The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(75)

And inside that circle was a small dark shape curled on the ground, motionless.

The back was to me, so I couldn’t make out the face. But I could see the hair—honey blond and splayed loose upon the snow.

My breath caught and held. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. My mouth opened, but no sound would come.

I dropped to my knees beside Laurel and the gun fell from my hand. I reached out to stroke her soft, cold hair. Then her cheek.

And her cheek was warm.

Her skin was flushed with warmth. It felt hot against my trembling fingers.

I leaned close and saw the warm breaths puffing from her parted lips.

I moaned and gasped with relief, convulsing into dry sobs.

Between the sobs, I managed to gasp out her name again.

Laurel.

She stirred then, and yawned.

And then I saw it. What her little body had been curled around. What her arms had been embracing as she lay fast asleep at the base of the trees.

A furred head popped up and blinked at me with brown eyes lined like Cleopatra’s. It had foxlike ears, a white ruff and a lush caramel coat.

It was Tinkerbell.





Back Again





Laurel sat on the kitchen floor stroking Tinkerbell so tenderly it made me wince. Jessie had given the dog a little hook rug to lie on next to the warm stove. It was resting, eyes closed, its pretty, perfect head buried in its paws. A food dish and water bowl had been licked clean.

I sat heavily in a kitchen chair and watched them. All it had taken was three signal shots of the pistol to bring Olin and Faro, Reuben and his father right to the aspen trees. In no time at all. We’d gathered up Simon and Nastas on the ride down, and found Yas on the road, waiting right at the trailhead.

Laurel was none the worse for wear, despite a tumble from the loose saddle and a few hours in the cold. She was as unblemished, as unmarked, as the dog.

Wordlessly, Jessie brought me a cup of hot tea and squeezed my shoulder.





Dark Night





Olin worked the root vegetable beds. Jessie hung laundry in the thin autumn air. The dog would trail behind one, then the other. They both spoke to it, patted it, filled a water bowl for it from an outside spigot. It licked their hands gratefully. It stretched languidly, stealing quick naps in shafts of sunlight.

For whatever reason, it never came to me. Small favors. I couldn’t look at the creature without reliving that wretched afternoon behind the shed all over again—the object lesson that broke the last of me.

For everyone else, something wonderful had happened. A little dog was lost, but now was found. Laurel said it even remembered the rollover trick she’d taught it last year.

The first night, and the next, I refused Laurel’s pleas to let it sleep in her room. So when she begged the third night, I could tell by the surprise in her face that she wasn’t expecting me to answer as I did: yes.

That night, Laurel bathed and dressed for bed. From the kitchen, I could hear the dog scramble up the stairs as Laurel took it to her room.

Hours later, when the house was dark and hushed, I dressed in jeans and a jacket and took my boots in hand. I tiptoed in stocking feet down the stairs.

In the kitchen, I eased open the catchall drawer and drew out a flashlight. Out the back door, I sat on the stoop and pulled on my boots. The moon was full now, and so bright I made my way easily to the barn, unlatched the door, slipped inside and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Nastas nickered softly. I switched on the flashlight to make my way to his stall. He nuzzled my shoulder as I saddled him, then led him outside. I latched the barn door and mounted up.

The bedroom windows of the house were still dark, the curtains drawn. I nudged Nastas to a walk to the dirt road, then reined him south at a canter toward Morro.

We cast a long, loping shadow all along the road, the air so biting it made my teeth ache. The snow on the Mountain stretched halfway down its hulking side now, so deep that the serrated ridge at the crest could barely punch through. And still that burning beacon shone. Fixed and watchful.

As we hit town, we slowed once more to a walk, Nastas’s hooves falling with a dull rhythmic clomp. I’d never seen Morro when it wasn’t bustling with life. Now all its windows were dark or shuttered, but for a few random panes still softly glowing. Many were strung with orange Halloween lights and cutouts of witches and ghosts.

At the fork at the end of town, I took the smaller secondary road on the right and nudged Nastas back into a canter.