Larkspur had nothing. He had gained everything with Misery—the horse, the few things he carried on his saddle. Nothing beyond that. There was no need for it. He had been exiled from one home and then another. What purpose did he have for things? Larkspur looked back towards the Waste, and felt his muzzle crinkle into a near-snarl. The scar on his face had come from those coyotes, and they had cost him his second home and the only man that had ever understood him.
“Git yer things. I’ll wait fer ya.” He did not release her hand, and looked at her firmly. They were in this together, come hell or high water. Larkspur did not doubt that both would be in their future. Hand in hand he walked with her to the borders of the coyote clan and stood by with the other hand holding the reigns of his horse. He waited.
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