a date of sorts.

Eleanor Crawford

They go back inside. It's warmer in here, with a fire in the hearth and so many bodies. It's quieter upstairs; maybe some of the children have fallen asleep. There are the two promised poker games going on, and a representative of the Crawford family at each table: Oliver with the penny stakers and Mr. Crawford casually smoking a pipe while narrowing his eyes at his cards.

He does glance up when his daughter comes back in, followed by Deputy Clay. His eyes are too clear for him to have missed the convergence of their absence, or the whispers between Mrs. Ballard and one of the other ladies chatting by the window up front. He doesn't stand up, flip over a table, and demand to know what the hell is going on here, which is just further proof that he's very different from most people in Denver City.

Dagmar, however, is watching Clay with stony gray eyes, tracking him as he walks in. She may be kin and her charge may be a monster pretending at humanity, but she clearly takes her duties as chaperone quite seriously, and is almost as tall and broad-shouldered as Trevor Clay himself. However: she does not flip anything over, either. She just falls into step with Eleanor, preventing him from taking up any more unsupervised time with her.

Miss Crawford doesn't join a table. She visits her father briefly and kisses his cheek, and Trevor Clay is waved over to join one of the games if he will. Eleanor does her rounds as a hostess, chatting with her guests who aren't inclined to play cards. A group of ladies sits together sipping sherry and occasionally eating little cakes. It's quite pleasant, even if near the end, Eleanor starts to look a bit drawn around the eyes.

The evening winds down, as it is wont to do. Hands are folded, pots are won, cakes polished off, coffee brewed, and so on. The guests are all given a small gift at the door to take home: lace-edged handkerchiefs and lace gloves for the ladies, monogrammed handkerchiefs and gleaming cufflinks for the gentlemen. Just a little something to remember the Crawfords by. The kinfolk of the town, who also happen to be leaders in the town, upstanding citizens, trusted friends, make their way to their homes, carrying their sleepy children or leading them by the hand. The public house begins to douse its lights.

Trevor Clay makes his way home alone. His dog is waiting for him near the front door. She begins wagging her tail frantically when he comes in, walking in circles, barking until shushed, the way she always does. Night falls deeply, with a velvet heaviness at the end of a long evening. At one point he wakes, hearing the howl of a wolf again. Farther, this time. Distant. Sleep comes again.

--

A few more days go by. People who were not invited want to know every possible detail about the dinner. Many never think to ask why they weren't invited: they sense instinctively, without knowing intellectually, the difference between themselves and the kinfolk of Denver City. Some people are leaders and key figures in the town; others aren't. It's just their mortality that keeps them from knowing what that difference is. Plenty of people resent it, and don't like it, but few stop to wonder about the why behind it all. So it has always been. The Veil is heavier, thicker, and more pervasive than even most wolves fully understand.

In any case: a bit of time passes. And one day, the Ballard boy shows up at the sheriff's office. He carries messages as a way to earn a bit of pocket money and also as a way for him to burn off seemingly boundless energy. So he comes in running, cheeks red, carrying a note for Deputy Clay.

The stationery is just as high-quality as the invitations were, the handwriting excellent, the paper smooth. And when he unfolds it (whenever he does so), the paper releases the faintest whiff of perfume. Her perfume, which until this moment he likely hadn't realized he picked up on. Would remember.

Dear Mister Clay,

You will no doubt be surprised to receive a letter from one who is almost a total stranger to you, but I hope you will pardon me for my boldness. Perhaps prudence would dictate that I should, for the present at least, withhold, but my nature is impatient and will not be quieted.

I must confess my enjoyment -- nay, my delight -- with our conversation at my father's party some evenings past. Though brief, I find my thoughts and my curiosity turning again and again to this exchange of words. I wish quite fervently to continue such lively discourse with you, apart from the prying eyes and attentions of our beloved neighbors, if only so we may not tempt them to the sin of gossip.

All I expect in answer to this (I fear) imprudent and rash note, is some intimation that I may dare to hope we may pass such time together again. Even impatient, heedless I know that calling on one another is inadvisable in the extreme. Perhaps a letter, though, would not be too much to ask of you? Do you find that objectionable, Mister Clay? I entreat you to write to me, whether with denial or reception. Please: with the same frankness that I have used in addressing you. Speak to me thus.

