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Carlos Ortiz reconnects with his ex, Samantha; a late shift introduces a new character to Cannon Shoals. Food for thought as Carlos tries to think about the future.

Let's go back to Cannon Shoals! Kind of a follow-up to "Picture Perfect Memories", in that it advances the plot with Carlos and his ex. Also introducing a new, hopefully recurring character :D I need a new point of view, anyhow! Let me know if you agree, if this works for ya, if you're having a good day...

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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Dramatis Personae, though you really don't need it for this one:

Carlos Ortiz ** is a coyote, and also the black sheep of his family. One of the town cops and an outsider from New Mexico, he's mostly been a side character; in "Picture Perfect Memories" he went back home for his brother's marriage. Carlos, the middle child, hooked up with his ex, **Samantha Rigney , a mixed-breed dog who's equally directionless. And a bit of a punk--she was in a relationship at the time, for example.

*Danny Hayes * is... the closest Cannon Shoals has to a main character. You know who he is. Danny is a mercurial, cantankerous stoat with a love of science fiction and a dubious reputation. He's Carlos's partner; they get into trouble when it amuses them.

*Bobby Dean * runs the millworker's union. He dealt with the fallout from Harlan Crow doing Bad Things with Jenna Rourke and is the reason Harlan "disappeared" although he has never admitted this. Jenna's sister Lisa, who wasn't satisfied with that, was baited into picking a fight with a policeman, Clint Kendrick. Her death happened offscreen at the end of "Favors," though it's been mentioned since. None of this really matters, but it's why Danny is upset about Crow Nonsense in this story.

---

"Graceland," by Rob Baird

---

"Well, you promised me a sunset."

Carlos had done no such thing. Catching the sunset over the Pacific was Samantha's idea; she had her camera out, the strap slung around her neck. "How is it?" he asked.

"Not as nice as I hoped," she admitted. "There isn't really anything interesting here. Visually--not making fun of your home, coyote."

"Much appreciated, as a small-town hick."

Sam grinned. "Small-town hick cop," she added. "At least you look good."

"You mean, I clean up well?"

The mixed breed laughed and shook her head. "Don't put words in my muzzle, Carlos. I didn't say that." Fuckin' coyote, she didn't add. She set the camera in the back seat of her SUV, then wrapped her arms around him. Her nose touched his, and her expression was an open challenge to how respectable he could be.

Not that she resisted the kiss, of course.

He'd always thought there was some coyote in her own heritage anyway. The brindled mutt was too impulsive, her ears were too pointy--and her eyes were too inclined to flash the exact sort of gleeful mischief they now displayed. It was why she was in Cannon Shoals to begin with.

"So," he said, aware of the sudden ragged edge in his breathing. "Are we done here for today?"

"Sure. I don't think this is worth a second try, either. I figure, if you're up for it, we can just head straight into the forest tomorrow morning. I have the topo maps in the back." She wanted to photograph an old abandoned mill on Deerblood Creek. It was the nature of their relationship that he didn't know if the mill was an excuse to hook up with Carlos, or the other way around.

And it didn't matter; he'd still take the opportunity when it presented itself. Her warmth, pressed up against the coyote, was a good way to distract himself from such questions. "Fine by me. Is it all public land?"

"Mostly. Some of it is Marlin... Marlow something? The lumber guys."

"Martin-Barlow. They don't care. Hell, maybe they've forgotten they even own it."

"'Kay. The mill is on a Southern Pacific easement, but I checked and the train stopped running in the '90s, so maybe they've forgotten, too. Just bring your badge and tell 'em you're on police business if anybody bothers us."

"But I'm not."

"You could be. What's a bad decision or two?"

The coyote let the teeth show in his smirk. "If you'd stop at one or two, maybe nothing. But I know you better than that."

"C'mon, don't I get anything for being your..."

"Your what, Sam? Friend? Partner in crime? Were you gonna say 'partner in crime' to me? You were."

