Void

truth~~~~

Chapter 1

THE WHOLE MESS STARTED ON THE DAY I decided to drive out and give Jimmi a surprise ride home from the school bus stop. I hid the truck around the corner from the mailboxes and walked up the county road to where it intersected with the highway. Asa and Marvel, my long-coated German shepherds, followed close behind me. We were early so I led them into a little copse near the bus stop, sat on a log from which I could see the crossing, and made the puppies lie down at my feet, one at each side.

The bus arrived on time. Only two kids got off. The first was a short skinny boy with the pinched face of a weasel. Jimmi came second, tall and slender, honey-brown, his nappy hair needing a cut. Hissing, the door slammed shut and the tail lights stopped blinking. With an exaggerated sigh the bus veered back onto the highway, strained around the next curve, and passed out of sight.

Jimmi started walking downhill before I could get to my feet. And then the other boy gave him a hard shove from behind, making him stumble. What you do that for? my son said when he'd regained his balance, sounding more puzzled than mad.

Cause you're a nigger! the kid sneered.

What?

You heard me, nigger. Why don't you go back to Zululand where you belong?

I live here. I've lived here all my life. Jimmi said, baffled.

Not much longer, now that I'm here. I'll give you a bloody lip every day till you crawl back to Africa. The kid picked up a rock and threw it. It bounced off Jimmi's shoulder.

Hey! Jimmi cried. Hey, don't!

To my right, Asa sat up and gave a low growl. Marvel leaned against my other leg, vibrating with anticipation. I said, Go! They took off like two ground-hugging missiles, shooting out of the trees and across the road to stand between the two boys. Asa licked Jimmi's hand and Marvel, dead-serious, sat in front of the skinny kid, curling her lip and watching his every move.

These your dogs? the boy asked Jimmi, foolishly picking up a stick. Asa, who had the massive head and teeth of a bear, promptly showed him the full length of his canines.

No, I said from the edge of the copse. They're mine. Great guard dogs. I think you'll be all right as long as you don't wave that stick around. They're polite unless somebody threatens them.

The boy dropped the stick as if it had begun to writhe in his hand, started to run, and didn't stop until he passed the mail boxes below. As I'd had to point out to our neighbor Kosmo a couple of times, running away from shepherds is never a good idea. Sure enough, Asa started to go after the kid. But Marvel just gazed at me, waiting for a command. Stay, I said, and they both did.

Jimmi dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around their necks for a vehement hug. In response they licked his ears with devotion. Then he slipped off his pack and spent an inordinate amount of time retying a shoe lace. Finally he glanced up, his hazel eyes hostile. You were spying on me, he said.

Lately, he'd been getting unaccountably touchy. Don't be silly, I replied, nice and easy. I had no idea there was anything for me to spy on.

Angrily he pulled loose the other shoe string and retied it, too. Why did you come to walk me home, then? I'm not a child.

I nodded downhill. I brought the truck. And some cookies. Who was that boy?

How should I know? His tone was still rough. I never saw him before. He was bugging me all the way from town. As if I'd done something to him. His eyes said, And it's all your fault.

My fault for raising him near a town that was ninety-nine percent white, so that no matter where we went together we couldn't help standing out. That fact had made me unusually protective.

Lately, he'd started to chafe under it.

I said, in an effort to keep things light, Something must be wrong with him then. Want me to give you a ride to school tomorrow?

You leave too early.

We can eat breakfast at the co-op.

But he wasn't willing to let go of his resentment at having me be a witness to his humiliation.

How many times do I have to tell you that I don't like to eat breakfast, he replied in a tone so belligerent that it made my hand itch.

As many times as I have to tell you that you need food energy if you want to do well in school, I replied impatiently, sick of that particular argument. I heard that on the days you leave home with an empty stomach you're at the candy machines by ten. I could tell from the scowl spreading over his face that it was something else he didn't want me to know about.

At that moment a black Rolls Royce with dark-tinted windows came around the bend, cruising slowly up the highway. It stopped at our crossing. We moved to the side, expecting the driver to turn onto the county road, but the car stayed where it was. The rear passenger window came down. A man with porcelain-white skin stuck his head out, his long, tied-back black hair gleaming blue in the weak winter sun. Aviator sunglasses obscured half of his face but I recognized him by the red jacket he was wearing and his perfectly shaped ears.