With great respect,

Miss Eleanor Crawford

Deputy Clay

Two summers past the mayor moved his offices, presumably tired of the rabble and noise that comes with sharing a building with a jail. Now the mayor presides from a fine brick building in the newer, fancier parts of town while Lark has moved into his old offices. The rest of that side of the building has been by-and-large converted into an expanded jail, though they do now have what might one day bear the titles of interrogation room and evidence room.

All of which is to say, Trevor Clay now occupies what used to be the sheriff's office, being the senior deputy. And it's in that office that he pays the Ballard boy a few coins for his trouble, reminding him to close the door behind him.

In the privacy of that office, where his black-and-white dog naps under the desk, he slices open the envelope and extracts the letter. Quite a fine and fancy thing, that, immediately putting to shame all the rumpled scraps of rough-pressed paper on his desk. He scans the paragraphs -- quite a bit more eloquent than the shaky words with which Deputy Ballard once courted Dearest Anabelle -- but the heart of the matter, he thinks, beats in the same way.

Behind closed doors, he writes for a while. Then he steps outside, where the day is bright and the air is just beginning to thaw toward spring. It rained last night. The streets are rutted mud. An unwashed, barechested farmer -- there are men now who plant and sow, and not merely those who dream of gold in the mountains -- is herding his unruly new cow toward home. Prancing the other way is Josiah Withers's daughter, gaudy in a brand-new dress allegedly sewn in the latest Parisian style. Nearer to the sheriff's quarters, a group of small dirty boys yell and roughhouse, and it's in their approximate direction that Clay lets loose a whistle.

A few more pennies and the letter's on its way to Miss Crawford. The calligraphy is passable at best, and the contents are exceedingly plainspoken:

Miss Crawford,

I enjoyed your company. Wanted to write you sooner but your father, your chaperone, your elevated status, and your possible disinterest were daunting. The last matter, at least, is settled. As for gossip, it was never a deterrent to me. People will talk no matter what, and often about things that are not their business.

Perhaps you will allow me to escort you to the site of your future home tomorrow and back. Hardly anyone could fault you for wanting to oversee construction, nor me for assuring the safety of a valued citizen.

T.C.

Eleanor Crawford

It isn't the young Ballard boy who delivers the letter to the public house but another child from town, and he gets no more pennies because he has to leave it in the care of Mary, because Miss Crawford isn't there. Trevor Clay doesn't know this, but he couldn't. It's hours before Eleanor returns, and is surprised to find a letter for her, given to her on the tray along with her dinner.

Dagmar, Oliver, and her father all want to know who it is from, and were she mortal, Eleanor would tell them. As it is, she is not mortal. She is not human. And for once, she uses this privilege without feeling bad for it; she refuses to answer, as it is a private matter. She itches to open the letter but restrains herself. She eats her dinner and reads for a bit and washes up and braids her hair and puts on her nightgown and takes a candle to her bedside before she ever opens it.

It does not smell like him. He doesn't wear cologne. But she can almost smell him anyway, because she needs no artificial additions in order to memorize some scents. The heart of the matter does indeed beat much in the same way as Deputy Ballard and Dearest Annabelle's correspondence, though all the more anxiously: it was not, after all, Dearest Annabelle who wrote the first note. So now, reading by candlelight, Eleanor's own heart is thudding, and simple turns of phrase like wanted to write you sooner make her pulse race. Ones such as your possible disinterest break her heart in half. Never a deterrent does, for some reason, send a tingle down her arms and legs, making fingertips and toes quiver.

Eleanor reads the letter three more times. She is alone, and in the dark, and there is no wariness or worry of judgement: she holds it close for a moment, smiling with her eyes closed. Unabashedly and even unconsciously girlish, she folds the letter up again and lays it under her pillow before she goes to sleep.

--

The downside of all this, however, is that Trevor Clay gets no letter in response the day he writes his own. Nor does he receive one in the morning. His does not come until afternoon -- again. Again, it arrives at the sheriff's office. She must have written in greater haste, for she didn't bother to daub perfume this time, and the words are even bolder than before, but she is no less flowery in her writing:

Dear Mister Clay,

It would be affectation in me to deny that your note pleases me a great deal. Nor will I attempt to disguise that the frankness of your letter agrees with the idea that I had already formed of your character, and inspires me with confidence that you are incapable of any motive which should justly cause a lady to treat you with the severity of greater formality.

