Sleepy Fox Hollow cowboy

The days grew shorter, and night grew colder.

Anselm had let the frost enter his heart.

He'd heard the howl and paused in his inspection of the northern fringes of the river. Setting aside his task, he made for the border's direction; a spiteful leisureliness in his pace. Let her wait. He owed her nothing.

When he got closer, he scented Etienne on the wind. This made his steps falter and now, he no longer wished to sink his teeth in the stranger, but to watch. There was something about Etienne that was Anselm's yin; where Anselm was icy, Etienne was warm. 

Where Anselm was ice, Etienne was fire. 

He approached slowly, gaze hard. He ignored the gift at the stranger's feet, his gaze drawing instead to her condition. She looked cold and pitiful -- neither of these things elicited much compassion in the boy. Vhat do you vant?