He noted the movement of her ears, but Wayne wasn’t one for elaborating where someone hadn’t asked for elaboration. He would often mention the pack name in introduction, but he knew some folks—especially loners—could care less which group had what name and culture. They looked out for those that were close and those that were dangerous, and they asked no further questions. He was used to having that mindset when they first showed up here; his curiosity hadn’t been as strong as Dixie’s as they traveled around Nova Scotia. It’d really been her idea to settle down with Casa in the first place, as far as he could remember.
He glanced at her when she asked a question, giving his head a small shake. “Cattle rancher,” he said. “But I dealt with crop growers often enough when I went rovin’ with my family. Got used to the scenery, I guess.” He looked out at the fields once more and suppressed a sigh. All this talk was making him more than a little homesick, even though he knew that he would get over it so long as a certain piece of home remained with him. With his friend out traveling right now, however, all he could do was look melancholy for a moment before returning his brown gaze to that of the other dog.
“Don’t think I got your name,” the Labrador mix mumbled, though it was obvious from his tone that his mind was elsewhere right now. “I’m Wayne McCoy.”
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