I would put to rest other matters for you, if I may: my father is my closest kin, but kin to me nonetheless, and can admit no strident impediment. My chaperone, too, will heed me if I exert such influence as is my right, if not my frequent inclination. However, my status as it relates to yours is of little interest to me in this matter. My heart cannot hear the jingle of coins in a purse; I hope that yours cannot either.

If the idle words of our neighbors is as dull a concern to you as my supposed status is to me, then this revelation lightens my soul considerably. So I say yes, I would permit you as my escort, yes, with or without the suggested pretense. I will await you this afternoon, in all happiness.

Truly,

Miss Eleanor Crawford

Deputy Clay

Clay does not read the letter three times. He doesn't have time for it. Some muddy boy -- perhaps the Ballard boy, perhaps one of his small friends -- runs the letter in flushed and winded, but Trevor Clay is the one to deliver his own response. Detouring only to cross the length of the building, past the half-empty cell blocks mostly occupied by snoring drunkards sleeping it off, he pokes his head into Lark's office.

"Headin' out. Got business. See you tomorrow."

Lark raises an eyebrow, his gaze skeptical and piercing-blue. "What sort of business?"

Clay smirks. It's ever so faint. "Not yours."

Then he's outside, hat on head, dog at heels, swinging astride the blood bay. Denver City's grown, but it's still only a few blocks over to the new district. Vickery's Public House is open for public business again, and the saloon side of things is already crowded. A handful of young men are playing a game of dice on the porch; amongst the contestants, or perhaps the onlookers, is Young Master Crawford.

Clay doesn't whistle to catch the youth's attention, at least. No, he calls him by name:

"Oliver! Your sister ready to survey her estate?"

Eleanor Crawford

It's late notice, but to be fair: he's the one that suggested tomorrow when all she needed was a reply: a letter, or just a note, telling her one way or the other. Did he want to spend more time with her? Did he want her to leave him be? She wrote her second letter in a rush that morning, rather than in multiple drafts. But even then, there was sleep and breakfast and trying to find privacy to send something back to him.

Even so. He puts on his hat and tells the Sheriff he'll be out and whistles for his dog, who trots along after him as he saddles the blood bay and rides over to the public house. It's a warm afternoon despite yesterday's rain, a wildness in the weather that the people here have come to joke about as much as they complain about it.

Oliver is sitting perched on the fence around the porch, one leg hanging down, watching the dice game. Dagmar is keeping an eye on him, knitting in the corner. She levels her gaze at Deputy Clay when he rides up, too, but Oliver only glances up when he hears his name. He blinks in bafflement at the question, and Dagmar frowns, but even as he's stammering,

the front door opens. Miss Crawford emerges, dressed in a simple gown without layers upon layers of pinafores and hoops. She has a new hat on her head to shade her fair skin from the sun, and a wicker basket that perhaps holds something to eat. She would only have reached the door this soon if she were, as she said, waiting for him. If she had seen him from an upper window, his horse bringing him to the public house. She must have been, because as she comes outside, ignoring Dagmar and her brother, she is saying,

smiling,

"She is."

Trevor Clay

Yes, she is.

Trevor Clay's eyes track up from Oliver Crawford. Between the distance and the shade of his hat, most everyone misses how his eyes find a trail up from her feet to her face. Flick down again. Flick back up.

He takes his hat off, hanging it on the horn of his saddle. "Miss Crawford," he greets her. "You ridin'?"

Eleanor Crawford

A pause. Dagmar is not knitting but staring at her, frowning. Oliver is just staring, looking vaguely impressed. Everyone else is politely trying to pretend they don't notice a thing.

The young lady hesitates a moment, then says: "Well... I haven't a horse."

Trevor Clay

A beat of pause.

He is keenly aware of all the eyes on them. Still: just a beat of pause.

"We'll just have to rectify that," he says, "won't we."

And he extends his hand to her.

Eleanor Crawford

A small smile begins on her lips, and presses at her cheeks until she cannot -- and would not -- stop it. It breaks over her face in a grin, and she heads for the edge of the porch. Dagmar nearly rises to her feet, but restrains herself and clears her throat loudly instead. Eleanor, at the steps, tosses a glance over her shoulder and just smiles.

