Briar and I split at the creek crossing. If she noticed I was distracted, she didn’t say anything. She went east, following the scent trail that went cold yesterday, hoping the terrain past the creek gives her something to work with. I took the western ridge for the thread-sense.
“I’ll make my own way back,” she said before we separated. “I want to push further south. Could be a while.”
I didn’t argue. Briar works best alone, and she doesn’t need me hovering. She’ll walk back to the motel when she’s done; ten miles through rough country wouldn’t even register as inconvenient for a wolf who spent years working impossible assignments for the Frostbourne pack.
So I’m on the ridge. Alone. Trying to do the thing I came here to do, and failing because a man I shouldn’t be thinking about is taking up residence in my skull.
Focus, Willow.
I close my eyes. Reach south. The Hill Country spreads out below me, and somewhere past the trees and the ridges and the ranch roads, my people are breathing. I don’t know how many, but they’re out there. The thread hums at the edge of my perception. Fainter than I want, but there. A whisper of Ravenclaw kinship, pulling from the same direction it pulled yesterday. South. Consistent. Not a voice. Not a location. Just a direction, and the knowledge that someone at the other end is alive.
I hold it for maybe thirty seconds before the concentration slips.
Not enough to track by. Not yet. But it’s more than I had yesterday, and the south-pulling consistency matches what Briar’s been finding on the ground.
I work the ridge through the afternoon. Checking the terrain, noting the sight lines, mapping the landscape in my head, the way Brenna taught me. Where would you route wolves through this country if you didn’t want them seen? The ridges give hard ground that doesn’t hold prints. The creek beds give concealment but limit your movement. The ranch roads are fast but exposed.
If someone was moving families through here—families who didn’t want to be seen, or who were being moved by people who didn’t want them seen—the corridor would follow the hardground, drop into the creek for cover, and connect to a road at the far end. That’s what Briar’s scent trail suggests. Someone designed this route.
By late afternoon, my legs ache, and I’ve gone as long as I can on trail mix and stubbornness. The notice board at the hardware store is still on my list. If local ranches are advertising for seasonal hands, that’s the path the missing family would have followed. And I need a real meal.
I drive into Cedar Falls. The town has the drowsy feel of a Sunday afternoon. A few trucks on the main street, the church parking lot empty, the shadows starting to lengthen. I check the hardware store notice board first: a couple of flyers for ranch hands, a church bake sale, a lost dog. I photograph the ranch hand numbers with my phone. Then I head for Dutch’s.
The diner is quieter than it was yesterday morning. The lunch rush is gone, and the evening crowd hasn’t arrived. Patty’s wiping down the far end of the counter. She spots me and waves.
“Hey, hon. Grab a seat.”
I pick a table at the far end of the diner and order a turkey sandwich and coffee. The diner settles around me: a couple in a booth by the window, three older men arguing gently about something at the far end, a woman reading a paperback over a plate of pie. I eat and listen. The talk is ordinary: cattle prices, a leaking roof, someone’s truck that won’t start. The kind of conversation that tells you nothing and everything about how a place works.
The door opens.
My wolf lifts before I register why.
Conner walks in.
And the room adjusts.
Not a silence, not a collective turn. Something subtler. Patty reaches for a specific mug—his, already set aside—and starts pouring before he’s even sat down. One of the older menlifts a hand. “Conner.” Easy. Familiar. A younger wolf who was heading toward the counter adjusts his path, giving space without being asked.
He heads to a booth across the diner and slides into the seat with the ease of familiarity. I’m pretty sure I’m out of his line of sight, but if he sees me, he doesn’t acknowledge me. After this morning, I’m not surprised. I froze him out. He’s either returning the favor or just hasn’t noticed me. I wish I could say the same.
I eat my sandwich. Watch without watching.
Patty brings his coffee and says something that makes him shake his head with half a smile. A man approaches—fifties, rancher build—and launches into something about a feed delivery. The man’s posture is respectful. Deferential. Not submissive. Just the natural body language of a wolf addressing someone with rank.
The room orients around him. Not dramatically—just the automatic adjustment of a pack that knows its structure. He’s at the center of it without trying to be.
“Who’s the guy over there?” I ask when Patty drifts back with the pot. Keeping it light.
Patty gives me a look. “That’s Conner Forrester.”
The sandwich turns to concrete in my mouth.
“Forrester?”
“The Forresters run the big ranch outside town. Been here longer than anybody.” She tops off my coffee. “Their alpha’s Garrett… Conner’s older brother. Conner handles the enforcement side. Been doing it since he was practically a kid.” She gives me a conspiratorial smile. “He’s single, if that’s what you’re working up to.”
I manage something that might be a smile. “Just curious.”