Bitterroot Valley Exit, Pursued by a Bruised Ego

the mention of the pelts drew a small shift in sega’s posture. not shame, but honesty. he glanced toward the memory of the drying racks, then back to callahan.

those hides. a nod. some my work. some angel’s.

he let a breath slip out, rough but warm.

mine are… sloppy, he admitted without hesitation. woman’s paws make better. always. where i from, that work is pride. skill for mothers. sisters. daughters.

another small nod, this one approving.

good you look close. you want learn, i show what i can.

his gaze drifted ahead to the northern trail, voice low again.

but angel oak teach better. her paws sharp.

then, softer, almost an invitation.

you get your own pelt right one day.