"He's a deputy, Dagmar. Don't be rude."

Oliver, at that, is having trouble keeping himself contained and pretends to be coughing into his fist. Dagmar's knitting becomes more... intense. Miss Crawford sweeps off the pourch and over to the blood bay, looping her little basket over her arm and looking up at Deputy Clay, unsure of what to do next.

The blood bay sidesteps suddenly, wildly, shaking its head, and Eleanor flushes pink. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I didn't even think --" she says, all in an exhale. She closes her eyes a moment, breathes slowly once or twice, and then opens them again. The horse is calming. Calmer. Calm now, stretching its heavy neck and long face towards the girl, who looks at the horse curiously even as it clearly longs to sniff her for treats.

Trevor Clay

All those people watching: none of them know why the blood bay startles like that. Maybe some of them think it's her perfume. Maybe rumors will start up about this too -- that Miss Crawford, so fancy and august, wore perfume high-falutin' enough to startle horses. Har har!

Trevor knows, though. And at once he exerts pressure with his knees, reaching down to pat the side of the blood bay's neck.

Moments later the animal is calming, anyway. And Miss Crawford is sauntering over, and Deputy Clay is sincerely slightly amazed she isn't carrying a parasol. Though, golden as she is, perhaps she loves the sun as much as it clearly loves her.

"It's all right," he encourages. "Rub his nose. He'll be happier to carry you."

Eleanor Crawford

They are being watched. By Dagmar, who is scowling and knitting. By Oliver, who is no longer laughing but also pretending not to be watching but who is certainly curious (and a little envious: he would never get away with half of what his sister does). By the people playing cards on the porch. He and Dagmar know why the horse shies from the pretty golden-haired girl; Trevor knows. The others don't. They know she sets them on edge, she 'annoys' them, because they would never in a million years admit that the feeling is something more like being alone in the dark between towns and thinking you hear something slavering nearby, something coming closer, something hungry. She wears goddamn roses in her hat and lace gloves on her soft hands. They could never imagine being afraid of her.

But they are.

So is the blood bay, for a brief moment. And then he isn't anymore, and he seems keen on getting to know this young woman. She smiles at the deputy and does as she's instructed: rubs the horse's nose softly, in the direction of his coat, marveling at its shine and the soft darkness of his eyes. He whinnies softly, taking a step closer to her, making as though to place his head over her shoulder, rest his neck against her cheek. She laughs brightly, looking up at the deputy as she strokes the animal's neck. "What about you, Deputy?" she says, and if he spies a glint of coyness in her eyes,

he isn't wrong.

Trevor Clay

Trevor takes a breath. Smirks.

"There are answers to that question, Miss, that aren't fit for your ears."

He fits the hat back on his head. Extends his hand again, gloved still in heavy leather. "Come on," he says, trading one scandal for another. "Put your foot in the stirrup, and I'll pull you up. We'll find you a horse from the Sheriff's stables 'til you get one of your own."

Eleanor Crawford

The people on the porch don't hear what Clay says back to her. They do see how Miss Crawford's cheeks go red. She turns quite a pretty pink, and every last person on the porch no longer quite buys that this is simply the innocent escorting it seems. With nothing more aloud than a glance and some raised eyebrows, some of the men on the porch start laying bets on how long before Miss Crawford's belly starts rounding out. They're too polite to bet out loud, of course, but they know each other well enough to indicate that's where their minds are at.

It is not where Eleanor's mind was at. She looks a bit startled, and says: "I... I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Then, primly: "Take care you don't forget yourself, Deputy Clay."

All the same: she isn't angry. He'd feel it like a wall of heat if she were angry. The charmed bay would feel it through his enchantment, if she were angry. But she isn't. She's a little embarrassed; she only meant to ask him what he'd do if the horse was carrying her. But it answers itself: apparently the horse will carry them both. So she hands him her basket, which loops easily over the pommel. And then she gives him one hand, uses her other to lift her skirts a bit from the dirt, and puts one foot neatly in the stirrup. It's a touch awkward, if only because she's clearly out of practice, but there's a grace to her that's hard to lose. When her foot is set he helps her up, getting her situated in front of him, her body angled with two legs draping down one of the horse's sides. She holds the pommel herself then, but to guide the horse, his arms go to either side of hers.

