Hot Blooded

and began to hum. With quick, economical movements, she arranged
a few chunks of bittersweet Sharffen Berger chocolate onto a heel of crusty
French bread, then popped her idea of breakfast into the microwave. Even as she
punched the buttons with her left hand, her right lit the burner beneath her
shining Italian pot. Grabbing a mug from its hook, she twirled the handle around
her finger like a gunslinger, slammed it on the counter and poured a one-ounce
blurp of Vermont cream into its maw. Pirate Vic's bowl and kibble became her
next partners in the dance, one she'd performed—at first with forced cheer, but
now with real—ever since her husband became her ex.
    Five years of her life she'd given to that man, four-and-a-half more than he
deserved. She should have known not to trust a broker.
    "No more stinking, store-bought granola," she sang to the fading daisy print
walls. "No more
Wall Street Journal
and God-darned low-fat milk."
    "
Gosh
-darned," she corrected as she finished shaking cat food into
the bowl.
    She'd been trying to cut back on her cursing. With Tom gone, she thought she
shouldn't feel the need.
    "Here kitty, kitty," she called as she set the kibble on the dark back porch.
Pirate Vic, her black-and-white, one-eyed torn (whom Tom had hated, she reminded
herself with satisfaction) usually interrupted his nocturnal rambling long
enough to let her feed him. This morning he was either too far away or too
entertained by his adventures to heed her call.
    She sighed, missing him a little, then decided to eat her breakfast outside.
The back steps needed a carpenter's attention as much as her stair rail, but she
sat on them all the same. The air was cool and soft, a pleasant start to an
August day. Familiar rustles filled the woods that surrounded her scraggly lawn.
She owned ten acres, all told, on the southern tail of the Green Mountain spine.
    Tom had wanted her to cut down the trees and sell them.
    "God bless you, Gramps," she murmured, morning prayers more her style than
evening. "Give Grams a kiss for me and, uh, do your bit for world peace."
    She was about to try calling Vic again when a shadow slinking through the
brambles brought her alert.
    "There you are," she cooed, before she realized the intruder could not
possibly be a cat.
    The shape froze at the sound of her voice, the forward-canted ears obviously
canine. It had to be a neighbor's dog. Plenty of folks in Maple Notch let their
pets run loose. She expected the dog to flee but, after a pause, it crept foot
by silent foot into her yard.
    Her first clear sight of it made her pulse patter in her throat.
    Her visitor was not dog but wolf, a big, glacial-eyed, gape-jawed beast. Its
markings were black, its undercoat a lighter shade she could not make out. Its
upcurved tail waved slowly from side to side. It had locked its gaze on hers as
if gauging what sort of welcome it would receive. Perhaps unable to decide, it
halted midway between the forest and her porch.
    It was the wildest, most breathtaking creature she had ever seen. In watching
it, she completely forgot her loneliness.
    "Omigosh," she whispered, the hair at the nape of her neck prickling like a
sunburn. She wasn't sure if she was frightened or simply thrilled. Vermont
didn't have wolves. At least, she didn't think they did.
    Wherever this one came from, she hoped it hadn't eaten her cat.
    The wolf woofed at her as if to object.
    "Would you like some kibble?" she offered, thinking the smell of food might
have been what drew it. "Or maybe you'd rather try my chocolate?"
    The wolf whined at this and resumed its careful forward advance. Maybe it was
a crossbreed, or had been raised by humans in a preserve. It certainly didn't
appear to be afraid of her. In fact, it was acting like it didn't want to
startle her.
    The intelligence in its pale, bright eyes made this theory seem less
outlandish. At that moment, she wouldn't have been surprised to discover the
creature could read her mind.
    Trembling, she held her half-eaten bread as far as her arm could reach. When
the wolf was close enough to sniff her offering, it sneezed, licked a drip of
62-percent-pure dark chocolate, then delicately took the crust in its teeth.
Mariann was almost too shocked to let go, reminded only by a gentle tug. A toss
of the wolf's head and a snap of its powerful jaws made the treat disappear.
    For a moment, the animal's eyes glowed like hot, green stones. Then, as