Whitewater Gorge Floating

Since setting out, Finley had kept her head forward. She’d allowed herself an entire day to mope and wallow and it had been one day too many. Once they embarked southward, the recruit had no time or interest in bemoaning the Saints’ situation. It was a practical move; they didn’t have the numbers to protect their territory, not yet, and waging war against so many packs would be a suicide mission. Being reasonable was nowhere near a sign of weakness.

Her focus on the move had kept her distant for the past two days, akin to her travels as a lone wolf; any drop of will to socialize had, for the moment, evaporated. They had a new recruit, Colin, and Finley had acknowledged him with little more than curt nods of greeting. She could resume pack-bonding later. For now, they had one objective: forward.

And then Derg fell into a hole.

Finley had been following him at a respectful distance and nearly skidded to a halt when his head dropped, as if taking a nosedive off a cliff. She stayed back, glancing between him and the rabbit hole; had something tripped him up? But he rose, seemingly unphased, and Finley bit back a comment about watching his step. They were approaching a gorge and such clumsiness would serve them poorly.