She tips her head forward and unties the ribbon under her chin a bit, letting her hat fall from her hair so it doesn't bump against his hat. Or his eyes. Her hair smells like her perfume, but it's so light that it's hard to place what flower it comes from. She smells a bit like something baked, too, whatever is in that basket. Did she make something herself?

"Away we go," she says breathily, half delighted by being atop the horse and half something else entirely.

Trevor Clay

"Beggin' pardon, miss," the deputy mutters, appropriately abashed. "We ain't got much polish to our manners 'round these parts, and not many ladies like yourself to help us polish 'em either. I'll mind my tongue here on out."

Flick of the reins and the blood bay gets moving. Natural gait seems to be a canter, probably because Deputy Clay doesn't have the patience for anything less. Since there's a lady in the saddle, though, he slows to a trot, smooth and easy.

"We got our own stables behind the jail," he says. "Could get you on a horse if you like. Or we can head straight on up to your estate."

Eleanor Crawford

"Don't be silly," is her response to his apology. "It's forgotten."

Though it isn't. And won't be. But not for her too-prim performance of affront. For the suggestion of the words themselves, the way they've set her mind spinning. She doesn't let on to that, though. She seems to enjoy riding, though clearly it is only possible to her with one of the magic tricks her kind can work.

And then he tells her what he does, and she's torn: on the one hand there's propriety, or the appearance thereof, and perhaps a touch extra comfort. On the other, there's this dangerous physical closeness, his heavy arms bracketing her, his chest behind her, his breath on her neck. She's considering both, which explains the moment of silence his question is greeted with.

Then, a quiet exhale: "No use wasting any more of the day with a detour, is there?" she says, ever so lightly, perhaps a bit wary of her own brazenness.

Trevor Clay

Must be on both of their minds. The closeness of the saddle; inches between their bodies, and that's only because he is, in fact, trying to be a gentleman. With her hat off he can catch her scent, subtle smell of that same perfume she daubed onto her first letter.

Baked goods, too. Whatever's in that little basket of hers, which he is at once amused and charmed by.

"None," he agrees, guiding the blood bay toward the outskirts of town where the Crawfords were building their estate. Past the bank they go; past the dressmaker's and the butcher's. A turn to the north, then to the west, and now they're away from the bustling town center, on quieter streets that, in another mile or so, would peter out into trails and plains.

"What's in the basket?" he wants to know.

Eleanor Crawford

"Oh, nothing much," she says. "Some corn muffins. Some berry scones. Provisions for our dangerous journey. The muffins caught a bit on the bottom, I'm afraid," she adds, with a touch of dismay.

The trot won't be terribly far; they could walk it, if they wanted to take the time. But Mr. Crawfords seems of a mind that the town here will expand greatly, because he still talks about being in the thick of things. He's bought quite a bit of land, though, seeming to want grounds and gardens around the large house he's building. Still: it's visible from town, and occasionally the noise of the work going on there reaches the people of Denver. It makes Eleanor glad of the slow trot. All pretense to the contrary, this little trip of theirs could be more efficient, and she's pleased that it isn't.

"I'm not a very good cook," she admits, though she doesn't seem terribly bothered by it. "I'm quite good at other things, though."

Trevor Clay

Trevor guffaws: dangerous journey. Or perhaps her inability to cook. "Well, find me a slab of beef 'n a couple potatoes and I'll cook you a supper to remember."

By foot the journey is likely less than a quarter-hour. On horseback it's a matter of minutes, though neither of them seem to be in a rush. As they near, they can hear hammering, sawing, voices of workmen taking advantage of the lengthening days.

"Now you'll have to elaborate," he adds. "What 'other things'?"

Eleanor Crawford

He has her attention there, for a moment. Slab of beef. Potatoes. The offer to cook for her. She almost finds herself turning in the saddle, but doesn't. To herself, she smiles a bit. It doesn't abate when she answers his question.

"Oh. Well, war."

Trevor Clay

A quieter huff of amusement this time. "A full-moon, then?"

Eleanor Crawford

"I am," she says, her tone difficult to read without full view of her face. But then it's easier to understand, just a moment later, because she half turns, and he can see something in her eyes: measuring, weighing, hopeful but also self-possessed. It's the self-possession that is most striking: her entire persona seems at odds with it, an attempt to come across to others as though she is in want of their approval, their good will. And yet that look in her eyes seems set apart from it entirely; she needs no one's approval. It is a part she plays, the daughter of a respected gentleman, the heir to a certain kind of throne, a young lady who wants very much to be liked.

