Lone Star Mountain þreir

She was not much friendlier than most of the dogs that Dusty Rose had met, but at least she didn't attack him on sight. He drew himself up as he ventured closer, spinning his bottlebrush tail in supplication despite this posturing.

"Learn what?" he asked her, bemused. The sons and daughters of men had never seemed particularly lacking in knowledge, to him, but he supposed he'd never seen them this far into the wilderness, either. Most had stayed closer to human settlements, or else safely enmeshed with their newfound wild families. But this girl seemed to be alone.

Lonesome was the worst thing a coyote could be.

"I'm lookin' for my wife," he told her, seeing no reason not to be candid. "She's rosy gold, like a sunset. Her eyes are like the sun. Have you seen her?"

He did not dare say her name, even knowing there could be no Witch Island cultist listening from behind trees. He'd know if they were that close. There was no telling, however, who this girl might run into after quitting his company.