Gorgeous longhairs, he said in a breathy voice. I love those black and red coats. Where'd you get them?

The male's from Vienna, I told him. The female from Frankfurt. Same age, exactly.

You breeding them?

Maybe next year. When they're full grown.

He stepped from the passenger door. Are they friendly?

If he had waited for my answer I would have said they were not. But he was already crouching, running his fingers first through Marvel's coat, then Asa's. To my surprise both dogs wagged their tails. Lightly.

The pale, soft spoken man straightened and said with a tentative smile, "I'm a new neighbor.

From down below. I bought a place that used to raise cows. Do you have a card?"

Pardon?

You know. A business card. So I can get in touch with you. About puppies.

I didn't bring any, I said, silently vowing to have some made at the first opportunity.

He patted around on his jacket until he found a small note pad and a pen. He clicked the pen.

I'm thinking litter mates. A boy and a girl. He gave a rueful smile. Some old dog bit me when I was little and I've been scared of them ever since. I think it's about time I got over it, wouldn't you say? Yours seem extra nice. And steady. Kind of lean, though. I could feel their ribs.

I'm keeping them on the thin side. I said. "Less stress on their developing joints and bones.

German shepherds make excellent companions. Gentle but protective. And they're great hiking partners."

His smile grew more certain. That settles it. What's your number? I'll give you mine as soon as I'm moved in.

I stammered my number. He scribbled it down. Then he put the implements away, rose, and offered Jimmi his hand. Hi. I'm Ari. When I come back from California I want to invite you and your mom down to my place. For a movie and popcorn. What do you say?

She's not my mom, Jimmi told him, giving a timid shake.

Ari dimpled. Oh? She looks like she ought to be.

A flood of gratitude washed through me. Most people only noticed our color difference and agreed with Jimmi. We watched Ari climb back into the Rolls. It turned onto the highway. He waved out of the window, his smile now full blown. His teeth were as perfect as his ears. After the car disappeared around the next bend, Jimmi cried, I don't believe it! Ariel Jordan! Here! In the backwoods of Oregon!

I said, He must have bought the pasture land down by the creek. No wonder I haven't heard any cows mooing lately.

He took our number! Jimmi whirled his pack, dancing in an exuberant circle. And he's got a TV! Trust him to think of essentials.

Probably won't be around much, I cautioned. He does have that fabulous spread in California, remember? The one with the zoo.

Jimmi stopped, awestruck. Oh my God! What if he'll . . . Then he shrugged, reining himself in. He slipped on his pack, looked straight at me for the first time that day, and allowed a genuine grin to cross his preadolescent face.

He might lose our number, I said. Find himself some puppies elsewhere. Be too busy to call.

Then Jimmi actually put a hand on my shoulder. I couldn't remember the last time he'd condescended to touch me. You know what I'm thinking? he asked.

What?

Could be you were right about him. And everybody else was wrong.

He was referring to the report I'd helped him write about Ariel Jordan for a class project last year. The one I had done all the research for. The one his classmates had openly ridiculed, making him feel ashamed of openly supporting his scandal-plagued idol. Of course I'm right, I said. No doubt in my mind.

There never had been. After all, Ariel and I had practically grown up together. Even if he still didn't know my name because I hadn’t thought to introduce myself—or owned a single business card. But both omissions could be easily fixed the next time our paths crossed. If they ever would again.

Chapter 2

I WAS THINKING ABOUT ARIEL JORDAN WHEN I woke up the next morning. About how his dad had named all eight of his kids after angels, even the girl. About Ariel's voice soaring above the voices of his six brothers from the time he was tall enough to hold a microphone. About that amazing face of his, both trademark and curse, depending on whom you asked.

I left Jimmi sleeping and slipped on my clothes. The three dogs burst from the cabin as soon as I opened the door. Then they exploded down the forest trail without a flicker of hesitation although yesterday's fragile green end-of-February landscape had unexpectedly been transformed into desolate winter during the night.

