Dawnlark Plains I've been hanging pictures of you on my wall

The cold bit like a wounded dog. Reno trudged through the snow, head low, eyes squinted against the flurries that whirled down around him. His whiskers were doused in flecks of white. The cowboy’s back was coated in a thin layer of snow that rested atop his gold coat. It tired him and chilled him, but every time he shook his frame clear of the damned stuff, it always returned.

A strange scent drew his attention, lifting his head up. Ears perked to capture any signs of sound. Reno could make out a shifting shape in the snow. He didn’t know if this was a wolf, only that it was moving toward him at a steady pace.