The Wood Wife by Terri Windling (the false prince TXT) 📕

on Cooper’s estate—you said yourself you thought he wanted you to write about him. Why else would he have given it to you?”

Why else? How could she begin to explain about the land, about Anna, about Thumper and Crow?

“Apology accepted, Nigel,” she said. “But look, you’ve got to back off. Off of Cooper’s life, and off of mine. I’m a big girl. I’ll make my own decisions.”

“You always were stubborn,” Nigel said, exasperated, and with a grudging admiration.

“And you’re not?” Maggie countered.

“I miss you, Maggie,” he said suddenly. “Let’s not sell the house. Not yet.”

She blinked at this sudden change of subject. “I want to sell it. I need the money. I paid for most of that mortgage, remember, and I’d like to get my money back out.”

Nigel made an impatient sound. “I’ll send you money.”

“Don’t. I’d rather have my own. I’d rather sell. You’re hanging onto something that’s passed. Let’s let go and move on.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said reluctantly. “Look, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I know you will.” She smiled. “And Nigel?”

“Yeah?” he said.

“Cancel Harvey’s meeting.”

She put down the phone, and picked up Tat’s letter. The morning was very nearly gone and she hadn’t even made it through the mail. She wandered over to the sink with it, and ran more water into the kettle. She heard a loud crack as she set the kettle on the stove and lit a flame beneath. She frowned at the stove. She heard it again; the sound was coming from somewhere outside. Maggie peered through the kitchen window and saw that the skinny coyote had come back again, running hard in the direction of the house. She heard a third crack. It was gunshot. Maggie ran for the door, and flung it open.

“This way,” she called to the animal.

He actually came. He hurled himself through the open door and collapsed, panting, in the hallway.

“Oh god. Are you hit?” She saw no blood. “You stay there. Don’t leave the house.” She shut the door tightly behind her, and then she strode across the yard in the direction of the wash. A man was there, tall and sun-browned, dressed like he’d stepped from a Marlboro ad. He had a shotgun in his hands, and he was following the coyote’s tracks.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “This is private land.”

“Not the wash. This here’s a public right of way.”

“But it’s posted. No hunting,” she told him flatly.

He took off his hat and smiled at her. He was Anglo, and young—maybe twenty years old. “I’m not hunting, ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m not after the deer; ‘just keeping the pest population down’. I almost had that sonuvabitch coyote. He must have cut through your yard.”

“That ‘sonuvabitch’ belongs to me,” she lied. “That’s a tame coyote, a family pet. You hurt him, and I’ll see you in court.”

His friendly smile disappeared. “You got no business keeping coyotes.”

“And you’ve got no business coming up here with a shotgun.”

“The hell I don’t,” he disagreed. “We’ve got a place down there in the foothills, and those coyotes are pestering our horses. A pack of them took down our best mare. They’re predators. They need to be controlled.”

“You’re lying,” Maggie said.

His eyes narrowed, but he said mildly, “Now how do you figure that?”

“Coyotes live on mice, rabbits, carrion,” she informed him coldly. “They’re not going to mess with an animal that big, unless there’s something already wrong with it. You haven’t got a dead horse, buster. You’re shooting coyotes for the sport.”

He laughed without humor. “I should’ve known. You’re one of them bleedin’-heart tree-huggers. You think coyotes are cute li’l pups and you don’t give a damn what they cost a working man.”

“I want you off our land. Now. If I see you here again, I’ll call the cops.”

“Well now, lady, you just go ahead.” He put his hat back on, still smiling. “I’m not doing anything illegal. There’s no law says I can’t shoot coyotes.”

“Not here, you can’t,” Maggie insisted, without even knowing if this was true. “Are you leaving or should I dial that number?”

“Listen, bitch,” he said suddenly, “if that’s a pet, you keep him on a chain. Or I’ll have his ass next time I see him. And you can count on it.”

He spat in the sand, and stalked away. When he reached the bend in the wash, he turned and levelled the shotgun in her direction. His face was blank of all emotion. She heard the click of the safety’s release. He’s trying to scare you, she told herself, standing her ground though the blood drained from her face.

He lowered the gun, with a boyish grin. “Have a nice day,” he said pleasantly, then disappeared through the cottonwood trees. Maggie watched him go, her heart pounding. Then she heard a shot. And another one.

He’s trying to scare you, she repeated to herself, tension and fear crystallizing into anger. She heard the sound of a truck start up, and move away down Redwater Road. She ran back to the house, grateful that the coyote was safely inside.

Damn, she cursed. If only she had gotten the license plate number, she could file a complaint. When she reached the porch, she saw that the blue front door was hanging open. The hall was empty, the coyote gone. She cursed again. Then she jumped, nerves raw, as she heard the sound of someone moving in her kitchen. But it wasn’t the poacher in her house, or even the one-eyed coyote. It was sweet Pepe Hernandez, gulping down water from the tap cupped between his two brown hands.

“Pepe,” she said, relieved to see him. “Where’s the coyote? Did you see him? Is he gone?”

Pepe looked up, wiping water from his chin.

“Come with me. And hurry,” she said.

She ran outside and down the road with Pepe loping along beside her, and found the tire tracks where the poacher had parked his truck by the side of the wash. There were no other tracks besides his; the coyote had not come