She didn't look guilty, and maybe didn't know how. "Sorry, officer Ortiz." Samantha stabbed his nametag teasingly. "Speaking of which. You sure you have to work tonight?"

"Just for a few hours. My boss didn't feel like staying late. Why?"

"Mm. Well, here I'm thinking that I better get something out of you, if you're not gonna help tomorrow. Can't call off? When do you have to go in, anyway?"

"Nine."

"That's an hour away." Her paw dragged heavily up his thigh. And as she fondled him, the mutt guided her muzzle to the coyote's ear. "You could whet my appetite for bad decisions, couldn't you?"

"Would you make fewer of them?" He hadn't even realized the pressure on his crotch until it released, his belt slipping open. Sam leaned back, grinning. The sunset melting her bronze fur left a burning glint in her eyes; it was the closest he was going to get to an answer.

But as long as he kept pretending not to acknowledge it, she would keep going. He raised an eyebrow, expectantly; she smirked and pushed him back a few inches to give her room before dropping to her knees next to the Toyota. Briefly he felt cool air on exposed flesh, and then the soft warmth of her tongue running along the side of his shaft.

She licked him again before slipping him into her muzzle, glancing up to watch his expression. Her tail wagged; she kept going, taking the coyote deeper until half his cock was stuffed into her maw. Then, the strokes of her tongue gentle but insistent, she waited.

"What? You know what you're doing, Sam. Not gonna stop you."

Sam worked her muzzle over him in a few inquisitive strokes--then drew her lips in tight around him, sucking hard when she pulled back. Carlos groaned, his legs briefly weakening.

And then the sensation was gone; she was looking at him, smirking, ignoring his cock bobbing half an inch in front of her nose. "Alright. Alright, you've made your point."

"I haven't got off since last week. On the phone," she reminded him, like he could've forgotten that conversation in the interim. "I've been, you know. Saving myself."

"But I'm not sure we have time to head back to my place."

Samantha bit her lip. Her tail swayed. "There's like... one car every two or three minutes. None of them stop. Nobody's stopped since we've been here, have they?"

"No."

"And... if we wait, it'll be, what, four or five hours?"

"You don't want to wait."

She shrugged coyly. "Not if I don't have to."

Well. She has a point, about the cars...

There was a winding switchback leading down the cliff to a narrow expanse of beach. Sam got the message when he looked at the start of the path, taking his paw and pulling him towards it until they were on the trail itself. His pants were still open, and he had to hold them up with his free hand. "All the way down to the beach?"

That would take too long. He wrapped an arm around the mutt, drawing her to a halt. Pressed up against her from behind, he nosed her ear. "This'll do." Her tail wagged quickly. "Figured. Get your pants off, if you're so eager."

"I'm eager?" She shoved back first, pushing her rear against his crotch. Snickering at his reflexive grunt, Sam let him be, slipping out of her shoes and working herself from her pants while Carlos opened his own trousers all the way and pulled his hard, ready shaft free. "How's this?"

"Bend over. Tail up. That's a good bitch," he growled when she complied, taking hold of the wooden fence that served as a guardrail. Even in dim starlight, he could make out the dog's arousal. She was slick, and wet. And warm, when at last he pushed the tip of his cock between her lips.

She quivered when he touched her, and the coyote gave a short thrust, sinking into her an inch or so before stopping. A shudder ran through the mutt, tensing her legs and ending in a tight clenching of her fingers gripping the weathered wood.

"Calm down," he teased. He pulled back, then bucked sharply, slipping ever so slightly deeper. She jolted, sucking her breath in with a gasp. "Do we need to wait until we're home?"

"No!"

But when, after a few seconds of teasing, he pushed forward to sink the whole length of his cock in her she let out a delighted--and very unmuffled--yelp. Carlos bent forward over her, closing her muzzle with his paw. "Calm down," he reminded her, growling into the mutt's ear.

