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Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
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through the night.
Shannon sat up with her heart pounding and Prettyface’s throaty growl vibrating just beyond the bed. Then the growling subsided.
Slowly Shannon realized that the keening sound was Whip’s flute talking to the night. She went to the window, opened the shutters a crack, and looked out. She saw nothing but moon shadows and silver light and the massive ebony shawl of the forest flung over the sleeping mountainside.
Prettyface grumbled quietly and flopped down in the corner again. His action told Shannon what she already knew. She was in no danger from the husky, keening notes.
She went back to bed and listened to the sound of loneliness distilled by a man’s breath blowing through a primitive flute.
The next day was much the same for Shannon, the prickling of her nape and the sweet haunting of the flute while she hunted game that eluded her. The only difference was in the gift Whip left waiting for her—three fine trout, still cold from the stream.
That night the flute woke Shannon again, but her heart raced less this time. Prettyface growled, prowled the cabin several times, then curled up and went back to sleep.
Shannon lay awake, listening to the husky lamentations of the flute, yearning toward the unspeakable beauty of something she couldn’t name.
The third day Whip’s gift was onions and potatoes, luxuries Shannon hadn’t tasted in six months.
That night she lay half asleep, waiting for the sound of the flute. When it came she shivered and listened intently. Prettyface awakened, prowled the cabin briefly, and settled back into sleep once more. Finally Shannon slept, too.
The fourth day, Whip’s gift was a plot of jam that was like tasting a sweet summer morning, holding it on her tongue, and licking it from her fingertips.
The sound of the flute came early that night, whistling up the stars, giving them to Shannon like another gift. Prettyface cocked his head and listened, but didn’t bother to get up. The big mongrel no longer associated the sound of the flute with something unknown and, therefore, dangerous.
The fifth day, Shannon returned from hunting to find logs dragged up to the dwindling woodpile. The maul Silent John had used to split wood—and Shannon had broken—was repaired. The ax was sharpened. So was the crosscut saw.
Prettyface sniffed every object suspiciously, his ruff raised and his chest vibrating with a low growl. But nothing came forth to challenge him. Nor did he catch any sense of unease from his mistress.
The big dog’s ruff settled. Slowly he was coming to accept Whip’s scent as something normal.
That night Prettyface barely cocked his ears when the flute’s husky cries wove through the twilight. Shannon paused in the act of draping clothes across the line to dry over the stove. She titled her head back and closed her eyes, letting the beauty of the music caress her tired spirit.
On the sixth day that Shannon came back empty-handed from hunting, Whip’s gift was freshly chopped wood of the exact length to burn in her stove. The wood was neatly piled by the cabin door, close at hand whenever she needed it.
While she looked at the wood, Whip’s flute whispered to Shannon from the surrounding forest, a haunting three-note cry. When she turned, she saw nothing.
Nor did the flute sing again.
On the seventh day, a bouquet of wildflowers waited for her.
Shannon looked at the flowers and bit her lip against an unexpected desire to cry. Letting out a shaky breath, she searched the forest at the edge of the clearing, hungry to see more of Whip than a shadow slipping away at the edge of her vision. Sometime in the past six days, she had stopped worrying about Whip circling around behind her and catching her unawares. She no longer believed he would jump on her like an animal and rut on her whether she wanted it or not.
If that was what Whip wanted from Shannon, he could have taken her more easily than he had taken the grouse or the trout. She knew her
Shannon sat up with her heart pounding and Prettyface’s throaty growl vibrating just beyond the bed. Then the growling subsided.
Slowly Shannon realized that the keening sound was Whip’s flute talking to the night. She went to the window, opened the shutters a crack, and looked out. She saw nothing but moon shadows and silver light and the massive ebony shawl of the forest flung over the sleeping mountainside.
Prettyface grumbled quietly and flopped down in the corner again. His action told Shannon what she already knew. She was in no danger from the husky, keening notes.
She went back to bed and listened to the sound of loneliness distilled by a man’s breath blowing through a primitive flute.
The next day was much the same for Shannon, the prickling of her nape and the sweet haunting of the flute while she hunted game that eluded her. The only difference was in the gift Whip left waiting for her—three fine trout, still cold from the stream.
That night the flute woke Shannon again, but her heart raced less this time. Prettyface growled, prowled the cabin several times, then curled up and went back to sleep.
Shannon lay awake, listening to the husky lamentations of the flute, yearning toward the unspeakable beauty of something she couldn’t name.
The third day Whip’s gift was onions and potatoes, luxuries Shannon hadn’t tasted in six months.
That night she lay half asleep, waiting for the sound of the flute. When it came she shivered and listened intently. Prettyface awakened, prowled the cabin briefly, and settled back into sleep once more. Finally Shannon slept, too.
The fourth day, Whip’s gift was a plot of jam that was like tasting a sweet summer morning, holding it on her tongue, and licking it from her fingertips.
The sound of the flute came early that night, whistling up the stars, giving them to Shannon like another gift. Prettyface cocked his head and listened, but didn’t bother to get up. The big mongrel no longer associated the sound of the flute with something unknown and, therefore, dangerous.
The fifth day, Shannon returned from hunting to find logs dragged up to the dwindling woodpile. The maul Silent John had used to split wood—and Shannon had broken—was repaired. The ax was sharpened. So was the crosscut saw.
Prettyface sniffed every object suspiciously, his ruff raised and his chest vibrating with a low growl. But nothing came forth to challenge him. Nor did he catch any sense of unease from his mistress.
The big dog’s ruff settled. Slowly he was coming to accept Whip’s scent as something normal.
That night Prettyface barely cocked his ears when the flute’s husky cries wove through the twilight. Shannon paused in the act of draping clothes across the line to dry over the stove. She titled her head back and closed her eyes, letting the beauty of the music caress her tired spirit.
On the sixth day that Shannon came back empty-handed from hunting, Whip’s gift was freshly chopped wood of the exact length to burn in her stove. The wood was neatly piled by the cabin door, close at hand whenever she needed it.
While she looked at the wood, Whip’s flute whispered to Shannon from the surrounding forest, a haunting three-note cry. When she turned, she saw nothing.
Nor did the flute sing again.
On the seventh day, a bouquet of wildflowers waited for her.
Shannon looked at the flowers and bit her lip against an unexpected desire to cry. Letting out a shaky breath, she searched the forest at the edge of the clearing, hungry to see more of Whip than a shadow slipping away at the edge of her vision. Sometime in the past six days, she had stopped worrying about Whip circling around behind her and catching her unawares. She no longer believed he would jump on her like an animal and rut on her whether she wanted it or not.
If that was what Whip wanted from Shannon, he could have taken her more easily than he had taken the grouse or the trout. She knew her
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