Chapter 22: A Different Tree

Conall had bought the sapling three weeks earlier, and he had hidden it in the back of his truck under a tarp.

It was a Black Fir seedling, two feet tall, with its roots wrapped in burlap.

"You knew I'd ask," I said.

"I hoped."

We planted it at dawn on the bank of Dover Creek, a few yards from the bridge.

It was the place where I had cried the first night.

He dug with his bandaged arm, and I told him he shouldn't, and he did it anyway.

The wound in the old scar had already closed to a pink line.

Wolves heal fast, and I was learning to be glad of it.

I pressed the dirt flat around the roots with both palms.

"It's a different tree," Conall said.

"It's a better one."

"It won't punch back."

"You're going to be insufferable about that joke."

"I've saved it up for five years."

I laughed, and the sound went out over the water, and a heron lifted off the far bank.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was Hattie.

The message said: I did not bite anyone at the Hall. I want it noted.

Under it she had written: Pie at noon. Bring the Alpha, he's too thin.

I showed it to Conall, and he smiled, slow and surprised.

"Walk me home," I said.

"You're asking?"

"I'm telling you I want walking."

"Where to?"

"Your house," I said. "The one with the shower."

He took my hand.

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