Another hard thrust, slamming his hips forward until their bodies were ground together, and her whimper hissed heatedly between his fingers. No louder than the surf crashing at the foot of the cliff. Good enough. Carlos kept his paw in place and started to rut her in a steady, sharp rhythm.

As he took her, the gratified wagging of Sam's trapped tail quivered and thudded against his belly where he pinned it. Her ears splayed, and her shallow breath filled his paw with every solid plunge.

But letting her breathe took coordination, and Carlos knew he was going to lose his ability to focus on anything but the snug fit of his cock, the enveloping warmth that coaxed him to quicker, stronger strokes. He let that motivation drive a dozen rapid thrusts, until Sam's ears pinned and a tense cry melted hotly into his paw.

He recognized that well enough. And it served as realization--or rationalization--that he had no good reason to hold back. Might as well let her howl. The coyote released her muzzle and straightened up, running his paws down the dog's sides to hold her hips in place as he rammed into the mongrel bitch.

He felt the effort growing, the extra bit of resistance before he could force his knot into place. How long do I have? Five minutes to clean up, ten to get back into town... Enough time, almost.

Almost. At least his shift partner didn't have a canine's sense of smell. Maybe wouldn't even notice. Still: responsibly, he'd pull out. But not quite yet. He slid heavily into her, rocking from side to side to savor the warmth contouring to his shaft.

Not quite. He didn't have time to tie her, and anyway she'd said something about going back on birth control and probably she was safe, but... much as he wanted to mate her properly--knotted and close together until he'd pumped everything he had into her--until she was good and bred--until--

"Don't stop!"

Now it really took work. He had to thrust hard to stuff his cock into the mutt; had to dig his claws in and hold her down when he pulled free. The coyote growled involuntarily, first with the tense exertion--then in frustration when his knot stuck halfway in. He bucked again, snarling.

At the next attempt Sam braced herself and pushed against his strong lunge. There was a shocked yelp as their bodies joined. Another as he fell forward on her back, and his arms circled her. He felt her gripping him, pulling him inside. Sam was shuddering, crying out...

His hips pumped rapidly but they were locked together, the base of his shaft tugging at her folds as he swelled within them, the tip prodding deep. He'd already lost control when she seized up with a hoarse, wordless wail. He bit wildly at her scruff, her ears, nipping roughly... opening his muzzle to say something--

All that came out was a groan, pleasure tearing free from his parted lips. His hold went tight and possessive, the squeezing pressure bending the pitch of her giddy squealing upwards. The coyote's movements resumed in forceful, humping thrusts as he emptied himself deep inside, cum splashing hotly against her pulsing, spasming walls.

Sam gasped--at the sharp bucking, at the sticky flood of canine seed claiming her, at the teeth on her scruff, at her own ecstasy that surged back as he joined her. He heard her gasp, and he felt her own quivering unsteadiness and her failing balance. But he couldn't stop himself. He was still hammering purposefully into her, still spilling his load in her steamy, clenching depths when she howled again and tumbled forward.

When he could think straight again he found them both bent double; Samantha was leaning heavily on the old railing, panting into open air above the switchback below. He tried to straighten up, but she was in no condition to support herself, his pants were around his ankles, and after a second of staggering they collapsed untidily onto the path.

"Fuck. Oh, god damn. Coyote." She wasn't managing more than a syllable at a time; her paw fumbled erratically until she found his side and gave it an awkward pat. "Hey."

"Hey."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Good thing they maintain those, huh?"

Carlos shifted to get comfortable, and hugged the dog back to him. "Wasn't this your idea?"

"Having you fuck me was. I'm not sure about the... added element of danger."

"Worth it," he suggested. There was a little bit of red on the rim of her left ear. He licked it softly.

The ear flicked; Sam furrowed her brow and craned her head to face him. "Did you draw blood? Coyote, damn it! Did you?"

He reached up to take her cheeks in both paws, turning her away from him so he could give the ear another lap. "It'll buff out."

