No Man's Dog by Jon A. Jackson Page B

that baby. Some state agency or, perhaps, one of Frank’s relatives, in Butte.
    “Up that way, I think,” Fedima said, stepping back from the car and waving a bare arm over toward the river. The gesture exposed her to the backlight of the sun, the thin cotton of the dress not much more than a chiffon veil. Joe could see the shadow of her pubic hair, the actual shape and thrust of those youthful breasts, the dark nipples. Then she leaned close again. “He won’t be back for hours.” Her voice was husky.
    Joe stared at her. Was she coming on to him? She was leaning on the door of the car, her face very near. He could feel her breath. A mere nod would bring their lips into contact. Her smile was tentative, almost mocking, and it made his blood quicken. He couldn’t help but notice that the buttons of her dress were undone, revealing a deep cleavage.
    Joe looked away from her close face, out the windshield. It was one of those splendid Montana fall days, a deep blue sky without a cloud. The wind drifted quietly across the hills, stirring the grass gently, lifting the sheets on the line languorously. They’d be dry in minutes in this air.
    He thought, Why not? He visualized the quiet midmorning house, the baby asleep, the usual drowsy heaviness of the marijuana plants and the flowers on the air. He imagined unbuttoning thatdress, her warm tanned skin, her breath hot and fast, the wet tongue. She would be supple to his touch, silky dry here, then gluily moist there . . .
    But he had just made love to Helen. The idea vanished, replaced by annoyance. He let his hand slip to the crevice, feeling the cool metal of the automatic.
    Then she said, “Joe, you are not angry with me? About the dogs? You must understand how a mother feels. I am scared of every little thing. I have been thinking, we need to be good neighbors. I don’t want this feeling I have, that we are not easy. Is it the cows?”
    She stepped back, her hands on her hips. She looked very sensible, thoughtful.
    “Perhaps you are right about the cows,” she conceded. “I am thinking . . . you are upset about the fence. Security is important. I feel that also. You can imagine, after what I went through, in Kosovo. We could fence the cows, away someplace, over the ridge. A double fence. There is so much room. What do you think?”
    “Over the ridge?” Joe said.
    “You know, the far meadow,” she said. She pointed up beyond the house. Joe was bemused by the all-but-perfect outline of her left breast, full and rounded. Helen was a woman with the breasts of a boy, a feature that had a kind of negative attraction for Joe. He hadn’t really contemplated a full figure in some time.
    “Would there be enough grazing?” he managed to ask.
    “Oh, yes, very much grass, I think,” she said. “And, now I think . . . we do not need so many cows. A few beefs . . . is it ‘beefs’? That don’t sound izzack. And a couple of milking cows. I miss the milking cows, when they come home in the evening . . . ding, ding . . . the bells, when they walk. When I was a little girl, my father sends me to bring home the cows to milk. I am a farm girl, you see? I do not, I cannot forget it. Everything else . . . they are all gone now, but perhaps I can hear the ding, ding of the milking cows again.”
    She smiled and stood, hands on hips, legs spread, and bare feet planted on the solid earth. She looked around, her eyes taking in the distance.
    “Is so beautiful here,” she said. “So peaceful. That I like very much. That is the most important thing. I think you agree, Joe? We must first be sure of that.”
    Joe’s hand crept back into his lap.
    “But I would like a few chickens,” she said. “Maybe the chickens will be enough—no sheep, or goats. We will keep them in the barn. Enough so that we can have fresh eggs. There will be enough eggs for you, Joe. And Helen.”
    “If you have chickens,” Joe said, “you must be careful of the hawks.” He nodded toward the large