Pure white wolves were unusual, the vet said, which probably explained why her pack had left her behind. But her fur color didn’t matter to me. She was beautiful and loyal, and she understood me better than most people ever would.
She was family.
I looked around the pottery barn, taking in the shelves lined with my work. Bowls and mugs and vases in various stages of completion. Little animals I created for the children. Some of the items were good. A few were even beautiful. But nobody was going to see them if I couldn’t figure out how to talk about them without stammering like a nervous youngling.
My brothers all seemed to have found their places in Lonesome Creek. Sel ran the bakery and had found his fated mate in Holly. Greel now managed the saloon with his mate Jessi, who supervised the kitchen there, though an orc chef was coming to the surface soon to take over from Jessi.
Ostor, Ruugar, and Tark had all paired off too, their businesses thriving along with their relationships. Even Dungar, who didn’t have a mate yet, appeared happy running the jail and keeping order around town. He looked good in his sheriff’s outfit with his sparkling star badge, and who wouldn’t take confidence in that?
And then there was me. The shy brother who made pretty things in the barn and could barely string together a sentence when anyone was watching. Aunt Inla had suggested I help Becken, who was also coming to the surface soon, set up our rodeo operation. I wasn’t sure about that. Someone should do it, but maybe I wasn’t the right person for that task either.
Doing pottery could be enough. I didn’t need anything more than Tressa and the quiet satisfaction of creating something from shapeless earth. It was more than I’d expected when we first came here.
But lately, especially watching my brothers with their mates, I’d started feeling the loneliness more sharply. Like there was a hollow space inside me that pottery and Tressa couldn’t quite fill.
I shook my head and reached for another ball of clay. Self-pity wasn’t going to make me a better potter or a better teacher. Practice might, though.
The wheel spun up to speed at my command, and I pressed my hands into the clay, feeling it yield under my touch. This was my language, the only one I’d ever been fluent in.
I was just starting to pull up the walls when I heard footsteps at the barn entrance. Probably another tourist stopping in to see what this part of town offered.
“We’re closed now,” I called without looking up, my attention focused on keeping the clay centered. “But there’s a-a-a class tomorrow at t-t-two o’clock.”
The footsteps stopped, but whoever it was didn’t leave. Great. Now I’d have to actually look up and probably stammer through an explanation about business hours and where to find the schedule of events.
I glanced toward the door and my hands stilled on the clay.
A woman stood inside the barn entrance wearing jeans and a simple blue top, clutching a small purse against her chest. She had medium-brown hair that caught the late afternoon light and worried brown eyes that darted around the space as if she was cataloging exits.
Tiny, even for a human, she’d barely come up to my chest if we stood face to face. Her slender frame made me conscious ofthe space I took up, of how my broad shoulders and muscular build seemed to shrink the room whenever I moved through it.
But it wasn’t her appearance that made me stare. It was the way she was looking at my pottery displays. Not with the casual interest of a tourist browsing for souvenirs, but with something deeper. I sensed she was seeing the art instead of just the objects, though I wasn’t sure why that thought occurred to me.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I thought someone was running a demonstration here.”
“I-It’s-It’s alright,” I said, my hands still frozen on the clay. The wheel kept spinning, but I’d completely lost focus. “I was. It’s o-o-over.”
The sound of claws scrambling across wood was followed by Tressa bounding from her corner bed where she usually remained all day, her white fur practically glowing in the afternoon light. She never moved that fast for anyone except me and my brothers.
“Tressa, no.” I rushed after her, but I was too late. She skidded to a stop in front of the woman, her tail wagging so hard her whole body wiggled. “I’m sorry, she doesn’t usually… Tressa, back.”
“It’s okay,” the woman said, not stepping away even though Tressa was big enough to knock most people over. “She’s fine. I don’t mind.”
I grabbed Tressa’s ruff, pulling her back to a more respectful distance, my dark hair falling forward as I bent down. I tucked it behind one ear, wishing I’d tied it back this morning instead of letting it hang loose to my shoulders. “She’s not usually this-this forward with strangers. I do-don’t know what’s gotten into her.”
Tressa had other ideas. She tugged away from me and sat at the woman’s feet, staring up at her with the kind of adoring look she saved for me when I had smoked sorhox.
“Hello there, beautiful,” the woman crooned, reaching out to let Tressa sniff her hand before scratching behind her ears. “Aren’t you simply lovely.”
Tressa melted under her touch, making a sound that was almost a purr, her amber eyes drifting half-closed in pure bliss.
I stared at them both. “I’ve never... I mean, she’s never done that with anyone. She-she-she doesn’t like…anyone but me and my brothers. With strangers, she watches from her corner.” She wasn’t aggressive, thankfully, or I’d have to leave her at my house. She just wasn’t overly friendly, not with anyone she didn’t know.
“She’s a sweetie. Such a huge dog. Is she from the orc kingdom?”
“No, Tressa’s a wolf.”
Her eyes widened. “A real wolf?”