Damn! I muttered, frowning at the snow and my sneakers before changing into my bulky red moon boots. Then I flipped up my coat collar and clumped after Asa, Marvel and Racket moments before all three dogs reappeared to find out what had delayed me. As usual Marvel was running circles around the other two. They stopped to sniff at the boots I'd had no occasion to wear since the first week of December. Then the two shepherds started their favorite keep-away game.

Snapping and snarling, Marvel dove for Asa's feet, a move he countered with blood curdling growls and horrific teeth gnashing. When they tired of the wrestling match they reared and fenced tooth to tooth. Racket, the Chihuahua, zipped around them at breakneck speed, yodeling in the shrillest tones he could conjure until I finally yelled, Enough! in the fake male bass I adopted whenever it was necessary to startle my pack to its senses.

Instantly the shepherds came to my side, heeding the advice of their genes. But Racket, who firmly believed my occasional attempts at discipline had nothing to do with him, buzzed ahead on his delicate fawn legs, waiting for no one. Following at a more leisurely pace I bent low to evade snow laden branches slumping over the trail and tightened my coat's Velcro wristbands against the chill.

At the abandoned cabin, the shepherds stopped and chewed snow as if it were vanilla ice cream, licking their muzzles with appreciation. I glanced up the rotting stairs to the treacherous porch and shivered, recalling the last time Jimmi and I had stepped inside for a quick look around. Once this had been the best little house on the mountain, with its wraparound porch, the jaunty, steep angled roof, the solid, hand carved front door. But nature, in the process of reclaiming what was hers, had sent hordes of wood rats to nest on the stove top, in the oven, and inside the walls from which they'd torn chunks of pink insulation, using the debris as their toilet.

Past the cabin the trail took a sharp left onto a logging skid that led to the top of the ridge. I could see Racket's dainty footsteps swerving off the path straight to the draw. Just as I turned uphill the Chihuahua came streaking out of the bushes, tailed by an incensed, determined coyote.

Stretching his utmost Racket homed in on me and jumped into my arms. The coyote kept coming until it noticed that I wasn't a tree. Then the beast smoothly swerved uphill and out of sight.

Before I could find my voice to yell No! the shepherds, as soundless as the coyote, went in pursuit.

A second coyote emerged from the gully in support of the first, chasing after Marvel and Asa. Outraged, Racket wiggled out of my arms and hurried to join the battle somewhere above. I froze, remembering my landlord Barret's horrible tale. Some years ago, his beloved Golden Retriever had strayed a few yards too far from his fancy cabin one evening and was surrounded by a bunch of coyotes. They tore him to pieces before Barret could stumble toward them.

A picture of the slaughter had lingered in my mind ever since. It was why I began straining up the snowy incline, shouting in the hope that the sound of my voice would drive the coyotes away. It had worked once before. Just last month I'd come out of my cabin early one morning, heading for work, when I heard the heart-rending death cry of a fawn somewhere nearby. His mother and herd panicked and ran off, leaving him alone with his attackers. The fawn's scream went on and on. I hurried toward the sound, my shouts interrupting the kill. The screaming stopped. Barret, who'd come running to the rescue from the opposite direction, stepped out of a clump of bushes looking grim.

Don't go in there, he warned. You don't want to see what they did to the little guy. The kindest thing for us to do is to leave him alone so he can finish his dying.

I wasn't about to let a couple of coyotes rip the throats out of my naïve puppy-dogs. Jogging uphill in my cumbersome moon boots, dodging sagging branches, shoulders hunched to keep snow from sliding inside my collar, I used muscles I'd forgotten I had. The dogs were waiting for me on top of the ridge, strangely subdued. Racket's small haunches quivered. Asa and Marvel were gazing toward the far off lookout, from which the coyotes yipped a clear warning before they returned to the draw. I scooped up Racket, holding him tight. I bet you found their cave and stuck your nose in it, I told him. You're lucky you caught them unawares. Now they'll have to dig a new den for their pups somewhere else.

The horizon behind the lookout was molten scarlet, setting dark clouds ablaze. I walked on, my boots sinking into virgin snow. When I saw a brown blur in my peripherals I hastened to grab at both shepherds' collars, forcing them to stand still.

A great stag pranced down from the neighboring height, crossing the ridge ten yards before us. Powered by thick muscles rippling under his pelt he moved as if he were rolling on wheels and carried his magnificent rack like a crown.

