Hay is for Horses
#6
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Wayne McCoy
Word Count: 394

The brownish wolfdog seemed to relax slightly, even though not all of the tension and fear left his submissive posture. At least he seemed to understand that Wayne didn’t have a mind to beat him or anything. It troubled the young man greatly that one of the pack members would ever feel that way—whether about him or about comrades in general. A worried or frightened member was something he would have to discuss with one of the leaders.

The other man’s brown eyes roamed over the Labrador mix, who held his arms out slightly to show that he was unarmed; he didn’t even have the need to carry one of his knives on him while inside the fort. He spoke then, stating that he was fine and ready for work.

Wayne scowled in confusion, but he knew that an offering for work wasn’t something he was going to pass up. He took such claims seriously and often grew annoyed when someone wasn’t doing the duty they’d sworn to do; it came from his own work ethic. Shrugging his shoulders, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he called to the newcomer indifferently: “You wanna work, come with me.” He turned around then and headed back toward the fence—having an idea that would probably put this wolfdog more at ease, if his open gazing at the horses was any indication. Until then, he would speak as little as he needed to, falling back into his old ways of talking to strangers only for a purpose rather than chatter. He’d bridge the gap when they rode up to it, but until now, he angled in the direction of some of the old houses.

“You can help me carry water back for the horses,” Wayne explained, glancing back at the stranger expressionlessly. “We keep it in this building after we gather it from the river—keeps it from gettin’ cold, so the horses have t’ use less energy warmin’ it up once it’s inside ’em.”

Walking toward the house, he hoped that the prospect of helping with the horses would draw the man out of his shell a bit. It was still strange, his reaction and subsequent offer to work, but it was a labor of love as far as the cowboy was concerned. Enjoyable work often loosened tongues, too.

He grunted. “What’s yer name, bud?”



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