seemed aware of her now that she had retreated. Everything in its tense body was oriented toward the mound of leaves, the earth beside it, and Ethan’s ability—or refusal—to understand.
The dog whined.