Leave it. Sit, I said sharply when Marvel began to yearn after the buck. Asa cringed, flattening his belly onto the snow as if the chastisement were meant for him. But Marvel made a leap for freedom. I yanked her out of the air. That the buck aimed for the same draw into which the coyotes had disappeared was his own business. Keeping Marvel out of harm's way was mine.

Most likely the coyotes would consider the buck unstoppable anyway.

I leashed the shepherds, carrying Racket in one arm. Together we climbed the last slope, inhospitable under deep drifts. We passed a stand of scraggly scrub oaks and were aiming for my little conifer friend when I almost stepped on the first buttercup of the season, peering out of the snow.

Last snow, first flower, I said, bending to feather a finger over the velvety petals. They reminded me that on the mountain no winters were the same twice in a row.

I freed the shepherds, put Racket on the ground, and straightened, pressing my knuckles to the small of my back. He was heavier than he looked. The trail under my feet was slippery red clay soil bleeding through scoured white. A sudden gust snatched my breath away. I leaned into the cold wind, feeling it tug at my scarf. It loosened and fluttered behind me, a lavender banner.

On impulse I spread my arms wide, wishing I could lift like a kite. But only the scarf sailed away. Asa stepped on it as soon as it touched down, giving me a chance to retrieve it. He left a red-clay paw print on the glossy silk.

Jimmi and I had first noticed the little conifer five years before. The sapling had only been knee high then. That spring, March had turned unbearably hot, killing wildflowers the day they emerged, browning the grass as soon as it greened, curling the leaves on deer brush to wither and drop before the month was over. The little conifer had been severely gnawed. Half the bark was chewed off and the main branches, including the crown, had been snapped.

We wired the branches together, painted a sealant on the wounds, and lugged a gallon of water uphill every morning. For two years we kept the baby tree surrounded by protective fencing and promised him he would grow up to be a giant. From his seeds would spring a future old growth forest, reclaiming the stripped hillside and restoring its God given splendor.

Now the little ancestor-tree's snow covered branches swayed wildly in the harsh breeze, almost as if he was waving at me. Wind is good for you, I told him. It'll make you stronger.

Touching the slender trunk, I could feel sap striving up from the roots. Gently, I brushed the snow off each drooping branch, then gave the trunk a firm shake, releasing a cloud of cold diamond dust. Relieved of his white burden, he stood taller. He had already outgrown me.

Above us the entire sky was on fire. Pink cloud oceans roiled, their breakers foaming scarlet and orange. Look up there. Just look! I told Marvel. She did, enthusiastically wagging her tail.

But Asa only glanced at the clouds for an disinterested moment, finding nothing the least bit edible in them. I knew without a doubt that Ariel Jordan would have loved this sunrise as much as I did. Glancing toward the configuration of boulders topping the hillside, I saw it transformed into Archangel Ariel's throne, covered with glittering snow.

I lay flat on my back beside the ancestor-tree, getting out of the wind. Racket made himself comfortable on my thighs, trying to wiggle underneath my warm coat. That's the trouble with snow, I told him, wrapping him in the lavender scarf. At first it looks and tastes good, but in the end it always turns to slush.

I gazed at the kaleidoscopic changes happening in the cloudscape above me until the colors waned to gray. No yellow overcast either, I told Marvel who loved listening to me. That means whatever's up there will come down as rain and wash the snow away.

*

NO TELLING what the roads would be like this morning. It made me appreciate the dependable old four-wheel drive Toyota pickup I'd bought last September. I called her Efi. She was made to handle whatever the sky could spit out. The only thing wrong with her was that the gas gauge was stuck on the half-way mark. I was careful to top off the tank twice a week.

Cold, wet, and happy, my crew and I trouped homeward. The shepherds played some more of their war games until they scented a herd of black-tailed deer hiding in a manzanita thicket directly below. Cutting toward them, Asa and Marvel split the herd apart. Does hopped out in every direction, flicking stubby black tails and bounding away as silently as the big puppies chased them.

I considered the hunt a good ending to our hike, for the herd seemed to enjoy the exercise as much as the dogs. From the does' powerful jumps I could tell they were nowhere near their best stride. The shepherds fell farther and farther behind. Soon they lost interest in the uneven contest and labored back toward me, tongues pulsing.

