Qeya River kuugaamiut

A niece of the caribou hunter. Anselm hadn’t really ever envisioned this man was one to forge many lasting relations — but he supposed every wolf came from another. 

What Anselm liked about these wolves was their refreshing directness. They did not apologize as they asked the hard questions; they did not obfuscate — it was extract knowledge, move on. 

Even then he couldn’t help the way his back stiffened and his expression darkened when she asked after his wife. It was his turn to hide a wrinkled muzzle. He could answer in a few different ways. He could laugh abrasively and tell the truth. He could lie and say she was dead.  He could invent any sort of story that painted Heda as the bad guy, the bitch that had broken his heart —

But there was Gideon to think of, and as Anselm envisioned how the boy might react to hear his mother’s image assailed, he softened. Part of him knew Heda did not deserve to have her character assailed; it’d taken two wolves to fight, and Anselm’s part in the whole affair had been nothing short of ugly. He did not wish to drive a wedge between boy and mother. He had loved his own so very much, and it broke his spirit to learn he could not provide his sons with the same cherished, secure childhood he’d been given. 

No vife. He answered, hiding the sharp swallow of emotion that scraped his throat. Vhere’s your husband?