"Bastard." She tossed her head back, butting against his muzzle. "Tell me it was 'worth it' again, coyote."

He growled quietly. "Tell me it wasn't."

Of course, she wouldn't do anything like that. Her fingers found exposed fur on his legs, and she smoothed his pelt down. As the light faded they stayed close, sheltered from the wind and the dropping temperatures.

His breathing returned to normal, and her ear stopped bleeding, and he decided all he really needed was to enjoy her company. You'll enjoy tomorrow, too. She has a way with finding interesting places. Just... focus on that.

"Thanks for inviting me out here, 'yote. I mean, for letting me invite myself." She snuggled back and against him. "I kinda needed a break from everything."

"Everything, huh?"

"The job and stuff. My apartment. Cody and me broke up," she added; the afterthought felt deliberate. Was he supposed to ask for details? He didn't, and presently she kept talking. "It wasn't working out. He's taking it okay, I think."

"That's good, though, right?" He didn't dislike the lynx or anything--it was just that they hadn't talked since just after high school.

And that Sam had hooked up with the coyote while they were, technically, still dating. But maybe Cody was easy-going enough not to care about something like that. "It's good," the mutt agreed. "Makes things with us easier, too."

"Us?" Because as long as she was leaving the opening, Carlos felt the opportunity needed to be taken. "Is there an 'us'?"

"I'm trying to figure that out. Do you have an idea?"

"I have ideas, sure. But it comes down to what you want, right? What do you want, Sam?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing." He saw her muzzle turn in a brief, contemplative frown, as if she'd remembered that they were still tied. "Would you mind?"

"If we weren't, uh, going steady? I'd want my letter jacket back."

"So that's a 'no,' you wouldn't mind." Sam wriggled her hips experimentally, then twisted around. There was a moment of tension before he tugged free of her; she gave him a hug, then scooted abruptly back.

"Problem?"

"You've got work to get to. And your pants on--probably don't want to get 'em dirty. Dirtier," she corrected: the fall had given them a liberal helping of dirt.

"Oh. Thanks." He pulled them back on and brushed what he could from the trousers, which would still need to be laundered properly. For the purposes of 'cleaning up well,' at least.

She kissed him, added an obligatory "don't mention it," but said nothing else until they were in her Land Cruiser heading back to Cannon Shoals. "I'm not sure what I'm looking for."

"From me?"

"From anyone. You know, like... I'm happy in Stayton." She tapped her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel, considering whether or not the statement required elaboration. "And you seem like you have a good thing, Carlos. I don't want to mess it up."

"A good thing?"

They had to stop for an RV to make a left turn; she looked past him, at the harsh red glow of sunset on the water. "Well, settling down, at least. You said you liked living here, and you sounded like you could've meant it."

"Ah. And you'd want to stay in the valley?"

Distracted by the sun, Sam overcorrected on the clutch when she noticed the RV was gone. The Toyota lurched back into hasty movement, and she tensed her muzzle. A long breath went by before she spoke again. "Not sure. But what if I quit the coffee shop and this doesn't work? You know?"

"Sure."

"And if you like the coast, you should stay here. I mean, part of me's thinking... do what you gotta do to stay happy. Other part's more like... like--this left?"

"Next left."

She nodded. "I like you, Carlos. I want to see more of you. Spend more time out here... have you out in Stayton, if you want. See where things lead, even if I'm not sure where that is. If you don't mind..."

"Doesn't bother me."

"Really?"

She let his affirmative answer be the last word. Danny Hayes, his partner, was occupied on the computer with some kind of paperwork. Probably direct orders from the chief, Carlos guessed, because Dan avoided paperwork whenever he could and the stoat looked to be in a testy mood.

So Carlos let his own thoughts wander. Wasn't like he needed Sam to make things official. They enjoyed each other's company, one way or the other. That wasn't in any doubt.