You get to lounge by the warm stove all day while I'm off earning our dinner, I told them.

The shepherds liked taking turns on Asa's easy chair, but Racket the burrower preferred wiggling under the baby sized sleeping bag inside his box.

Sides touching, the puppies flowed ahead on the trail, as awesome as the stag and the molten sky. I let my eyes feast on their matched steps and synchronized souls.

*

MUNCHING on apple slices and raw almonds later that morning, I engaged the locknuts on Efi's front wheels, then climbed in the cab next to a sleepy Jimmi and started the engine. It turned over at once. I had called Barret just before we were leaving the cabin, asking, On the way out do I put it in low drive or high?

With a loud yawn Barret said, You woke me up for that? High drive of course. Low drive's for off-road stuff like mud flats. Just keep your speed steady on those hairpin curves.

I thanked him for his expert advice but when I hung up my gut urged low drive. As usual I ignored it, deferring to male opinion instead, convinced that any man's technical savvy was bound to be better than mine. Besides, Barret had owned an elderly 4X4 pickup for years while I'd never driven Efi in real snow before. The week after Thanksgiving didn't count—the accumulation had been no more than an inch.

In front of us the road fell, leveled, and fell again. We passed Kosmo's old camper to the left, Stu's cabin up high at our right, the parking lot below it. I had a split second glimpse of Barret's house, downslope. There were no footsteps in the snow nor was smoke curling from anybody's chimney. Then came the long climb to the top of Ridge Road. The tires cut through the white stuff as if it were whipped cream, making me feel invincible. Efi maneuvered well until she came to a drift.

Although we negotiated it perfectly, at the next curve the back tires started spinning and slid to the outer edge of the road. Jimmi gasped, clutching the dashboard. I tried to ease the tires out of the groove they had cut. The engine revved and strained, protesting loud enough to awaken all three of our neighbors. Then I got Efi moving again—only to have the wheels slide right to the brink.

Oh help! Jimmi said, his eyes wide.

I rolled down my window and peered out. The left rear wheel was half off the edge. One little mistake and Efi would tip down a slope so steep that even the deer detoured around it. And if by some chance she didn't smash into a tree on her way down she would hurtle straight for Barret's cabin below.

Climb out, Jimmi. Real slow, I said. Don't slam the door. Stand by the ditch. For once he did what he was told without arguing first.

I turned off the engine, set the emergency brake, and got out to consider our options. After inspecting the truck from all sides I decided it was definitely time for us to call upon Barret's male expertise. I was glad I had already roused him once. It would speed his reaction time when we came pounding on his door to break our bad news.

Chapter 3

DON'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT ARIEL JORDAN, I cautioned Jimmi on our way to Barret's front door. The man needs all the privacy he can get. Barret's two portly black Labs barked from inside the kitchen, announcing our arrival before I could knock. Barret, whom his renters surreptitiously called the Bear, opened the door and wedged himself into the gap. He was looking shaggier than usual in wrinkled long johns, his fuzzy but thinning dark hair disheveled, his gray-streaked beard askew. Holding a mug of steaming coffee, he slitted his eyes to signal his annoyance with our untimely visit.

We're stuck! I announced before he could remind me that he hated to be disturbed before ten. The pickup slid to the edge.

He took a leisurely sip and gave a careless shrug. "No problem. Weather report calls for rain.

Just leave it sit overnight. You'll be fine by tomorrow." His dogs pushed their noses out from between his legs, wanting Jimmi to pet them. When he did, they slobbered all over his fingers until he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Jimmi has to go to school, I reminded Barret. And I have to get to work. You know I'm indispensable.

Maybe you are and maybe you aren't, Barret said, unmoved and unmoving. But I bet Jimmi wouldn't mind a mini vacation.

While I worked to keep a frown from crossing my face, the dogs squeezed outside, brushed past me, and rolled in the snow, barking with glee. Barret's face lit with an indulgent smile.

Look at those fat babies go! he said, still barring the door.

Cute, I allowed, knocking the snow from my boots. If you don't want to help us will you at least let me use your phone to call a tow truck? A tow couldn't cost more than eighty or ninety dollars. I'll have to take the money out of the rent, though. It's due tomorrow but with the added expense I won't be able to pay it till next week.

