Phoenix Maplewood got what it takes to make a mountain man leave his home

"Rae," he repeated absently, with a nod in her direction, though his mind was a thousand miles away. He kept thinking of the words the Easthollow had given him, every syllable repeating over and over and over in his head, like the chime of an incessant songbird. A grim songbird. And if--

Shale drew in his breath with a hiss as, without warning, the girl began to lave at his ankle wound. Fuck, that stung! For a little while, at least. Then it started to feel good, and before he knew it, he was softening to her ministrations, taking deep, throaty breaths almost akin to a cat's purr. He had needed that ankle cleaned and properly treated, and. . .

"You're new," he murmured, more a statement than a question. "Are you a healer? Learning from Pema? Your pelt smells of her den." The healer's name felt sharp on his tongue, like a barb, and he spit it out hastily, not wanting to talk about her more than necessary. After all, hadn't he ran to get away from her?