But the more time he spent with her, the more he couldn't figure out why they'd drifted apart. The more it seemed like it could be damned easy to forget they had--they'd never officially broken up, except that eventually she'd changed what it said on Facebook.

Forget the five years where he'd moved away, and she'd started dating someone else. Maybe forget that she'd still been dating him when they hooked up after Mateo Ortiz had gotten married in the spring.

And the more that seemed easy...

Really, to admit the truth, it boiled down to the fact that the coyote didn't know what he was looking for, either. He didn't know if it bothered him to watch his kid brother making a life for himself while Carlos spun his wheels. He didn't know whether Cannon Shoals actually felt like home or if it felt like a home-shaped rut.

He didn't know what was more out of character, fucking Sam Rigney against the guardrail of the trail to a public beach or the late-night shift he was working like some kind of professional. Someone with a secure job, quiet nights with his partner dealing with nothing of consequence, and the stereo making its way through the same old routine. Someone with a good thing going on.

The Mississippi Delta was shining like a National guitar...

"Kinda weird how people forgot the apartheid shit, yanno?"

Carlos looked over at his partner. It was the first thing the stoat had said in nearly half an hour. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, like, they boycotted South Africa for a reason, right? But if you sing good enough, I guess it doesn't matter that much. Don't get me wrong, it's a sweet album."

"Yeah."

Whatever his objections had been, the stoat didn't dwell on them. "So how's your mutt doing? That's what's up, right?" She comes back to tell me she's...

Well, who knew what she was, really? "Yeah," Carlos confirmed. "She's okay. I got Gus to take my shift Saturday. Hope you two have fun."

Danny grunted. "Always do. You got plans?"

"Hiking. Checking out Deerblood Creek. Getting drunk."

"Just like junior high, huh?"

Carlos grinned. "I showed you the stuff she did in Utah, right?" He brought up Sam's gallery on his phone, swiping through one photo after another. A cow's skeleton, slouched into a watering hole. Light streaming through the cracked boards of a dilapidated bridge.

The Utah shots came from an old mine. He was fond of one in particular: a weathered metal drum, on its side, the skull and crossbones fading but still visible. In its shadow, a diamondback was starting to curl up, eyeing the camera.

"I figure she'll probably die young, but you know... at least there's some good pictures, right? I like the desert. Shame people just dump shit out there--guess they figured it was a mine, anyway, and nobody would care. Wonder what it is."

"The rattler or the chemicals?" Danny took the phone, staring at the picture. "Cyanide, Scout."

"Should I wonder why you know that?"

"You said it was a mine. They use that shit for gold mining. Fuck, Scout, ain't like people just make toxic waste for the fuck of it. They were after somethin' shiny. Always are." Paul Simon played out on the radio, and Danny turned it down for a moment. "Stach's is closing in a few. Your turn for coffee, ain't it?"

Carlos shrugged; it might've been or it might not've been, but the night was pleasant and he didn't really mind the walk. Stach's Grounds was on the next block over from the police station, anyway. And depending on who was working, he was liable to be able to snag something from the bakery.

The doe behind the counter waved when he entered the desolate coffee shop. "Hey, Mr. Ortiz."

"Evening, Taylor. How's it going?"

"Slow! You see how busy we are." She got out the coffee cups out without being asked, and started pouring. "How about yours? Also slow?"

"Pretty slow, yeah. The coffee run's the most exciting part."

"Small towns," she said with a laugh. "I guess excitement isn't always good for you, though. Are you thinking you're going to bum some cookies off me, officer?"

"I'd never dream of it."

Taylor fitted a plastic cap to the first cup and started on its partner. "You don't lie very well. Can ya at least insist on paying? I've got bills, too, you know."

"Rex must really be wringing you for those school supplies."

She laughed and set the second cup of coffee on the counter. "You know I graduated last year, right? I'm taking classes in Lincoln City. You're supposed to be observant!"

