Page 223 of Property of Whiskey

We cross the yard together.

He shakes his head, but I catch the reluctant smile. I like making him laugh, which is another thought I don’t need at four thirty in the morning.

The tracks begin near the maple where Wren left the apples. Normal deer prints at first, small and fresh enough that the soft edges haven’t collapsed into the wet dirt yet.

I crouch and angle my light across them while Whiskey’s beam joins mine.

“Deer,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Told you.”

“Congratulations.”

“Feel like I deserve more.”

“For identifying the most common hoofprint in Kentucky?”

“Praise is important in relationships.”

I look up slowly.

His flashlight stops moving.

“What?”

“Relationships?”

He clears his throat. “General sense.”

“Coward.”

“Investigate your deer.”

I smile. I look back down before I enjoy that too much.

Another print sits farther ahead, then another, the stride lengthening as the trail leaves the open yard and disappears beneath the trees. I follow with Whiskey beside me.

About twenty yards in, things get strange.

The hoof marks are still cloven, mostly, but beside several are tiny punctures pressed into the wet earth, three or four clustered marks at a time. Some are followed by shallow drag lines while others stop abruptly beneath crushed leaves.

I crouch again, wet vegetation soaking through one knee of my jeans.

Whiskey squats beside me. “What?”

I angle the flashlight. “Either your deer has orthopedic issues or something else made these.”

He studies the impressions. “Ugly raccoon.”

I turn my head. “You’re really committed to that raccoon theory.”

“I’ve seen huge raccoons.”

We follow the trail deeper. Wet leaves stick to my boots, low branches grab at my hair, and the air smells like mud, bark, rain, and something sharper where our shoes crush weeds underfoot.

Then something red catches my flashlight.