So somehow it is not that, not a need for approval or approbation, that motivates her to ask him: "Is that all right?"

It's something less about what he thinks of her, and more about what she should think of him. What sort of man he is.

Trevor Clay

There is more to her than dinner parties and love letters. There is more to her life than privilege and comfort. She is a warrior; a full moon, destined for a glorious but short life.

There is a pang through his breast at that thought. To find her again. To lose her again. That complexity is in his eyes as well; a furrow to his brow, a tenderness to his regard, stoic and guarded as he can be. Spontaneously, he reaches up as she turns, his gloved thumb rubbing over her cheek.

"Why wouldn't it be?" he says, gruff. "Long as you're all right with me bein' poorly educated, ill-mannered and penniless."

Eleanor Crawford

The furrow to his brow is a mystery to her; perhaps she has not quite come to terms with her mortality in that way. Her life is glorious, she is glorious, and everything else pales in comparison to that truth. But there's also the mere fact that she is not really Merriweather, and has no memory of Merriweather, because -- unbeknownst to both of them, at least -- Merriweather is more than a hundred years from being born.

She does see the frown, and the tenderness, and doesn't quite understand it. What she does understand, instinctively, is the way he touches her face. Her eyes close for a moment. She can imagine she feels the warmth of his skin through his glove. Her eyes open again, and they are looking up at him.

"You don't seem very ill-mannered to me," she says softly, as though this is the only trait worth responding to in the list he gave. "I quite like your manner."

Trevor Clay

She is looking at him. Finds him looking at her. It is a nakedly honest moment; neither of them pretending to be coy.

Then, as though remembering the time, the place, their situation, Trevor lets his hand drop. He picks up the reins again, clicking his tongue to urge onward the blood bay, who has by now wandered to a stop.

"Reckon that goes both ways, Miss," he says, gruff, as they trot on toward her future home.

Eleanor Crawford

They are not somewhere in the wilderness all alone. And Trevor remembers this a heartbeat before Eleanor does, if only because she carries some of that wilderness everywhere she goes. She is part of, in fact, a wild thing pretending to be tame. So for a moment there, she is utterly without mask, without pretense, without human enculturation. She is entirely honest, and there's an open -- if a trifle unsettling -- willingness and infatuation in her eyes.

Trevor releases her cheek, and picks up the reins, and she remembers herself. She hadn't even realized the horse had ceased walking and was looking for grass to nibble on. There are some horses who, untouched by the rein, will continue plodding along obediently in the direction they set out on. Not this bay of Trevor's, apparently; a more willful creature, closer to its nature than some of the others.

As she turns her head around again so she isn't so twisted in the saddle, a pink blush touches Miss Crawford's cheeks, but not one of embarrassment. Just pleasure, simple and uncomplicated. She can scarcely contain herself, yet she does, as they approach the building site. It's rather noisy, full of wood and hammering and bricklaying. It's coming together nicely, though, fully framed and on its way to being filled in. Mr. Crawford is on what will one day be a wrap-around porch, hat on his head, jacket off but shirtsleeves still cuffed. It's not yet hot enough in the year for someone who isn't actively working to be sweating. He is smoking a pipe, observing the work, listening to a foreman go over some plans, when he spies his daughter.

Riding on a horse in front of one of the deputies, her hat off and her cheeks pink.

There's a sudden keenness in Mr. Crawford's piercing blue eyes. It isn't savage, not by any stretch, nor even rageful. Just aware in a way that brings rapidly to mind the very totem of his family's tribe. He removes the pipe from his teeth and excuses himself from the foreman, striding out to greet the blood bay even as it is slowing to a stop.

"Papa," says Eleanor happily, "I made muffins. Hardly even burnt."

And despite the sharpness in his gaze, even Mr. Crawford can't help but soften a touch, to hear her sound so self-satisfied about baking something without setting a house on fire.