Time had a way of getting away from the coyote, who'd just filed Taylor Sutton as high schooler barista since she got the job at Stach's. His ears flattened. "Oops. Okay. Well. Two coffees, and I guess a pair of chocolate chip cookies."

She fetched the cookies out and bagged them. "Three ninety-eight, then."

"The cookies, too."

"On the house." She gave him a wink, leaning across the counter and lowering her voice. "Just this once. We can't sell 'em tomorrow anyway."

"Thanks, Taylor." He gave her a five-dollar bill. "Keep it. For college and stuff."

Carlos turned to leave and felt his ears twitch. Dan was parked outside; his headlights were off, but the car was running. Something must've happened. Excitement, in other words. As much as excitement as could be managed in an antiquated Crown Victoria bought secondhand from more functional places...

Juggling the drinks awkwardly in his paws, he pulled the door open. As he got into the passenger's seat, one of the cups tumbled to the ground. "Fuck!" Reflexes spared him being scalded, but his pants caught a healthy splash of coffee--and there was none of it left in the cup. "Guess that was mine, huh?"

"Guess it was. C'mon, Scout. Let's go."

The coyote raised an eyebrow, handing over the other coffee. "Presumably it's not like you want to make out somewhere?"

"More like somebody decided to fuckin' wreck my goddamn evening. So you ain't the only one getting shit luck." Danny shifted into gear and turned the car out onto Washington Street. "What do you think about a date at the Roadhouse? Now that you only smell of coffee, and all."

"Linc's? Fuck." Ignoring the rest of his partner's implication, Carlos sighed heavily. It was the millworker's haunt, and something about the shitty jukebox or the shittier whiskey left them prone to recreational troublemaking. "What's up?"

"What else? Dumb fight. Bobby called the chief at home; said we might want to calm things down."

"Mike must be thrilled."

Danny grunted. "He ain't going himself, is he?"

The coyote growled, and longed for a therapeutic sip of coffee. Instead he cursed his luck silently. It was good for the economy that the lumber mill was running again, sure. But God, it would've been awfully damn nice if a steady paycheck had calmed the Martin-Barlow fucks down.

It just made them cocky. Cocky like Bobby Dean, den mother of the local union, calling the chief of police to have him diffuse a situation that Dean's wayward souls had caused in the first place.

Dean was waiting outside the Lincoln Street Roadhouse when they pulled up. The dingo at least had the decency to look mildly apologetic. "Sorry I called you out."

"What's the deal?"

"Well, the cable's on the fritz. Nobody's in a good mood, Tim more'n usual, since Leo's outta town and he's by himself. And now with this Crow stuff--"

"No." Danny Hayes immediately bristled. "Fuck off."

"Not Harlan or Kayla," the dingo immediately said, holding up his paws. "Some kid."

But Carlos understood Dan's instinctive reaction. Bobby Dean had, too. The Crows were an old family, with a less than stellar reputation. Their feud with the Rourkes--all the coyote knew was that Danny called it "retarded bullshit"--was a recurring source of tension.

Whatever Harlan had gotten up to with Lisa Rourke's younger sister--that, too, was unclear to Carlos--hadn't helped matters. But it should've all been in the past. Harlan Crow had disappeared, Lisa Rourke got the worst out of pulling a gun on Clint Kendrick, Jenna Rourke now lived in Bend, and even Kayla seemed to have accepted the fact that her life was better without Harlan in it anyway.

Danny gritted his teeth and shoved the door open. Tim was waiting just inside, although he seemed to have been hoping for someone other than Hayes. His face tightened.

And the stoat showed no interest in mincing words. "We having fun?"

"Some of us. Trespassed this asshole, but he ain't leaving." The bartender gestured at a slouching figure--fox-shaped, with features obscured by a loose-fitting t-shirt. They were nobody he recognized, but the t-shirt had the local high school's mascot on it.

"I paid for a second drink and didn't get it," the fox countered.

Carlos hadn't yet decided if the situation was going to actually require action; he tried to play mediator. "You know, Tim, that's not a great way to run a business."