It worked. He opened the door wider, stepped aside, and said, Aw, Silvi. Don't you know I was only kidding? You guys come on in while I finish getting dressed. That's one thing I've noticed about you, Silvi—you can't take a joke.

And you can't make one. I stomped through his cramped kitchen and stood by the living room window, blindly looking out while I grappled with my irritation. Behind me I heard Jimmi scrape a dinette chair away from the table and plop himself down. I like school, he informed Barret. I get to hang out with my friends. There's nothing to do up here except watch TV. And we don't have one. Just a year ago my boy spent his winter weekends sledding down the road on his Flexible Flyer. I used to have to drag him inside for our meals. Lately, he'd been wasting his spare time rooted on his bed. What the heck was Barret thinking, encouraging my boy to play hooky? At his impressionable age.

While the Bear shuffled off to his new indoor bathroom to get dressed, I stared at the porch banister, reminded myself of the first iron-clad rule I lived by, and recited it under my breath:

Don't rile a moody landlord unless you've found a new place to live and all the papers are signed!

What you say? Barret asked, sticking his head around the door jamb.

You've been bird-watching? I gestured at the binoculars sitting on the banister, which, I now realized, was dry and had recently been swept clean of snow. By Barret, who slept in even on weekdays. What's there to see except crows and blue jays this time of year?

You'd be surprised. He came out wearing overalls and stooped to lace his steel-toed work boots, his face flushing pink. Well, let's get to it. If we must, he grumbled, putting on his coat.

I'll carry the snow shovel. Silvi, you take the rake. Jimmi, see if you can handle this. He handed the boy a glazed doughnut. When everyone knew Jimmi wasn't supposed to eat anything with sugar.

I gave an imperceptible headshake, signaling him to refuse it.

Thanks, he said. And took the first bite staring defiantly into my eyes.

*

KOSMO the hunk stood waiting for us outside his rickety camper, his head wrapped in a peacock-bright turban. All through last summer he'd worn a brown crocheted cap, even when the temperature rose past one hundred. I assumed his hair was the same pitch-black as his wildly arched brows. If he had hair. I was beginning to wonder.

Guess you got stuck, huh? he said, rubbing an unshaven jaw. I'll help you dig out. He grabbed the rusty broad bladed shovel leaning against the discolored vinyl siding.

How altruistic of you, Barret growled at the taller and much younger man. Unless you were planning to ask Silvi for a ride. He forged ahead. Jimmi raced past him on his long coltish legs, no doubt feeling the first effects of a sugar rush. He threw himself onto Stu's empty, snow covered parking lot, stuffed what was left of the doughnut in his mouth, and started a snow angel.

To our right, Stu was skidding down his steep cement walkway, carrying his one and only winter coat and a gardening spade.

I walked beside Kosmo, noticing deep shadows under his languid gypsy-dark eyes. His clothes smelled of skunk. It was Stu who had clued me in last autumn. "That's marijuana, Silvi.

Kosmo moved up here to grow weed. In our bushes. I'm sure Barret suspects although so far the juvenile fool's been careful to cover his tracks."

Are you? Going to ask me for a ride? I asked the juvenile fool, wondering what would happen to Barret if Kosmo planted another crop this year and the sheriff found it. On Barret's land.

I was going to flag you down, Kosmo admitted. Must have dozed off at the critical moment. Your slide is my reprieve.

We fell in behind Barret. Framed by his dogs, he wagged his snow shovel at the approaching Stu who looked like a young Johnny Depp. Stu grunted something that sounded like mo'n'n and jumped over the ditch onto the road. Leaning the spade against his hip, he slipped on his frayed down jacket, which sported several patches of duct tape. While he struggled with a stuck zipper I took stock of his longish unkempt hair, his sculpted but sleep-drenched features, his scuffed plastic sneakers.

Hey, mon, Kosmo said. Kind of early for you, isn't it?

Yup, Stu replied unenthusiastically. When Kosmo made a half-hearted effort to catch up to Barret, Stu turned to me and my boy, saying in his slow, deliberate voice, "Hi, Jimmi. Hi, Silvi.

