KAT
Home Truths
Morning at Howling Pines sounds like controlled chaos—roosters that don't understand time zones, Harold singing what might be "Oklahoma!" but could be dying cat, and the distant bleating of goats who've probably escaped again. I stretch against Dave's warmth, the mate bond humming contentment between us as his hand traces lazy patterns on my bare hip.
"The goats are out," he murmurs against my shoulder, pressing kisses to the mark that still throbs with newness.
"How can you tell?"
"Johnny Ray's cursing. Very specific cursing about Satan's hoofed minions and their conspiracy against fence posts."
Sure enough, Johnny Ray's voice carries across the compound: "Billy Ray, I swear to Christ if you forgot to latch that gate again—"
"Wasn't me!" Billy Ray's response comes f
