I stop arguing.
The turnoff to the ranch is unmarked, aside from a cattle gate with a chain. I drive through. The lodge roof shows first betweenthe oaks, then the barn, then the row of cabins along the creek. Smoke from Greta’s kitchen. A light in the lodge window.
I pull in behind the equipment shed and kill the engine.
My quarters are directly across the yard. I can see them from here. What I cannot do is get out of the truck.
I sit with my hands on the wheel and breathe.
A shape moves at the corner of the barn. Cameron, with a feed bucket in each hand, crossing toward the south pasture. He hasn’t seen me yet. He’s got a halter over his shoulder, and he’s whistling something tuneless.
He sees the truck. Stops whistling. Sets the buckets down.
I get out.
He walks over. Takes his time. Looks at the truck, looks at me, looks at the collar of my shirt and the way I’m holding myself, and by the time he reaches the cab, his face has gone from mine back to something more careful.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He waits in silence.
I don’t fill it.
“Merric and Brenna know you’re back?”
“They will.”
He nods. Looks at my shoulder the way the woman at the counter looked at my shoulder, only he understands what he’s seeing, or understands enough. His nostrils flare once. He doesn’t comment.
“Greta’s got biscuits.”
“Later.”
“Okay.”
He hesitates. “You need anything?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
He picks up the buckets. Starts toward the pasture. Five steps in, he stops.
“Briar.”
I look at him.
“Welcome home.”
He keeps walking.
I shoulder my pack and cross the yard to my quarters. The door closes behind me. Dust and absence. My cot is bare. The room is stripped. I drop the pack and sit on the edge of the cot.
He’s in my head.
Not loud. He doesn’t have to be loud. The sense of him is like standing next to someone in the dark — you know they’re there without hearing them move. He’s sitting somewhere, too. Not sleeping. Reaching toward me every few seconds, checking, and every time he reaches, my wolf hums.