"Got customers to serve that aren't fuckin' creeps," he answered, shooting the fox a look. "Can't read a fuckin' bathroom sign, can't take a fuckin' hint; won't leave. The regulars were getting tense. Reckon that's why Bob called it in."

"Tense? They shoved me into a wall."

Danny looked between Tim and the fox. The stoat shook his head. "Refund, Tim."

"I got a business to protect. Now, I can't have these--"

"Tim. Remember how after that shit with Kendrick we were supposed to get body cameras? 'Cause we got, like, behavior problems?"

"I guess?"

"You see one on me?"

"No? What's your--"

"Refund, and Scout an' me'll take care of this. Don't act like a dipshit for no reason, Tim. Ain't even midnight; you'll find something better."

Tim huffed, looked over his shoulder at the bar, and apparently decided it would be better to wrap things up quickly. He got his wallet out, pulled two dollars free, and tossed them towards the fox with a glare. "Make it clear he ain't welcome back, neither," he muttered.

Dan rolled his eyes but didn't respond; Carlos followed him back outside. Altogether it had taken no more than a minute or two. The coyote couldn't figure out what, exactly, had warranted police presence. "I'm not exactly sure what's going on..."

The stoat's muzzle curled, and his teeth flashed. "Don't you be a dipshit either, Scout. Ain't in the mood." He turned to the fox. "What's your name?"

"Morgan Finch." Before being asked, the fox held out a driver's license. Carlos, who was standing closer, took it. The card identified her as Morgan Shae Finch, which made Tim's choice of pronouns confusing, or explained Dan's belligerence.

Or both, perhaps.

The license was from Washington State, which didn't really clear things up: the shirt was local, but there were no Finches in Cannon Shoals and he didn't recall any having moved away in his time in the town.

Outside, in the flickering light from the Roadhouse's sign, he could get a better look at the fox. In her license photo she had bangs; now she'd pulled her hair back in a tight ponytail that called attention to sharp, pale eyes the license described as "HAZ."

Beyond that she was nondescript, and Carlos was lost as to what had transpired or why she'd wound up at the Lincoln Street Roadhouse. Danny, on the other hand, hadn't even bothered looking at the license. "Judy Crow's kid."

"That would be my mother, yes," the fox answered flatly.

"Before your time, Scout." He gestured for the coyote to hand the card back. "She left the year before you got here. 2011. I ran the missing persons stuff on my own. You wound up in Illinois, right?"

"For a while."

Judith Crow hadn't gone anywhere; she still worked at a machine shop as some kind of secretary or another. And as far as Carlos recalled, she didn't have any children. Carlos blinked, trying to get the pieces to fit.

But when they clicked, it didn't help. 'Transgendered' was not a term the coyote came across often. His parents were progressive enough that he was aware of some cause for sensitivity--but only vaguely, and he was not aware of what form it was supposed to take.

Meanwhile Dan was continuing to talk. "What brought you back?"

Danny at least seemed to know the fox, or of the fox. And his surliness often belied an encyclopedic knowledge of the town. So Morgan must've been a local, and if Danny had the background to make sense of what was going on...

For lack of a better option, Carlos decided to let his partner lead, and kept his muzzle shut.

"I was done with Olympia," Morgan said. "And I wanted to see what home was like these days."

"You mean like if we were gettin' tired of winning? Welcome back." The stoat's head jerked in a derisive shake. "You okay? Shirt's ripped."

"It was like that before. Am I free to go?"

"Well, we ain't got ya handcuffed. Some advice, though? Get in the car. Let's grab a coffee."

"Are you arresting me?"

"Probably he's doing you a favor," Carlos hazarded. "Or it's better to think of it that way. Or he's thinking about it that way."

Morgan crossed her arms. "Favor?"

"Coffee." Danny pulled the door open, and pointed to the back seat. "Get in. Or tell me where you're staying tonight. Address and room number and all that good shit."

