Bitterroot Valley Exit, Pursued by a Bruised Ego

sega heard the shift in callahan’s tone, the way humor brushed something softer and then stepped back. he did not prod at it. some wounds were meant to be carried, not spoken over.

hn. yes, he said, steady. angel good girl.

his gaze stayed forward on the trail, ears turning slightly as he scented the distant musk of elk. the morning light caught the pale of his coat as he continued.

she visit her mother, southeast, he added. she come back when ready.

their strides fell into a clean rhythm, side by side. sega felt the way callahan matched his pace but kept the respectful inch behind, a sign of a wolf who understood hierarchy rather than feared it. good. strong.

the air sharpened with the nearness of prey, but sega kept his voice low.

how would you strike them, callahan? which would you pick? he did have the choice; the whole herd before him.