Trevor Clay

Mindful of her father's regard, Trevor dismounts and stops the horse with a hand at the bit. Reaching up, he takes the basket from her and sets it aside, then reaches up again to help her from the horse. There's an unavoidable intimacy to his hands at her waist, but their bodies scarcely touch, and a moment later he steps back. He sweeps hat from hair, nodding a terse hello to Eleanor's father.

"Afternoon, Crawford. Construction looks like it's going well. Your daughter wanted to have a look, and to speak truth, I wanted to escort her."

Eleanor Crawford

Trevor is, at least, a gentleman, though few who bear the title would recognize him as such. He stills the horse and dismounts first, the better to assist Miss Crawford. She looks elegant even in this, sweeping off the saddle and into his hands, landing daintily on her ever-so-expensive shoes in the dust. She's putting her hat back to rights atop her head to shield from the sun, even as Trevor is removing his out of respect for her father.

Mr. Crawford notices that, even if Eleanor doesn't. He nods at Trevor: "Deputy." And then smiles at his daughter. "I'm sure they're delicious, my dear," he says, and bends to kiss her on her cheek, which she presents like this is an old custom of theirs. He turns to Trevor and nods, glancing the way of his soon-to-be estate as well. He hears Trevor, particularly that last bit, but his regard doesn't falter.

Eleanor, however, busies herself unfolding the kerchief covering the muffins and scones in her basket, pretending she didn't hear that and isn't blushing again.

"The plans were drawn up back east, but the fine people of Denver have only improved upon them," he says. "Coming along very fine, indeed. Daresay we'll be able to invite the town over, come... summer solstice, wouldn't you think, Nora?"

So that's what her family calls her. Didn't call her aloud, at dinner. Haven't called her that in front of other townsfolk, at least. Maybe it means something, Mr. Crawford letting Trevor see that. He doesn't seem to be the sort to do much of anything accidentally.

She looks up, smiling. "I do hope so," she says, and offers one of the corn muffins to each of them, her basket hanging from her forearm. They are a tad browner than they should be on the edges, and the bottoms are likely black, but otherwise they are golden and fragrant, and quite appealing.

"Nora, dear," says her father, "I'm sure the foreman and some of the others would be glad of a bite to eat and one of your smiles just now." It has the air of a suggestion, and even flattery, but that doesn't seem to bother her much.

She gives him a wry, knowing little smile and glances at Trevor. "Thank you so much for chaperoning me, Deputy Clay," she says, with the smallest of curtsies. "Don't let him talk you into helping, you have other duties in town," she adds, with a glance at her father that is not quite a warning, but something in that neighborhood, and doesn't seem to have anything to do with Trevor helping with construction in the slightest.

But then she's off, because she is not just a wolf, and not just a daughter, but something of a representative. Not just of her family, but of her tribe. Of wolves. Of whatever it is her family wants to create here, in the shadow of an ancient caern held by tribes that are actually native to the land.

Mr. Crawford tears off a bit of the corn muffin an pops it in his mouth, his eyes on the worksite, and on the flowered hat of his eldest, rather than on the man he begins speaking to. "I hope this excursion isn't drawing you away from any pressing matters," he says.

Trevor Clay

With only a hint of trepidation, Clay takes the proffered muffin. Eleanor -- Nora, it turns out, amongst her family -- is sent on an ambassadorial mission, and her law-enforcing escort does his best not to look disappointed.

"Hm?" Takes him a moment to process the elder Crawford's words. "Nah. Done for the day. Town's growin' up. More law-abidin' citizens than not these days." He looks down at the corn muffin, breaking it open and sinking his teeth into one half. There's the slightest crunch.

"Aim to behave honorably towards your daughter, sir," he adds. It sounds offhand; it isn't.

Eleanor Crawford

"For now," Mr. Crawford says, of Denver. "But that's a blessed thing, to be between a waypost and a city. To be a community."

Of course it isn't offhand, what Trevor says. Mr. Crawford wouldn't have asked about his intentions for some time. Near the end of the conversation, perhaps, or maybe some later evening, sitting by a fire, sharing some whiskey. But Trevor cuts right to the quick, and rather than being put off or offended, Mr. Crawford just permits himself a small smile.

"I don't doubt it, Deputy," he says. "Stories have it you were one of the ones who stayed here in town, when Sherman Kane and his lot rode through. Takes a certain kind of honor to do that. More than most men have."

He's quiet a moment, before he says this next part.

