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Authors: William Kent Krueger
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that whatever tracks there might be would be obscured. “I’ll have a look myself.”
“Mind if I come?” Rainy asked.
“Go,” Meloux said to her before Cork had a chance to respond. “From me, you learn to heal. From Corcoran O’Connor, you learn to hunt.”
“I don’t intend to shoot anyone, Uncle Henry,” Rainy told him.
“Not today, perhaps,” the old man said with an enigmatic smile. He waved them out. “I will clean the dishes.”
Cork and Rainy pulled on their coats and stepped outside. The wind was up again, and the air was damp and held a sharp chill. The temperature, Cork figured, was just above freezing. This kind of weather was harder on him than the most bitter winter blows. The damp wind seemed to push right through his outerwear and drove spikes of wet cold into all the bones of his body. He flipped his coat collar up and drew on his gloves and snugged his cap more firmly on his head. Though she zipped her own coat up to the neck, Rainy seemed less bothered by the weather.
“Where do we begin?” she asked.
Cork said, “The door of your cabin faces west. That’s where the arrow came from. Let’s head that way and see what we find.”
He made a long arc in front of the cabin five yards out, moved another five yards distant and walked another arc in the opposite direction. In this way, he moved farther and farther from the cabin, studying the meadow for signs. All he found was evidence of Meloux’s attempt at tracking. There’d been no hard freeze yet that season, and last night’s sleet had mostly melted, so the ground was clear and soft. He knew that if there had been anything, even Meloux, with his bad eyes, would have found it.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Rainy asked. “Footprints?”
“Not just a print, although that would be helpful. The meadowgrass is long and dead, so if someone had walked here there’d be stalks bent or broken. If someone knew what they were doing and didn’t want to leave a trail, they wouldn’t have come into the meadow.”
“Why are you looking here then?”
“Eliminating possibilities.”
Rainy pointed to the west. Fifty yards distant stood a tall rock outcropping in a roughly semicircular shape. Beyond it lay the fire ring where Meloux often conducted ceremonies of one kind or another. “If I were going to shoot an arrow from someplace that wouldn’t leave a trace, I’d shoot from those rocks.”
Cork said, “That would be my first choice, too.”
“Then why aren’t we looking there?”
He stopped and turned to her. She wore a gray wool cap that she’d knitted herself. Her black hair was done in a long braid that disappeared beneath the back collar of her coat, but loose wisps fluttered about her face in the wind, dancing restlessly across the tawny skin of her cheeks. Her eyes were the color of cherrywood, and were intense with her desire to understand and to learn. In that moment, out of all context of his purpose that morning, Cork was struck by how beautiful she was to him. He cupped her face in his gloved hands and kissed her and felt how soft her lips were against his own and, despite all the cold that drove against them, how warm they were.
She seemed caught by surprise. “What was that for?”
“Appreciation,” he said.
She smiled. “I like being appreciated. But what for?”
“Just being here,” he said. “I like being with you. I like not being alone in this.”
She reached up and touched his cheek. “I love you, Cork O’Connor. I’m happy being the one who makes you not alone.”
Cork felt another kind of kiss against his face, the wet kiss of snow. He looked up and saw flakes beginning to fall.
“Okay,” he said, returning of necessity to their task, “the rocks would be my choice for shooting the arrow, but it’s anincredibly difficult shot. First of all, it’s more than fifty yards away. The odds of hitting the door from that distance aren’t great. And when you factor in the dark . .
“Mind if I come?” Rainy asked.
“Go,” Meloux said to her before Cork had a chance to respond. “From me, you learn to heal. From Corcoran O’Connor, you learn to hunt.”
“I don’t intend to shoot anyone, Uncle Henry,” Rainy told him.
“Not today, perhaps,” the old man said with an enigmatic smile. He waved them out. “I will clean the dishes.”
Cork and Rainy pulled on their coats and stepped outside. The wind was up again, and the air was damp and held a sharp chill. The temperature, Cork figured, was just above freezing. This kind of weather was harder on him than the most bitter winter blows. The damp wind seemed to push right through his outerwear and drove spikes of wet cold into all the bones of his body. He flipped his coat collar up and drew on his gloves and snugged his cap more firmly on his head. Though she zipped her own coat up to the neck, Rainy seemed less bothered by the weather.
“Where do we begin?” she asked.
Cork said, “The door of your cabin faces west. That’s where the arrow came from. Let’s head that way and see what we find.”
He made a long arc in front of the cabin five yards out, moved another five yards distant and walked another arc in the opposite direction. In this way, he moved farther and farther from the cabin, studying the meadow for signs. All he found was evidence of Meloux’s attempt at tracking. There’d been no hard freeze yet that season, and last night’s sleet had mostly melted, so the ground was clear and soft. He knew that if there had been anything, even Meloux, with his bad eyes, would have found it.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Rainy asked. “Footprints?”
“Not just a print, although that would be helpful. The meadowgrass is long and dead, so if someone had walked here there’d be stalks bent or broken. If someone knew what they were doing and didn’t want to leave a trail, they wouldn’t have come into the meadow.”
“Why are you looking here then?”
“Eliminating possibilities.”
Rainy pointed to the west. Fifty yards distant stood a tall rock outcropping in a roughly semicircular shape. Beyond it lay the fire ring where Meloux often conducted ceremonies of one kind or another. “If I were going to shoot an arrow from someplace that wouldn’t leave a trace, I’d shoot from those rocks.”
Cork said, “That would be my first choice, too.”
“Then why aren’t we looking there?”
He stopped and turned to her. She wore a gray wool cap that she’d knitted herself. Her black hair was done in a long braid that disappeared beneath the back collar of her coat, but loose wisps fluttered about her face in the wind, dancing restlessly across the tawny skin of her cheeks. Her eyes were the color of cherrywood, and were intense with her desire to understand and to learn. In that moment, out of all context of his purpose that morning, Cork was struck by how beautiful she was to him. He cupped her face in his gloved hands and kissed her and felt how soft her lips were against his own and, despite all the cold that drove against them, how warm they were.
She seemed caught by surprise. “What was that for?”
“Appreciation,” he said.
She smiled. “I like being appreciated. But what for?”
“Just being here,” he said. “I like being with you. I like not being alone in this.”
She reached up and touched his cheek. “I love you, Cork O’Connor. I’m happy being the one who makes you not alone.”
Cork felt another kind of kiss against his face, the wet kiss of snow. He looked up and saw flakes beginning to fall.
“Okay,” he said, returning of necessity to their task, “the rocks would be my choice for shooting the arrow, but it’s anincredibly difficult shot. First of all, it’s more than fifty yards away. The odds of hitting the door from that distance aren’t great. And when you factor in the dark . .
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