Winter Moon

at work, because of the brain swelling he'd found in the autopsies of

the raccoons, but he was not likely to take seriously any talk of

spirits, possession, and eerie conversations conducted in a cemetery

with an entity from the Beyond.

Anything besides the crow? Travis had asked. Jack shook his head.

"That's all."

"Well, maybe whatever brought those coons down, is over with. We might

never know. Nature's full of odd little tricks." To avoid the vet's

eyes, Jack pulled back his jacket sleeve, glanced at his watch. "I've

kept you too long if you want to finish your rounds before the snow

sets in."

"Never had a hope of managing that," Travis said. "But I should make

it back home before there're any drifts the Rover can't handle." They

shook hands, and Jack said, "Don't you forget, a week from tomorrow,

dinner at six. Bring a guest if you've got a lady friend." Travis

grinned. "You look at this mug, it's hard to believe, but there's a

young lady willing to be seen with me. Name's Janet."

"Be pleased to meet her," Jack said. He dragged the fifty-pound bag of

dog chow away from the Rover and stood by the driveway, watching the

vet turn around and head out.

Looking in the rearview mirror, Travis Potter waved. Jack waved after

him and watched until the Rover had disappeared around the curve and

over the low hill just before the county road.

The day was a deeper gray than it had been when the vet arrived. Iron

instead of ashes. Dungeon gray. The ever-lowering sky and the

black-green phalanxes of trees seemed as formidably restricting as

walls of concrete and stone. A bitterly cold wind, sweetened by the

perfume of pines and the faint scent of ozone from high mountain

passes, swept out of the northwest. The boughs of the evergreens

strained a low mournful sound from that rushing river of air, the

grassy meadows conspired with it to produce a whispery whistle, and the

eaves of the house inspired it to make soft hooting sounds like the

weak protests of dying owls lying with broken wings in uncaring fields

of night. The countryside was beautiful even in that prestorm gloom,

and perhaps it was as peaceful and serene as they had perceived it when

they'd first driven north from Utah. At that moment, however, none of

the usual travel-book adjectives sprang to mind as a singular and apt

descriptive. Only one word suited now. Lonely. It was the loneliest

place Jack Mcgarvey had ever seen, unpopulated to distant points, far

from the solace of neighborhood and community.

He hefted the bag of dog chow onto his shoulder. Big storm coming. He

went inside. He locked the front door behind him. He heard laughter

in the kitchen and went back there to see what was happening.

Falstaff was sitting on his hindquarters, forepaws raised in front of

him, staring up yearningly at a piece of bologna that Toby was holding

over his head.

"Dad, look, he knows how to beg," Toby said. The retriever licked his

chops.

Toby dropped the meat. The dog snatched it in midair, swallowed, and

begged, for more.

Isn't he great?" Toby said. "He's great," Jack agreed. "Toby's

hungrier than the dog," Heather said, getting a large pot out of a

cabinet. "He didn't have any lunch, he didn't even eat the raisin

cookies I gave him when he went outside.

Early dinner okay?" me," Jack said, dropping the bag of dog chow in a

corner, with the intention of finding a cupboard for it later.

"Spaghetti?"

"Perfect."

"We have a loaf of crusty French bread. You make the salads?"

"Sure," Jack said as Toby fed Falstaff another bite of bologna.

Filling the pot with water at the sink, Heather said, Travis Potter

seems really nice."

"Yeah, I like him. He'll be bringing a date to dinner next Sunday.

Janet's her name." Heather smiled and seemed happier than at any time

since they had come to the ranch.

"Making friends."

"I guess we are," he said. As he got celery, tomatoes, and a head of

lettuce out of the refrigerator, he was relieved to note that neither

of the kitchen windows faced the cemetery.

The prolonged and subdued twilight was in its final minutes when Toby

rushed into the kitchen, the grinning dog at his heels, and cried

breathlessly, "Snow!"

Heather looked up from the pot of bubbling water and roiling spaghetti,

turned to the window above the sink, and saw the first flakes spiraling

through the gloaming. They were huge and fluffy. The wind was in

abeyance for the moment, and the immense flakes descended in lazy

spirals. Toby hurried to the north window. The dog followed slapped

its forepaws onto the sill, stood beside him, and gazed out at the

miracle.

Jack put aside the knife with which he was slicing tomatoes and went to

the north window as well. He stood behind Toby, his hands on the boy's

shoulders.

"Your first snow."

"But not my last!" Toby enthused. Heather stirred the sauce in the

smaller pot to be sure it was not going to stick, and then she squeezed

in with her family at the window. She put her right arm around Jack

and, with her left hand, idly scratched the back of Falstaff's head.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt at