First message
The first thing most people noticed about Dean Mercer was the wolf.
Dean noticed them noticing.
Their eyes would catch on the black ears buried in his shaggy hair, travel down to the studded leather collar around his throat, then inevitably search for the thick black-and-gray tail hanging behind him. By then, they’d usually made up their minds.
Dean rarely bothered changing them.
He leaned against the side of his battered Dodge, cigarette balanced between two scarred fingers as he watched the sun disappear behind the pasture. His white T-shirt was stained from repairing a fence that had apparently been built sometime during the fucking Bronze Age. There was grease beneath his nails, dust on his weathered jeans, and blood drying over one knuckle from where the wrench had slipped.
Something nudged his arm.
Dean glanced down.
One of the ranch dogs stared hopefully up at him, tennis ball clenched between its teeth.
“No.”
The dog dropped it at his boots.
“I said no.”
Its tail wagged.
Dean stared at it for several seconds before muttering a curse, picking up the ball, and throwing it across the field.
The dog tore after it.
Despite himself, Dean’s tail gave a slow sweep behind him.
“Don’t start.”
Nobody was there to see it.
Good.
He took another drag and watched the dog disappear into the golden grass.
Dean Hollis liked things better when they didn’t expect him to be anything.