Blackfeather Woods and she was a war zone of a woman

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smoke took in the kid with one long, measuring look  the falcon, the snark, the thin thread of grief beneath it all. bearclaw valley. he knew its dirt. been there through passing. 

hell, he muttered under his breath, more to the wind than the pup.

he stepped past the kid, broad lichenbone shoulders brushing the dark, then jerked his chin north. i know the way, smoke said, gravel-low. you comin'?

no drama. no softness. just a man carved by bad country making a decision.

he walked forward, expecting the boy to fall in step. keep close, he added.

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