Part 7
Evelyn read the message again, then called.
Beth answered before she had worked out what to ask.
“We’ve recovered the collar. The breakaway released ahead of schedule.”
Evelyn sat back down.
“There was hair caught in it,” Beth continued. “No blood. Tracks led away with the rest of the pack.”
“So she got out of it.”
“Yes. She was traveling when it came off. That’s as far as the evidence takes us.”
Evelyn looked toward the hook where her truck keys hung.
She knew the basin Beth meant. She could drive to the road, perhaps get close enough to see tracks. She could tell Dana she was only going to look from the turnout. There were several ways to make the trip sound reasonable.
Outside, wind was carrying loose snow across the empty upper meadow.
“Thank you for calling me,” she said.
The keys stayed on the hook.
By March, she and Dana still occasionally needed to stop and start over. Dana sometimes arrived with a list Evelyn hadn’t requested. Evelyn sometimes did three jobs badly before admitting that help with the fourth would be useful.
The check-in light continued to irritate her.
One evening she forgot it while soaking her knee. The phone was in the kitchen. When Dana let herself in, Evelyn came out of the bathroom in a robe and shouted before noticing how frightened her daughter was.
Dana shouted back. Afterward they stood on opposite sides of the kitchen table, neither ready to sit.
“Two unanswered calls,” Evelyn said at last. “Then you use the key. That’s what we agreed.”
“Yes.” Dana still held the key in her fist.
Evelyn looked at it, then went to the mudroom and sent the overdue check-in. She filled the kettle before returning to the kitchen.
The next week, she taped a waterproof reminder beside the bath herself.
Wade had moved his flock to leased ground south of town. They saw little of each other. After one heavy snowfall, Evelyn woke to a cleared lane and fresh plow tracks leading away from her gate.
She didn’t telephone him. Before the next storm, she left the lower gate unchained.
Her knee continued to give trouble. Two fingertips ached when she handled anything cold, and the north steps stayed slippery long after the rest had thawed. Taxes arrived. Troughs froze. On mornings when the shower rail offended her, she held it anyway.
The first warm Saturday in April, Dana came carrying two thermoses and Hugh’s old pipe wrench.
“Water’s backing up at the spring,” she said.
“I can clear it.”
Dana rested the wrench against her leg and waited.
Evelyn took her scarf from its hook, clipped on the messenger, and chose the lighter thermos for Dana.
“You can get down on your knees. I’ll hold the pipe.”
They crossed the meadow together. Flattened grass showed between the remaining patches of snow, and water ran beneath the crust along the creek.
Evelyn stopped twice on the climb. Both times she said it was her knee. Dana waited without offering an arm she hadn’t asked for.
Near the trees, canine tracks crossed their route. The thaw had blurred them. Evelyn followed their direction with her eyes, then continued along the trail.
At the hollow beneath the fallen spruce, the remains of the fire had nearly disappeared into damp earth. There was no wool caught among the roots.
Farther up, Evelyn’s boot slid on a narrow patch of old ice. Dana lifted a hand and stopped short of grabbing her.
Evelyn set the reinforced tip of her cane firmly, recovered her footing, and held out her elbow. Dana took it until the ground leveled. Then they let go and climbed the last stretch side by side.
At the spring box, Dana knelt while Evelyn steadied the pipe. They disagreed over which way the wrench should turn. Dana proved correct, though Evelyn required a demonstration before conceding it.
The drain cleared with a rush of cold water. They capped what needed capping, wiped the tools, and started down before the sun went behind the clouds.
Evelyn stopped beside the old log. A mark from the chain remained visible in the wood.
From the northern ridge came a howl.
A second voice joined it, followed by a third. The calls carried across the draw, distant enough that neither woman could judge exactly where the animals stood.
Dana looked uphill.
“Do you think she’s one of them?”
Evelyn tucked the scarf more closely beneath her collar. The gray mending showed against the red.
“Maybe.”
She planted her cane on the trail and took the next step downhill. Dana walked beside her, carrying the wrench, while the calls faded behind them.