Chapter 5: The Cold River

"Old stone," Hiram said at last, and laughed. "It does that in damp weather. My brother used to say it had a temper."

He clapped Rhett on the shoulder.

"Come, come. There's coffee."

Rhett let go of my wrist.

He didn't say a word to me on the way out, and I didn't say a word to him.

My wrist stayed warm for an hour.

Saturday was Founders' Day.

In Cedar Ridge that means a pack run at dawn.

Every wolf over sixteen goes up the north trail to the ridge and back down along the river.

Every wolf over sixteen except me.

I have walked that trail in boots every Founders' Day since I was twelve.

The pack lines up at the old barn and strips down behind the hay bales.

They shift one by one with a cracking of bone.

I stand at the end with my hands in my pockets and hold their clothes.

"Morning, Jessa," said a woman with a baby on her hip.

"Morning."

She patted my arm in the kind way that makes me want to scream.

This year a hundred heads turned when I walked up, and I knew why.

Everybody had seen the lawn on Sunday.

Everybody had counted the days since Midsummer.

"Rawson girl," a man muttered. "The Alpha's pick, and she can't even change."

I kept walking.

Rhett stood by the barn door in dark jeans and nothing else, waiting his turn with his arms crossed.

His chest had a long white scar from collarbone to ribs, and I looked at it for exactly as long as I could get away with.

Then I looked at the sky.

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