“So,” I said out loud, turning the horse over in my hands, “the only question is why.” It was easy to imagine Callum saying those words, just like it was easy to imagine him whittling, the knife moving in a blur of motion, wood dust gathering on the backs of his fingers as they moved. Werewolves were creatures of habit, and if there was one thing I’d learned about Callum in a lifetime of growing up in his pack, it was that he never did anything without purpose.Įasy there, Bryn-girl. I knew this wasn’t just a gift, the same way I knew that Casey was here as much for Ali as for the twins. They were Stone River, I was Cedar Ridge, and we might as well all have been human when it came to feeling each other’s thoughts. There was a part of me that expected a response to my silent question, even though my pack-sense no longer extended to Callum or any of the other members of the Stone River Pack. There was no note, no explanation-just a little wooden horse that, for whatever reason, Callum had sent to me.Ī year earlier, I might have rolled my eyes at the gesture and been secretly pleased that he’d thought to give me anything at all. I turned the box upside down, and the horse, no bigger across than the width of my hand, fell out into my palm. Callum carved wood, and apparently, he’d carved this piece for me. As an artist, I favored materials lifted from the recycling bin or stolen off bulletin boards around town. Carved from dark cherry wood, it bore the mark of Callum’s craftsmanship: smooth, even strokes of a carving knife he’d carried in his pocket for as long as I could remember.
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