Emberwood I got years of livin' by and how I choose

Although he had not thought it in such explicit terms, Kincaid was indeed in dire need of company. He sought it without thinking, too unused to the long silences and the absence of his hunting partner to do anything else. Here now with Eleuthera, something sharp and bitter inside him was being soothed — or perhaps merely folded up in cobwebs and cheesecloth to be examined another day.

Gladly, the ruddy rambler wandered at her side, likewise quite open to where the trail would carry them, and having only spoken up so that she would not think he was leading her off somewhere more private. (Not that, he allowed, the sort of venue he had in mind was unconducive to romance.)

"You got a favorite place to go?" he asked her, picking up the pace to follow after. It was instinct to remain close at her heels, so that his nose might reach the lilac fringe of her withers or her hocks if he stretched his neck. If she wanted to be chased, she would find in him a willing pursuer.