"No matter how we cleave to the portrait of any other family, however, in the end I am not the party to whom you need make your case." He looks at Trevor again. "Nora's mother is not the most traditional of our tribe, but she is a keeper of the law, and quite beholden to it, particularly when making first impressions to... let's say more conservative tribes. She'll want to do things by the book, as it were, if only to ensure that future Silver Fangs face an easier time of it. She thinks of the future, you see. Making a better world. So if she resists, please know it isn't due to any default in your character.

"Perhaps... if you knew of some lupine relatives of your own in the area?" he prompts.

Trevor Clay

A community. A novel thought, that. Part of him wonders if that's just Crawford waxing poetic. Taking a romantic view of this little frontier town. Part of him thinks: ah. That's why the dinner. That's why these careful steps, these diplomatic little overtures -- the muffins for the workmen, for one. He wants to build a community. They all want to build a community.

They think of the future, see.

A brusque shake of his head, then. "Afraid I haven't any," he says. He pats dust from his trousers with the brim of his hat. "Not in these parts anyhow. Might be some back east, but I came out here on my own."

Eleanor Crawford

That surprises Mr. Crawford a bit. "None?" he repeats, before he gets the better of himself. Then he blinks, settles into the knowledge. "Why did you come out here, I wonder?"

Trevor Clay

Clay huffs a soft laugh. "Same reason any half-grown boy without a penny to his name goes west. Lookin' for work. Adventure. Maybe a plot of land to call my own. Lot of kids in the family, not a lot to go around. Figured I had a better chance striking out on my own."

A sideways glance at Crawford. "Probably ain't many stories like that in your family."

Eleanor Crawford

Either the Crawfords did some sort of research about the kin in the area, or it was simply Eleanor's senses that told them of the tribes present, the breeding. But regardless, Mr. Crawford seems to know that Deputy Clay is of a tribe other than his own. And perhaps a less genial man would make a joke of it: Fianna. Big families. He doesn't. He's far too collegial for that. He takes another dry bite of his daughter's corn muffin.

She's on her way back to them. She's handed out muffins and scones and smiles and is swinging her basket idly, its edge rolling along the outside of her leg over her skirts. She can't hear them yet, but she's watching them both.

"No," Mr. Crawford says, with a touch of wryness. "We keep our own close as we can. Even the ones meant to leave us. Especially those."

Trevor Clay

The ones meant to leave us.

It's the same sensation that flickered through him earlier. A realization; an awareness of inevitable loss. Clay's brow furrows. His mouth sets. Even if he had something to say, there is little enough time for it -- and anyway, he has nothing to say to that. Nothing significant enough, worthy enough, to fill the yawning hole implied by such words.

So instead, the easy out: he eats the last of the muffin. Dusts his hands off, setting his hat back on his head. "Well," a retreat to clearer waters, this, "worked out fine for me. I like it out here. The land, the mountains. Even this waypost on its way to becomin' a community. This is where I became the man I am; suppose I don't really know nothin' else."

She's within earshot now. He nods to her, touching the brim of that hat like they're meeting anew.

Eleanor Crawford

Whatever Mr. Crawford might say to that, there's not really time for it. His expression seems approving, or something like it. Maybe understanding. Perhaps a touch envious: to make one's way in the world, more independently than Mr. Crawford has, or has ever had to. Maybe it all boils down to something far simpler than approval, or understanding, or envy:

respect.

Eleanor is back. She smiles at Trevor, at his hat doffing. Her eyes twinkle a tad. She smiles at her father, showing him the empty basket. "It looks marvelous, papa," she tells him. "The foreman showed me where my room will be, but he wouldn't let me go up the ladder."

"Let," Mr. Crawford echoes, raising an eyebrow.

Eleanor gives a small shrug. "I thought it impolite to press the issue," she breezes. "I thought... I might take a walk around the grounds with the deputy, if he's amenable."

"Well, that's up to him, my dear," her father says, and steps over to her. "Myself, I must beg both your pardons and return to my observations and supervisory duties. I may even pick up a hammer once or twice. Deputy," he says, with a nod to Trevor. "Nora," he says, and gives her another peck on the cheek. Goodbyes done, he heads back towards the soon-to-be house, leaving 'Nora' looking up at Deputy Clay.

"What do you say?" she asks him, smiling. "Fancy a stroll?"