Remember what you’re there for.
I do. That’s the problem.
I’m there for the families. For the mission. For the wolves who vanished into the south and didn’t come back.
But I’m also thinking about the way his voice sounds when he says my name, and the way my wolf responds to him, and the way his face changes when I almost laugh at something he says.
And that’s going to land me in a whole heap of trouble.
Chapter 9
Conner
I go to Dutch’s on Wednesday afternoon because a woman told me the coffee was growing on her, and I’ve been thinking about it for twenty-four hours.
Not just the coffee line. The gas station. The way she said “I know who you are” like it had slipped out before she could catch it, and the flash of something—annoyance, maybe, at herself—that crossed her face afterward. The broken card reader banter. The fuel gauge she spotted. The almost-laugh I caught before she pulled it back behind the wall.
And the last thing. The thing she said without turning around, looking straight ahead through the windshield like she was talking to herself as much as to me.
I don’t know anyone here. And I don’t trust easy. But Dutch’s coffee is growing on me.
That wasn’t an accident. That was an invitation from a woman who doesn’t give them lightly, and if I don’t show up, the door closes.
So I’m here. Three-thirty on a Wednesday because, for some reason, that feels like the right time. The diner is quiet. Patty is restocking the pie case, and the jukebox is playing to an empty room. I take a seat.
Patty pours me a coffee with the efficiency of a woman who’s been doing this since before I could reach the counter. “You’re here early.”
“Slow day.”
“Uh-huh.” She gives me a look that says she’s not buying it, but is too professional to say so. Or too entertained.
I drink the coffee. It’s bad. It’s always bad. I’ve been drinking it my whole life.
The door opens.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. My wolf tells me before the bell finishes chiming: the sudden stillness, the focus, the pull that locks onto her.
She walks past me to a stool three seats down. Sits. Doesn’t look at me directly, but I catch the half-second where her eyes track across my face before she turns to the counter.
“Hey, Patty. Coffee, please.”
“Coming up, hon.”
Patty pours. Willow wraps her hands around the mug. The silence between us has a strange quality. Not awkward, not hostile. Charged. Two people who’ve been circling each other for days, sitting three feet apart, both pretending they ended up here by coincidence.
I break first. “You came.”
“The coffee.” She takes a sip. Doesn’t react to the taste, which tells me she’s either very polite or very focused on not looking at me. “It’s growing on me. Like you said.”
“I’m pretty sureyousaid that.”
“Did I?” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Must have been the gas fumes.”
I shift one stool closer. She doesn’t move away.
“So,” I say. “You tried the Caldwell place. The Hollis ranch. Nobody’s hiring.”
“Nobody’s hiring outsiders. That seems to be the theme. What did your foreman say?”