a seventy-three-year-old descendant of Norwegian pioneers, peeked through her lace curtain but saw no trace of her best friend. Where could that rascal be?
At daybreak, Cody, her shepherd, was usually yawning from his mat by the kitchen door, or he might’ve ambled outside to the front porch.
The timer chimed. Hanna turned to the stove, slid a hissing pot of boiling water from the burner. She spooned out her four-minute brown-shelled egg, sat alone at her table, and began her breakfast, a titch annoyed with Cody.
She didn’t want to go looking for him. Last time this happened the silly thing had chased a squirrel for a quarter mile before he got himself snared in a thornbush. He cried like a baby. And his squirming didn’t make it much easier for her to disentangle him from the prickly branches.
Such a male. Running off and getting into trouble, waiting for a woman to come to his rescue. Hanna finished eating, looked around for him, hopeful he would appear. No luck.
Her needlepoint for the museum would have to wait. After washing up, she stepped onto her veranda, slid her worn wide-brimmed hat on her white hair, shielded her eyes from the light, and surveyed her three hundred acres in the lower Yakima Valley. To the south were the Horse Heaven Hills, while on the north, where she lived, were the Rattlesnake Hills, with the Yakima River cutting through the valley, running east to west.
The sun was spilling over the treeless southern slopes where wild horses once galloped across the grassy hills. Hanna squinted, drinking in the panoramic view of the valley. Her keys jingled against her jeans as she climbed into her old Dodge truck. Might as well try the western slope first. Cody liked to wander out that way.
The access road to the remote corners of Hanna’s property was not really a road. It was more of a path. Two dirt ruts divided by a rise of grass. It paralleled the local highway for nearly a quarter mile before looping north, climbing a rise, then disappearing over one of the gentle rolling hills.
Hanna was inseparable from her land. She was from a line of Norwegians who arrived to farm in the late 1800s. Her great-grandmother was born here in the family’s first house, a homestead shack. Hanna was born here and like her dear late husband, whose people were from Yakima, she would die here.
But that was a long way off. She was healthy, sturdy, her teeth were good, and she had a lot of living to do. She had friends in Whitstran, Prosser, and she was a member of the Benton City Bridge Club. She had no intention of ever selling out and going into a home in Grandview. She guarded her independence. She was happy here with Cody. He was good company.
Except this morning.
The truck’s brakes creaked as Hanna halted at the western slope with its wonderful view. She shut off the motor, called. Then listened.
Nothing.
All right, she’d head for the eastern coulee, that was the other favorite runaway spot for him. Recalling how she once spotted a big female cougar there, she telegraphed a protective thought for her dog. She also remembered the time a couple of carloads of teens came out from Toppenish and had a party along the creek at the isolated coulee.
Toddling along the path she scanned the rolling grassy hill for Cody. She continued on for another fifteen minutes, cresting a hilltop, the truck rattling and clanking, seeing nothing as she began to descend into the valley toward the creek. Here the road twisted around buttes and small rises that popped up, blocking the long view to the water.
Hanna heard a yelp. Or was it a cry?
Concentrating, she heard nothing and kept going. She rounded another small butte when a loud woof at her ear made her jump.
“My heavens!”
Cody leaped into the road, landing on all fours.
Hanna braked, opened her door, and after catching her breath shouted at him. “Get in here. Come on.”
Cody stared at her, then made a noise she’d never heard before, a sort of
At daybreak, Cody, her shepherd, was usually yawning from his mat by the kitchen door, or he might’ve ambled outside to the front porch.
The timer chimed. Hanna turned to the stove, slid a hissing pot of boiling water from the burner. She spooned out her four-minute brown-shelled egg, sat alone at her table, and began her breakfast, a titch annoyed with Cody.
She didn’t want to go looking for him. Last time this happened the silly thing had chased a squirrel for a quarter mile before he got himself snared in a thornbush. He cried like a baby. And his squirming didn’t make it much easier for her to disentangle him from the prickly branches.
Such a male. Running off and getting into trouble, waiting for a woman to come to his rescue. Hanna finished eating, looked around for him, hopeful he would appear. No luck.
Her needlepoint for the museum would have to wait. After washing up, she stepped onto her veranda, slid her worn wide-brimmed hat on her white hair, shielded her eyes from the light, and surveyed her three hundred acres in the lower Yakima Valley. To the south were the Horse Heaven Hills, while on the north, where she lived, were the Rattlesnake Hills, with the Yakima River cutting through the valley, running east to west.
The sun was spilling over the treeless southern slopes where wild horses once galloped across the grassy hills. Hanna squinted, drinking in the panoramic view of the valley. Her keys jingled against her jeans as she climbed into her old Dodge truck. Might as well try the western slope first. Cody liked to wander out that way.
The access road to the remote corners of Hanna’s property was not really a road. It was more of a path. Two dirt ruts divided by a rise of grass. It paralleled the local highway for nearly a quarter mile before looping north, climbing a rise, then disappearing over one of the gentle rolling hills.
Hanna was inseparable from her land. She was from a line of Norwegians who arrived to farm in the late 1800s. Her great-grandmother was born here in the family’s first house, a homestead shack. Hanna was born here and like her dear late husband, whose people were from Yakima, she would die here.
But that was a long way off. She was healthy, sturdy, her teeth were good, and she had a lot of living to do. She had friends in Whitstran, Prosser, and she was a member of the Benton City Bridge Club. She had no intention of ever selling out and going into a home in Grandview. She guarded her independence. She was happy here with Cody. He was good company.
Except this morning.
The truck’s brakes creaked as Hanna halted at the western slope with its wonderful view. She shut off the motor, called. Then listened.
Nothing.
All right, she’d head for the eastern coulee, that was the other favorite runaway spot for him. Recalling how she once spotted a big female cougar there, she telegraphed a protective thought for her dog. She also remembered the time a couple of carloads of teens came out from Toppenish and had a party along the creek at the isolated coulee.
Toddling along the path she scanned the rolling grassy hill for Cody. She continued on for another fifteen minutes, cresting a hilltop, the truck rattling and clanking, seeing nothing as she began to descend into the valley toward the creek. Here the road twisted around buttes and small rises that popped up, blocking the long view to the water.
Hanna heard a yelp. Or was it a cry?
Concentrating, she heard nothing and kept going. She rounded another small butte when a loud woof at her ear made her jump.
“My heavens!”
Cody leaped into the road, landing on all fours.
Hanna braked, opened her door, and after catching her breath shouted at him. “Get in here. Come on.”
Cody stared at her, then made a noise she’d never heard before, a sort of
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