Thought I'd get some exercise to warm me up. My fire died during the night. The cabin's as cold as the inside of an ice-chest. Here, Jimmi, something for you from the restaurant. Catch! He tossed Jimmi a sandwich baggie filled with after dinner mints, smiling at the boy's startled Gee, thanks!"

Jimmi, save them for later! I said. We're eating at the co-op, remember? Naturally, I'd have to buy him a sugar-free equivalent before he'd let me pry the mints out of his hands.

Lowering his voice, Stu said, Hey, Silvi. If I help dig out your truck can I catch a ride to the highway? How did you get it stuck anyway? Did you forget to put the wheels in lock?

I did not. Where's your car?

He searched his pockets for a tissue, then blew his handsome straight-bridged Italian nose. I parked it out by the highway. At two o'clock in the morning. That's when I decided a long slippery walk in deep snow—without a flashlight—was bound to be more fun than wrestling with two ice-cold metal tire chains. In the dark.

I shuddered, remembering similar hardships. Can't say I blame you. Why do you think I finally bought a truck with four-wheel drive? All those chafed bleeding knuckles. Coat sleeves drenched in tire muck. Are you going to put on the chains and drive your car up here? Now that you can see what you're doing?

"No way. I forgot to take my box of restaurant leftovers home, is all. My cupboards are bare.

It was a lousy night for tips. Good night for mints but I'm getting kind of tired of sweets."

Ahead, Barret threw a snowball for the dogs. It fell apart upon hitting the ground. Kosmo, a few steps to his rear, made a bigger, firmer ball. It flew past the Labs in a powerful arc. When they chased after it Barret glared back at Kosmo, yelling, Get a move on, people! I'm only shoveling out one tire.

Kosmo, who disliked being prodded, stopped walking and waited for the rest of us to catch up. I said in a low tone, If he can't get my pickup unstuck you guys can help me put on my chains. They're still sealed in the original box.

Stu said, No way, Silvi. I'd rather walk to the highway.

I'm with you on that one. Kosmo's teeth flashed white. I can always hitch a ride with some rich chick driving a SUV. Hitch with me, Silvi. I'll look more trustworthy with Jimmi and you at my side.

I said, It would help if you took off that turban.

Why? Something wrong with it? It's keeping my ears warm.

When we arrived at my disabled truck Barret was already scraping snow away from his tire.

We busied ourselves with the other three while Jimmi dug an icy clump out of his boots and the dogs sat and watched. The moment all four tires were clear Barret leaned his shovel against a tree and looked at me sternly. You should have put it in low drive.

I would have, I sputtered. If you hadn't told me to put it in high.

I did? he asked as if this was news to him. Then he chuckled. See? That's what happens when somebody wakes me up from a sound sleep!

I started to point out that he'd been bird-watching in his long johns when I phoned. But his face immediately began to harden, so I said meekly, I'm so sorry. I promise to never wake you again.

Jimmi tittered but Barret flashed me an appreciative smile and made himself comfortable in the driver's seat. Then he turned the ignition and eased the wheels away from the abyss. Efi climbed smoothly up the rise and out of sight.

Too cool! Jimmi said, racing after the truck, the Labs at his heels.

You've got to hand it to our landlord—he has all kinds of nerve, Stu muttered, collecting our tools and depositing them next to Barret's shovel.

Yeah. Kosmo's nostrils flared with distaste. It almost makes up for a few of the Bear's lesser qualities.

You had another run-in with him? I asked as we walked uphill together.

His wild brows knitted. Let's put it this way—he likes to jerk people around and I don't like to be jerked.

Watch it, Kosmo, I said. He also likes to kick people out. I've seen plenty renters come and go. Don't get on his wrong side unless you have someplace to sleep tonight.

She's right, Stu said, nervously looking ahead.

Kosmo tugged at my long braid in what he seemed to think was an endearing manner. I could come sleep at your place. He'd never evict you. It's men he can't deal with. I yanked the braid out of his hand.

Forget it, Stuart told him. You know Silvi's a devoted celibate. It’s the one thing she's religious about. If Barret can't shake her from her convictions what chance could you possibly have?

None! I patted Kosmo's well-muscled shoulder to soften the rejection. Besides, you're barely twenty. End of discussion.

He threw up his hands. Okay, okay. I was just—

—joking? I finished for him.