“Misty,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Come on back, everyone’s in the yard.”
“In the yard?” Ty asked. “Isn’t it like forty degrees out?”
“We’ve got a fire pit, it’s awesome. You’ll love it. Come on.”
They trooped back through the hall. Misty’s eyes automatically noted the places where the wolves had entered, all those months ago, and then she shook her head and focused instead on the character of the house: old, and full of decorations that reminded her that Lynn and Stella’s grandmother had owned this house before they did, but also full of signs of life. Boots by the front door, a thriller novel turned upside-down to mark its place. An iPad charging on the kitchen counter, and coffee mugs in the sink.
And the rise of voices out the back door. Misty almost hesitated...and then Ty, who’d had to squeeze ahead of her in the narrow hallway, reached his hand back.
Warmth filled her. She took it, twining their fingers together. How was this so comfortable? She’d never been one for holding hands in public. But with Ty it somehow seemed natural.
They’d still never talked about whether they were on a date or not. Hand-holding seemed to confirm it, though.
Together, they stepped out through the door into the firelit backyard. Misty’s first impression was of a crowd—all indistinguishable shapes by the fire. Which, her professional eye noted, was appropriately safe and separated from any flammable vegetation, although much as she hated to admit it, Ryder had been right earlier: at this time of year everything was a bit damp and the risk was minimal.
Ty tugged her forward, as shadowed shapes started separating themselves out and coming forth to resolve as individual people.
First were Pauline and Lynn, both with genuine smiles on their faces for Misty. She stepped forward with relief, shaking both of their hands.
“I’m so glad you came along,” Pauline said, sincerity in every word. “I keep hoping you’ll make it out to another one of our dinners. I know you’re busy, but it’s always so nice to see you.”
“Thank you,” Misty said, overwhelmed.
Lynn nodded. “Nice to have you over. Been meaning to catch up since you moved back, but there’s been...” She waved her hands to indicate the crowd of people. “A lot going on.”
“I’ve noticed,” Misty said dryly.
Lynn surveyed the scene. “Never thought this place would get lively like this. It was never this busy, even when we were kids. But it turns out that I like it.”
Several months ago, Misty knew, Lynn had lived alone in this rambling old house. She’d been single, and worked as an individual wilderness guide, hiking around in the mountains all day with one or two tourists along with her.
Now, her business was booming, she had a mate, her sister had moved back in with a mate and her teenaged daughter, and their mates’ old friends had moved to town and started the—what? Community? Pack?—that Misty was meeting here tonight.
“I’m glad you’ve found a—a pack,” Misty said hesitantly. “I don’t know if that’s the right word.”
Lynn looked thoughtful. “Hard to say,” she said. “I grew up knowing that a pack was all the same animal. I thought I couldn’t have one here, because there aren’t that many lynxes around, not like the wolves or the bears or the smaller animals.”
“I feel the same,” Misty said, grateful that someone understood.
“But you don’t have to,” Lynn said seriously. “Because that really does seem to be what we’re building here. Ken and his friends...in the military, they didn’t have the luxury of hanging out with only the same type of shifter. They were with their platoon, and that was their pack, and that was it. And that’s carried over, and I have to say I like it.”
“Me too,” Misty agreed wholeheartedly.
It made her wonder if this could be the future. If, instead of a group of factions all made up of the same type of shifter, insular and mistrustful of outsiders, they could be one thriving community, with bonds across all lines.
She didn’t know how to make it happen, but she suddenly wanted to see it in her lifetime.
“Come on,”
Pauline was saying, “you have to meet everyone.”
Ty, Misty realized, had been pulled forward and absorbed into a crowd of equally enormous men, all slapping his shoulder and punching his arm and giving him back-pounding hugs. Lynn’s sister Stella, meanwhile, had come over to join them, and was surveying these rituals with a critical eye.
“I don’t know why men feel like they have to pretend they’re fighting when they show affection,” she said.
Her daughter Eva, who was a senior in high school, if Misty remembered correctly, had followed. She rolled her eyes. “Because anytime they have feelings, they have to remind everyone they’re big and tough so no one can hurt them,” she said with extreme teenage disdain.