Bitterroot Valley take a gamble that love exists

the hunt winds down, a closing brought on by the teeth of two formidable hunters. snow packed to their paws and shared breath fogging the air around them.

callahan's words are at first lost upon the ears of the woman. she steps around the kill, nudging him out of the way with her hips. either ignorant to his presence or knowing, and uncaring of it. either way, the woman lowers her head to the nape of the doe. inhaling a deep gust, and then working her way around once more to her backside.

her head bows, and in a hushed whisper: your body stays, but your spirit walks. go now—go fast, where wolves do not follow.

silence, for a few moments, and then ravah looks to the man. huffing at him, head cocking slightly to the side; that enchanting stare of hers glistening with something she does not yet know. a vulture found with carcass. as if to say 'obviously.'

her face juts in his direction then, a sarcastic turn of her chin.

but you good hunt. strong. her eyes drop to his shoulders, wide, and then the blood upon his chin and snout which he had missed. she finds it oddly endearing that he had attempted in cleaning himself, where most men would not care that their pelt was shed in crimson. why i keep? she asks.

argumentative. it was what she did best, after all. that, and hunting.

man can take pelt, no? you thinking that because i woman i get hide?