Biting the Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

somewhere. Actually, to tell the truth . . . well, he’s really more coyote than dog.” Mary frowned, turned her head to look at Andi, to see how she’d take it. “ Gospel truth is, he’s really a coyote. I don’t tell people that, though. You know the way people are about coyotes. Think they’re trash.”
    â€œSomewhere I read how ranchers call them cowards, yellow-belly cowards. Because they’re submissive when they’re trapped.”
    â€œYou sound like you’ve been around them a lot.”
    In the dark, Andi nodded. “I’ve found maybe two dozen in the last three months.”
    Mary sat up, leaning on her elbow to peer down at Andi’s face. “Are you saying you’ve been traveling around for three months on your own?” She felt a surge of envy. Mary prized independence above all else, except, perhaps, loyalty.
    But Andi didn’t appear to find her adventure so unusual. “Four months, actually. I started the end of January. Not exactly traveling, though. More staying in one place. So I got to know where the traps were. Other things get caught in them too, you know.” She said it as if this last bit were the only part of her story that needed explaining.
    â€œBut where’d you live all by yourself for four months?”
    â€œIn a cabin in the mountains. The Sandias.”
    Mary was even more dazzled by this than she’d been about the traveling. “Is it your family’s cabin?”
    Andi was silent for a moment. “No.” She grew thoughtful. “I could tell you what happened, only it’s such a long story.”
    Mary could think of nothing she’d rather hear. She nodded and rolled on her side to listen to Andi’s long story.

• DADDY •

3
    What she remembered—and it was all she remembered—was waking up on top of a bed in a house she didn’t know, in a room she couldn’t recall entering. And she remembered lying there with the sweat pearling on her skin in icy beads.
    The room was empty now, except for her. But she knew someone must have been here—a man, to judge from the jacket draped over the back of a turquoise-painted chair, a watch with a thick strap, and a silver bracelet with heavy links, a man’s bracelet. These were lying on the bedside table, together with some coins. She observed what she could without moving her body, only her head. She was afraid to move her body, for she felt as if she were made of glass, brittle and transparent. She held her palm out toward the window light to see if it was solid, then brought it back to rest atop the other one on her stomach.
    She thought if she could keep her movements even and measured she might be able to rise from the bed. Nothing felt broken but everythingached, as if she’d been farming, plowing a field from sunup to sundown, guiding an old plow pulled by a horse.
    She rose from the bed, slowly. At least she was dressed; that gave her some comfort. She started moving about the room, looking for clues. The room was attractive—warm and homelike. Whoever owned this place took good care of it. In the corner was an adobe fireplace and there were several wall hangings, brightly colored scenes taken, it looked, from the land out there. On the pine dresser she saw a little card that read WE WOULD BE GRATEFUL IF YOU COULD VACATE YOUR ROOM BY 11 A.M., AS WE NEED TO GET IT READY FOR THE NEXT GUEST.
    She was a “guest,” then. For some reason, that suited her. She did not belong here as anyone other than a guest. But then, she did not belong anywhere that she could remember. She could not remember anything before this morning. She could not remember her name. For a moment, she stared out of the window at the distant dark mountains. She felt an affinity with the empty land, the far mountains.
    She looked the room over carefully: its pale adobe walls, its old black bureau, its baskets of potpourri, and,