House of Mercy by Erin Healy

like the wide necklaces of an African beauty.
    It was a pronghorn antelope. A bloody bite placed high and in front of the shoulder seemed positioned to rip these stripes right off the animal’s neck.
    Perhaps Beth’s perceptions were running unnaturally high, but when she saw the wounds her hand went first to the claw scars at her own neck.
    His breathing faltered when she squatted to touch the buck’s flank. When it resumed, she could hear a gurgle under the effort. Her heart broke for the animal’s suffering.
    Beth’s first thought was that the wolf should have forced her away from his trophy. It was possible that she didn’t understand one thing at all about wolf behavior, but his pressing her this way, here, trumped all expectation.
    The antelope’s head was on his side in the creek. Crimson ribbons of life floated away on the current. Water teased one of the animal’s eyes and fully submerged the animal’s horns, which reminded Beth of something better suited for a prehistoric beetle: dark brown and with pincer-sharp points, they rose above the head and arced together as if trying to form a heart shape. Shorter prongs, pointing forward, branched off the main antlers.
    At the water’s edge, silky mud gave way under her shoes. The creek rushed the antelope’s nostrils and then fell back. He snorted but didn’t try to lift his head. Another ripple rose all the way over his jaw. The animal didn’t flinch. If the beast didn’t drown in his own blood, he would succumb to this pristine water.
    He allowed her to place her hand on his throat and try to stop the bleeding. Or was too far gone to realize what she was doing. But the gash was too great for her fingers to cover. She took off the long-sleeved work shirt she wore over a tank top and pressed the fabric into the wound, feeling that her efforts were futile.
    If she’d come in her truck instead of on Hastings, she could have fetched the rifle in it and ended this creature’s misery. The weapon would help her to hold the wolf at bay too. She tried to think of a way to end the antelope’s suffering without a gun or knife.
    The sun fell behind the ridge before her clothes were dry. She was shivering, but the antelope was warm.
    The wolf remained in hiding. A part of Beth sensed the animal lurking, waiting—for what? Nothing prevented him from demanding this feast.
    It was as if the wolf had offered it to her.
    Her peaceful stroking lengthened out across the antelope’s ribs and flank, heating her hands as she calmed him. She could feel the weak pulse in his veins and the gentle rise and fall of his shallow breath as she borrowed what warmth remained in him.
    A breeze stirred and rattled the leaves of the alder. The animal’s suffering seemed eerily prolonged.
    The antelope groaned and began to tremble.
    The wind pushed hard enough to bow the tree branches at Beth’s back and disrupt the rippling creek. The air moved upstream, against its natural course, and Beth felt it like a cold breath sneaking up the legs of her jeans. In seconds, the chill cut all the way down to her bones.
    The joints of Beth’s legs and hips grew heavy with a throbbing ache. She pressed against the weak antelope and buried her face into its coat while the frigid air raced up her spine and over her tense shoulders. The atmosphere sat on her, an icy weight that bent her neck and made it impossible to move.
    Really impossible. When Beth realized that the sounds of the wind would prevent her ears, sharp as they were, from hearing the wolf’s stealthy approach, her mind told her body to straighten up before he tore her to shreds and got two meals for the effort of one. But when Beth tried to move her limbs and they didn’t budge, images of a wolf crouching over the back of her neck brought tears to her eyes.
    A song bubbled up in her memory about a soul being thirsty for God the way a deer was thirsty for a brook. She began to hum, and the fear hung back. The muscles of her arms