Lone Star Mountain so hold your love and your truth

Eyes that rivaled the sun’s flames fell upon him—her voice a balm in so many ways, and the rise of his ire in others. Prowling, she came forward, her question clinging to the otherwise silent air of the mountain—‘Why you here?’

Had he been a more foolish man, he would have sought the slender curve of her form—not for indications of child-bearing, as she might have assumed, though.

Instead, he shifts, gaze tracing her face. “You call it white spit. What do you know of it?”