Chapter 6: The Line

On the fourth morning, Duncan was still at the creek line.

I saw him from the cabin porch, a small dark shape on the far bank beside a gray tent.

He had been there three nights.

Orson came up the path with two mugs and handed me one.

"Your husband is trespassing on my sleep," he said.

"He's not on your land."

"He's on my view. I've started drawing the curtains." He sipped his coffee. "He asked me for leave to cross again at dawn."

"What did you say?"

"That it's not mine to give."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I'd have said no for free." He looked at me over the rim. "You could just tell him to go home."

"I could."

"But."

"But he's not on the road to Ridgeline," I said. "He's on the creek."

Orson didn't answer.

The wind blew woodsmoke across the water.

I put my mug on the rail and put on my coat.

"I'll walk down with you," Orson said.

"No."

"Hazel."

"If I need someone hit, I'll shout."

"Fair." He settled onto the porch step and stretched out his legs. "I'll be right here, not listening."

The path down to the creek took ten minutes, and my wolf paced beside me the whole way.

The creek was a hundred feet wide there, brown with snowmelt.

A wooden footbridge crossed it, with a white line painted across the middle planks.

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