Hushed Willows yes my husband's gone to golden green to do some business there

Riley watched the braided ropes of willow as they shimmered, playing like gentle strings in the languid summer wind. There was a veil of sleepiness in this hollow, and he felt his eyes grow drowsy.

Steps, heated and hurried, stirred him awake. His eyes fluttered open in time to see a burnished she-wolf assertively greet him. It took several seconds for him to process and analyze all of this new information: first, the rich russet of her pelt -- then, the aggravated, toothsome aspect of her presence -- and finally, her subsequent statement.

What did she mean, claimed land? And what did she mean, his kind? Riley, who likely smelled more like Esme than anything, didn't understand. Was she referring to him being coywolf? She looked just as much a half-breed as he. He felt his back go up, though only his crocodilian gaze moved as it climbed from her feet to her fierce gaze with a nonplussed disinterest.

She was not Esme, and so, Riley hoped she would eventually go away.