Home Is Where You Are

Caleb squinted a little when he stepped out into the yard, his eyes adjusting to the daylight. It was hardly dark in the small barn, but the sun was high in the endless blue sky, and it took him a second to focus. The early hunt had been successful, and it was sheer luck he had finished gutting and hanging the deer just as he heard the distant rumble of the old wooden wheels on the dry dirt track that ran from his door towards the small frontier town a few miles east.

The sheriff often came by to check in with him––or rather to check up on him, although he was always polite enough to never use that exact term. John had a fast horse he used when working, so when he did come in the wagon, it meant he was bringing something too large or cumbersome to carry on horseback.

The sound of the wagon was familiar enough. The sheriff was often kind enough to bring any supplies Caleb had ordered from the general store. Not out of charity, mind. The man was a peacekeeper and he did it to keep the peace.

When Caleb had first arrived in the small town, the murderous looks and hushed voices he met made it quite clear he would be tolerated, but was far from welcome. A significant portion of the townsfolk viewed his kind with suspicion and fear, so he'd had no expectation or desire to become part of the community. Good manners drove him to inform the sheriff he intended to set up a home nearby. It was the greatest surprise when John turned out to be a decent man, not poisoned with prejudice like many so-called God-fearing folk Caleb had encountered on his travels. John also understood Caleb's desire for privacy, which suited the town's mirroring desire to see as little of Caleb as possible.

On the rare occasion Caleb ventured into town, it was usually to pick up some supplies from the store or order in anything they weren't stocking, and to drop off pelts and skins, worked leather goods, candles, and soap––whatever he had been working on––in exchange. Keeping these visits few and far between had become part of the sheriff’s duties.

Caleb wiped his damp hands on his pants as he made for the cabin, thinking maybe he should put the morning's coffee back over the fire, in case the sheriff might want to stop awhile, when he caught a scent on the icy breeze that made him stop in his tracks. He could smell a myriad of things: the new rot in the bed of the wagon, the fresh hay the mule had been eating before they set out, the soap the sheriff had shaved with that morning… and the scent of a werewolf, one bleeding and hurt, but a werewolf all the same. It had been a long time since he'd sensed one of his own. And what he sensed, he did not like. Not one bit.

He busied himself trying to soothe his horse who had started whinnying and pacing around the small corral that stood to the south of the cabin, directly across the yard from the barn. By the time Caleb had brushed the horse down, and changed the heavy blanket on his back, the stallion stood calmly as the sheriff pulled his wagon up to the house.

"Caleb." The sheriff was a man of few words, which Caleb appreciated. His own greeting to the older man was simply a nod of his head as Caleb climbed out of the enclosure.

The sheriff wrapped the reins around the stop and jumped down awkwardly from his perch, leaving the slumped shape of a man in the seat behind him. John stretched out his back with a groan and walked to meet Caleb without extending his hand. "I'm sorry to just turn up like this––"

"Why'd you bring him here?" Caleb interrupted, his voice cracking from lack of use. He knew it was rude but the scent of the other wolf was making his own itch to come to the surface.

The sheriff shrugged and let out a long breath. "Honestly? I had no idea what else to do with him."

It was Caleb's turn to sigh. "Why isn't he healing?" The kid smelt of blood and hot flesh, and Caleb could fairly hear his bones knitting back together. But it seemed off somehow, more corpse than man in the scent.

For a moment, the sheriff looked confused. He glanced over his shoulder at the wagon, and when he turned back, there was a look of such sadness on his face Caleb was taken aback. "Oh, he is. When the Johnson boys found him last night out by Black Creek…well, we assumed he was dead. You could hardly tell it was a person at all. Best I can tell, whoever did it, caught him off guard, chained him, beat him, and then dragged him 'til all was left was meat and bone."

Caleb nodded. He'd seen it enough, experienced it more than once. Men with a raging curiosity to see just how much you could take before it killed you, lacking something in their soul that they could butcher a person, sit and watch them mend, and then do the whole thing again. It was sport to them.

"Damn near put Old Man Francis in one of his own coffins when the boy started screaming." There was a small smile on the sheriff's face, and Caleb couldn't resent the amusement in the face of such horror––threatened a smile to break out on Caleb's own lips. How the undertaker ever ended up in that profession, he could not fathom. The man lacked any hint of compassion and the idea he might have got a fatal shock with one of his corpses coming to life was rather amusing.

The sheriff stepped closer, lowering his voice as if the werewolf on the wagon wouldn't be able to hear him. "I managed to get him into the cells for the night, but there was a delegation on my doorstep at daybreak, wondering when I was going to be getting rid of him. And I don't mean just putting him on the next stage out of town, either."

Caleb could see the scene as clear as day. It would have been the usual suspects, fine gentlemen and ladies, good citizens, full of Christian charity. As long as you were of the right breeding, of course. Otherwise, they didn't want the unwashed and unwelcome tainting their sight.

Suddenly, it dawned on Caleb what the sheriff was asking. Caleb’s voice was pleading but a warning too. "John––"

The sheriff shifted his stance and held out his hands. "Please, Caleb. Just until the boy is well enough to at least stand on his own. I'd keep him with me but… I'm just trying to do what's best for everyone."

There was a sincerity to the man's words that made Caleb pause, and before he knew it, he muttered a curse under his breath and started towards the wagon.

The closer he got, the harder his heart pounded. It had been so long since he'd been close to another of his kind; the effect the boy’s presence was having on his wolf was almost too strong for him to bear. It was hard to get a good look at the person on the wagon, being that the boy was bundled in at least two blankets that covered everything but his face. And even that was obscured by the way his head lolled on his chest.

Caleb was surprised to find him lashed to the seat with a rope. John saw the look on his face and placated him, explaining, "He couldn't sit upright unaided when we left, but he made it clear he didn't want to get in the back of the wagon."

Caleb grunted, accepting the explanation, but angrily attacked the knots holding the boy there all the same. When the last one came free, the boy toppled sideways into Caleb's arms. Caleb caught him easily, disturbed that the dead weight of him felt so light despite the length of his limbs. Gathering him into his arms like a child, he started towards the cabin, with the Sheriff striding ahead to get the door.

For a moment, Caleb could have sworn he felt a soft, warm breath on his neck, and a murmured, "Alpha," but it seemed unlikely, even though his wolf gave a long, deep sigh and curled around the imagined word like it was a warming fire.