“Yeah.” I nod. “Drinks coffee, asks about ranching. Not much else.”
“Sure about that?” Garrett’s not letting up.
“I’m sure, Garrett. If I were worried, I’d let you know.” I keep my voice firm. “Now, if you’re done interrogating me, I’ve got people to move.”
“Right,” he says, eyes calculating. “You do that.”
I walk away without further comment, but my senses are prickling. I haven’t been watching her for any of the rightreasons. She hasn’t done anything that seems suspicious, but then again, have I really been looking hard enough?
Fuck it. I’ve got more pressing things to worry about right now.
Tate’s waiting by the trucks. He’s dressed for the field: boots, jacket, a knife on his belt that he probably doesn’t need but makes him feel official.
“Morning, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. Makes me feel old.” I climb into the truck. He takes the passenger seat. “You know what we’re doing?”
“Assessment. Dawes flagged magic signatures in a family on the south border.”
“That’s right. Here’s how this works. I talk. You watch. If the situation stays calm, which it will, you don’t say a word. If it goes sideways, which it won’t, you follow my lead. Clear?”
“Clear.”
We drive south. The ranch road gives way to rough track. The ravine is a natural cut in the terrain, steep-sided, with a creek at the bottom that runs in spring and goes dry by August. Good shelter. Hidden from the main roads. Exactly where you’d camp if you didn’t want to be found.
I park on the ridge above the ravine, and we walk down. Tate is quiet beside me, his wolf close to the surface. I can smell the shift on him, the nervous energy of a young wolf in unfamiliar territory.
The camp is under the overhang, as Dawes said, sheltered from wind and rain. A tent. A tarp stretched between two trees for additional cover. A fire pit with fresh ash. A cooler, a couple of bags, a pile of firewood stacked neatly against the rock wall.
A man rises from where he’s been tending the fire. Mid-thirties. Brown skin, black hair cropped short, lean in the way people get lean when meals aren’t guaranteed. His eyes find meimmediately, assess me, read the rank in my posture. He steps in front of the tent. Between me and whatever’s behind him.
“Morning,” I say. “Conner Forrester. This is Forrester territory.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Forrester.” His voice is controlled. Respectful, but not submissive. A wolf who’s learned that showing weakness gets you treated worse. “We’re passing through. Heading south.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Three days. We needed rest. The kids were—” He stops. Reconsiders. “We needed rest.”
A woman emerges from the tent. She’s small, dark-haired, with the alert stillness of a wolf who’s been running for a long time. There’s a small child hiding behind her legs. Dark curls, big brown eyes, a thumb in his mouth. He stares at me with the frank, unblinking assessment of a toddler who hasn’t learned to look away from things that scare him.
An older kid appears behind his mother. Eight, give or take, like Dawes estimated. Same dark hair as his father. He’s trying to stand tall, trying to look like he’s not afraid, and failing at both. His eyes are locked on Tate and me—two ranked wolves standing in his camp—and his body is vibrating with the effort of not bolting.
My wolf makes a sound in my chest. Low. Not a growl. Something closer to anxiety. The animal doesn’t like this. He’s looking at these kids, and his hackles want to rise, not in threat but in protest, and I have to consciously push him down.
“Routine check,” I say, keeping my voice unthreatening. Talking to the father, but aware of the eight-year-old’s eyes on me. “We get drifters through here sometimes. I need to ask a few questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Where are you from?”
“Louisiana. Originally.”
“Pack affiliation?”
“None. Independent.”
“How long have you been traveling?”