And if the answer had been different?
The thought comes uninvited, and I push it away. It’s not my business. The protocol is clear: magic-blooded wolves on Forrester territory get relocated. Connected with communities equipped to manage their situation. It’s been the system since Maren died, and it keeps us safe. It keeps everyone safe.
I park at the compound, climb out, and then look out over the fields for a minute.
I keep people safe. That’s what the protocol does.
The words are the same ones I’ve said for a decade. They’re true. They’ve always been true.
They just sit a little heavier this morning. That’s all. A long weekend. Not enough sleep. A woman I can’t stop thinking about, who looked at me like I was a stranger and walked away.
I head inside to file the assessment. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Just another Monday.
Chapter 8
Willow
I’m up early, restless. Briar left before dawn. She wants to push the scent trail further south, past where the terrain opens up. She’ll be gone all day. That leaves me to do the ground-level work in town, and today, that means making the cover real.
I pull out the phone numbers I photographed off the hardware store notice board. Two flyers for seasonal ranch hands. One’s at a property called the Caldwell spread, south of town. The other’s at a place listed as Hollis Ranch, west along the county road.
Caldwell’s closer. I call the number. A woman answers. Sixties, by the sound of it, no-nonsense.
“I saw your posting at the hardware store in Cedar Falls. Looking for seasonal hands?”
“Might be. You have experience?”
“Stock work, fencing, general ranch labor. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”
A pause. “Where are you from?”
“Arkansas. Hill country. My family ran cattle—Herefords, mostly.” All true. Every word.
“We don’t usually hire people we don’t know.” She says it without apology. Fact, not rudeness. “Try the Forrester operation. They take on seasonal hands sometimes.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you.”
I hang up. They don’t hire from out of town. Which means it’s unlikely any of our people might have come here.
I try the Hollis number. It rings out.
The Caldwell woman directed me to the Forresters. Which means the Forresters are the default answer for anyone looking for work in this area. The first place any stranger would be pointed toward. Which means the missing family—the woman with the boy that Margaux described—would have been pointed there too.
Every road in this territory leads to the Forresters.
I drive out to the Hollis place anyway. It’s worth a look, even if nobody answers the phone. The ranch is forty minutes west along the county road—rough, pretty country, the bluffs rising on both sides of the road. The gate is open, but the house looks quiet. I park and walk up. Nobody home. But the property is maintained; fences in good repair, cattle in the near pasture, a tractor parked under a lean-to.
On the drive back, I take a detour south along one of the ranch roads, following the general direction of Briar’s scent trail. The terrain matches what she described, good for moving people unseen, if you knew the route.
I pull over at a junction where a ranch road meets the county highway. A wide pullout, gravel, room for two vehicles. The location fits—close enough to the corridor, far enough from town.
I photograph the junction. Mark the location on my map.
By mid-morning, I need gas. The gauge has been dropping since the Hollis drive, and I pull into the station on the main street. Jake’s behind the counter, the same man from Saturday who gave me three identical non-answers. I pump first, pay later. That’s the routine here.
The card reader is broken. I jab at the buttons twice before accepting the obvious and heading inside to pay cash.