She was miles from home. Charlie Kicking Woman’s stretch of land glittered under a hard field light. She felt the cold crack in her ankles. She nearly jumped the fence surrounding Aida’s garden. She worried about getting trapped. She could hear the pop of the apple trees in the orchard. She thought of hoisting herself up in the branches of an apple tree but knew that the branch might snap. She edged her way around back to see the lights of Harvey’s car light Charlie’s driveway. She ran to the side of the house, breaking snow. She could not breathe. The moon burned like crystal. She flattened her back to the house’s shadow as Charlie’s porch light snapped on. Harvey pulled his car short. Fence posts wore hats of snow. She saw Harvey open the car door and look toward her as if he were considering approaching the house. Charlie’s voice was hoarse with sleep as he called out to Harvey. She thought for a moment he was speaking to her but she watched as Charlie stepped from his house, shivering, to have a talk with Harvey Stoner. Charlie had left his back door unlatched and she ducked into the safety of his home. She did not hear Charlie as he reentered the house. She was watching Harvey pull himself back into his car, his headlamps so bright she was sure he could see her standing at the window. He backed out of Charlie’s road slowly, and the sparkling snow churned behind him, wolfing his misery.

Charlie Kicking Woman TROUBLE

I knew I’d have a run-in with Stoner but I never imagined he’d show up at my doorstep at two in the morning. I’d slept most of the day. A Northern cold front swept into the valley and in a matter of hours the temperature slammed to zero. I could feel the edge of cold seeping through the walls of my house. Ice laced the windows. I sat by the stove a long while, listening to the hiss of pitch. I thought of the small rising breath of all the animals sleeping. The Jocko River purling white. Dry snow was snaking the highway. I was glad to be home. At least I didn’t have to be out in this.

I was restless. I’d paid the bills, read the paper. I had too much time on my hands. I remembered the name of Yellow Knife’s horse. “Champagne,” I said to myself, thinking of Louise. I suspected Yellow Knife would be looking for that horse in all the wrong places. I imagined him in a swirl of snow, his thin shirt flapping in the wind. Baptiste creeping up on honest men’s pastures, looking for revenge. I told myself it was only the cold settling, the frost etching the windows, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched.