Chapter 2 - The Gravity of Black Wool
Silas began to lower himself.
He didn't bend at the waist; he dropped straight down, his knees popping like dry kindling breaking in a quiet forest.
The long black duster coat flared out behind him.
The heavy wool hit the dirt, kicking up a small cloud of red powder that settled instantly over his boots.
He rested his forearms on his thighs.
His muscles twitched beneath the thick fabric, burning with the effort of holding his heavy frame perfectly still.
He tilted his head slightly upward.
The brim of his black Stetson cast a sharp, geometric shadow across the upper half of his face.
Beneath the shadow, his eyes were the color of rusted iron.
Thick, dark stubble coated his jawline, catching the sweat that beaded and rolled down from his temples.
He breathed in through his nose.
The air smelled of old timber, horse sweat, and the metallic tang of dried blood that always seemed to linger in these forgotten outposts.
He kept his hands entirely visible.
His right hand hung loosely between his knees, far away from the holster.
His left hand rested flat on his thigh, the fingers splayed open.
A gesture of surrender.
A silent promise that he was not the wolf that had come in the night.
May you like
He waited for the children to blink.
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