Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver [8]
“Sheep farms down there,” Eddie Bondo noted.
“Some, yeah. Tobacco. Some dairy cattle.”
She kept to her own thoughts then, touching them like smooth stones deep in a pocket as she squinted across at Clinch, the lay of his land and the density of his forests. Last spring a dairy farmer had found a coyote den over there in the woods above his pasture. A mother, a father, and six nursing pups, according to local gossip all dead now, thanks to the farmer’s marksmanship. She didn’t believe it. She knew how Zebulon men liked to talk, and she knew a coyote family to be a nearly immortal creation. “Mother and father” was a farmer’s appraisal of something beyond his ken; a coyote family was mostly females, sisters led by an alpha female, all bent on one member’s reproduction.
Fourteen days ago, when she found the den over here on her own mountain, she’d felt like standing up here and crowing. It was the same pack, it had to be. The same family starting over. They’d chosen a cavern under the root mass of a huge fallen oak near Bitter Creek, halfway down the mountain. She’d found the den by accident one morning when she was only out looking for some sign of spring, headed downmountain with a sandwich stuck in her pocket. She’d hiked about two miles down the hollow before she found Virginia bluebells blooming along the creek, and was sitting among them, eating her sandwich one-handed while watching a towhee through her binoculars, when she saw movement in the cavern. The surprise was unbelievable, after two years of searching. She’d spent the rest of the day lying on a bed of wintergreen and holding her breath like a crush-stricken schoolgirl, waiting for a glimpse. She got to see one female enter the den, a golden flank moving into darkness, and she heard or sensed two others hanging around. She didn’t dare go close enough to see the pups. Disturb these astute ladies and they’d be gone again. But the one she saw had a nursing mother’s heavy teats. The others would be her sisters, helping to feed the young. The less those Zebulon Valley farmers knew about this family, the better.
Eddie Bondo clobbered her thoughts. The nylon of his sleeve was touching hers, whispering secrets. She was called back hard into her body, where the muscles of her face felt suddenly large and dumb as she stared at the valley but tried to find his profile in her peripheral vision. Did he know that the touch of his sleeve was so wildly distracting to her that it might as well have been his naked skin on hers? How had she come to this, a body that had lost all memory of human touch—was that what she’d wanted? The divorce hadn’t been her choice, unless it was true what he said, that her skills and preference for the outdoors were choices a man had to leave. An older husband facing his own age badly and suddenly critical of a wife past forty, that was nothing she could have helped. But this assignment way up on Zebulon, where she’d lived in perfect isolation for twenty-five months—yes. That was her doing. Her proof, in case anyone was watching, that she’d never needed the marriage to begin with.
“Sweet,” he said.
And she wondered, what? She glanced at his face.
He glanced back. “Did you ever see a prettier sight than that right there?”
“Never,” she agreed. Her home ground.
Eddie Bondo’s fingertips curled under the tips of hers, and he was holding her hand, just like that. Touching her as if it were the only possible response to this beauty lying at their feet. A pulse of electricity ran up the insides of her thighs like lightning