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

back this way. Maggie breathed a deep sigh of relief. A single quail lay dead in the wash, its blood bright on the silvery sand. The poacher hadn’t bothered to claim the body. He had left it there for her to find.

She turned to Pepe to tell him what had happened. But Pepe was gone and the one-eyed coyote sat in the sand close by her heels, breathing with a labored breath. She stared at him with new understanding. The animal—Pepe—stared back at her out of his one undamaged eye. Then he stood and quickly crossed the wash, scooping up the dead bird in his mouth, crunching down on thin, brittle bones as Maggie watched, trying not to feel sick. This was how they lived, after all. They killed so that they could feed themselves, their mates, their children—so that life could go on. They didn’t kill out of sheer cussed spite like that poacher, like her own kind did.

When he’d finished his meal, he looked back at Maggie. Then he climbed up the other bank of the wash, disappearing into the creosote beyond. A moment later, she heard the coyote howl, and then an answering song.

Maggie listened to the wild duet. Then she slowly walked back to the house, her thin shirt drenched with salty sweat, the fierce sun beating down. She went into the house, dialed Fox’s number, distressed to find he wasn’t there. She dialed his workshop, then Juan and Dora’s number, but still no answer. She didn’t know the Alders’ number. She picked up her knapsack, her hat and her keys, and carefully locked the blue front door—for all the good that lock ever did her. She paused at the door of the rental car. Maggie doubted it would make it up the Alders’ drive. She sighed and headed up the road on foot, past stands of tall saguaro cactus and green paloverde trees, and down the rutted drive that led over Coyote Creek to the Alders’ ranch.

She rang the bell at the outer gate, and let herself into the quiet courtyard. A wind chime rang in the willow’s branches. The sun beat down on sand and stones. The big front door stood open and Maggie crossed the yard to the porch.

“Hello?” she called.

A small girl appeared, dark-haired, dark-eyed, her thumb in her mouth, dragging an old stuffed rabbit across the floor by one frayed ear. She wore a Star Wars pajama top, and nothing at all from the waist down.

“Hello there,” Maggie said. “I’m looking for John or Lillian. Are they inside?”

“My abuelita’s out back,” said the little girl without removing her thumb.

“Can you take me to your abuelita?”

The child nodded. She led Maggie through the passageway to the back of the ranch, past the horse stables, out to the fenced runs where the wild creatures were housed. Lillian was coming out of a cage, a fat bundle of fur in her hands. “Maggie,” she said. “You’ve come just in time. I’ve got this poor doped-up critter here and I want to change his bandage. I can use an extra pair of hands. Come on. I’m headed for the kitchen.”

“Let me see,” said the child, reaching up one hand to grab a fistful of fur. Lillian held the animal above the girl’s reach. “He’s sick, sweetie pie. You can’t touch him. He’s a real wild critter, not a stuffed animal like old Jack Rabbit there.” Lillian looked at Maggie and winked. “This is my granddaughter Mahina. She’s my son J.J.’s little girl—the exhibitionist of the family.”

“So I see,” said Maggie as she followed the older woman into the house. She asked, “Is John home?”

“Nope. He’s out on a Search and Rescue call. They’ve got the horse posse out for some hiker missing on the Rincon Peak trail.”

“Is Fox with him then?” Maggie’s heart sunk. She had hoped she’d find Fox over here.

“Could be. No, now that I think of it, probably not. John only took one horse.” The old woman turned to Mahina. “Spread that towel there across the table, honey. Thatta girl.” Then she put the animal down. It looked like a cross between a raccoon and a cat, with a long body, large round ears, a pointed nose and a striped, bushy tail.

“What is it?” said Maggie.

“He’s a ringtail cat—but they’re not cats at all. Cousin to the ’coons. This here’s another leg-trap accident. He’s a bit mangled, but we’re going to save the foot. Here, hold the leg out for me like this. Don’t worry, he’s fast asleep.”

The little girl, watching, grew distinctly pale as her grandmother unwound the bloody bandage. “Mahina, I think we can finish up without you—don’t you, Maggie?”

The girl left the room without argument, dragging her bunny behind her. From the other room came the sound of a Roadrunner cartoon on the television.

Maggie made herself watch as Lillian carefully washed out the ugly wound. It could have been Pepe lying there, if the poacher had been any quicker. She could feel a faint pulse beating beneath the fur of the damaged limb she held. “What are these traps supposed to be catching, when ringtail cats aren’t falling into them?”

“Coyotes,” said Lillian. “The traps are set on leased public lands down south of here. PRC lets us take these little guys away. They’re no threat to anyone.”

“And the coyotes?”

“They’re shot. That is, if they haven’t starved to death in the leg-trap first.”

Maggie frowned. “I’ve been reading those books John gave me. Coyotes are smart. Surely by now they have learned to avoid the traps.”

“Well, yes. So they use bait to attract them.” She did not look up at Maggie as she worked.

“But I read coyotes learn to avoid meat they haven’t killed themselves…”

“There’s other kinds of bait,” Lillian said tersely, applying medication to the ringtail’s wound. The animal remained quite still. “Let me tell you how coyote bait is made—it’s your tax money paying for it, after all. First thing you do, you string up live coyotes—hang ’em upside