"I don't know yet."

"Figured." He pointed again. "Then get in."

The fox sighed, but either decided that arguing wouldn't get her anywhere or that it was better than staying at the Roadhouse. Carlos buckled his seatbelt, then checked his phone. There was a message from Samantha, asking how his shift was going. "Got like an hour left on the clock."

"I know. Just hate this fuckin' joint, Scout. And you're missing a coffee. Rainbow okay?"

Setting aside the bars, Rainbow's Diner was the only place still open. Carlos used the drive over to let Sam know he was liable to be late. Fortunately she was easy-going, most of the time--came with the territory of hanging around coyotes. This was no exception: no worries see ya soon

Hopefully. Carlos glanced over his shoulder: Morgan had her head turned, taking in the shuttered town. "That used to be Mercado's..."

"Yeah. Closed a long-ass time ago. Movie rentals, Scout," Danny clarified. "Relic of our glory days or something."

"Dispensary," Morgan read aloud, from the storefront a few doors down. "That's new."

Dan laughed. "Oh, yeah. We ain't just the Coast Guard and the lumber mill now. Got a modern economy an' everything."

"Who runs it?"

"Connor Woodward," Carlos answered. I'm not the only one who understands this town. Right? "This otter guy. I busted him once a few years ago, but he never gave it up for honest work."

"Of course he wouldn't. He was supposed to get the Eastern Eighty." Morgan looked away from the shops, peering at Carlos and his tilted head. "You're new, too."

"Sure is," Danny confirmed. "Scout jumped the border'r somethin'. I don't ask questions 'cause I don't want to interview for a replacement, you know?"

So much for inside knowledge. The coyote sighed. "What's the Eastern Eighty? Danny?"

Dan passed the buck. "Enlighten my partner, why don't ya?"

"It was a fishing boat that sank in a storm in 2009, I think... it could've been 2008. The Coast Guard rescued three people, but Connor's dad and older brother were still trying to save the boat when it capsized. That's the story I heard. They owned the boat, but... well, the way I heard it was Aaron was getting hitched and he wanted something safer."

"Dumb fucks." Carlos hadn't figured out the source of Dan's antipathy for water, especially given that he stuck to Annie's, the fisherman's dive bar, instead of the Lincoln Street Roadhouse. He seemed to regard fishermen as wayward, foolish souls. "Didn't own shit, anyway."

"No?"

They'd made it to Rainbow's Diner; he turned the car into the nearly empty lot and switched off the engine before answering. "It was really Galvan's boat. Credit union owned it like they own everything else on the docks."

"Oh."

"Welcome back."

Penny Shobe was the only one working tables at the diner, and the bear was so bored that she didn't even bother with smalltalk before ushering them to a booth. There were only a handful of other patrons: a tiger at the counter, leafing through a book and sipping his coffee, and a family of four at a corner table.

He recognized the tiger as a truck driver who didn't live in town but came through the Shoals often. The family had the worn eyes of tourists with a long drive behind them. Nobody spared a second thought for the two cops or their guest. If Penny knew Morgan, neither of them gave any outward sign.

Dan ordered a round of coffee and peach cobbler without taking a menu or polling the group. "It's the only good stuff here," he explained.

Shobe came back with the coffee and pie, setting it wordlessly down and returning to the paper she was reading. Carlos caught a little twitch in his partner's ear. "You two on good terms, Danny?"

"It look like it?"

"Bust her for oxy or something?" Given Hayes and his reputation, there were of course other possibilities. Doesn't seem like his type, though.

The stoat's eyes flashed. "I wish."

"Oh? Better than that?"

"Mom told her to stop bringing her cookies to the Sunday sale because they keep gettin' thrown out. She's pissed Father Noyes backed mom up."

Carlos managed not to laugh, but he couldn't keep the grin off his muzzle. Danny's glare hardened; the coyote could only imagine it was not the sort of drama his partner enjoyed.

"Small towns," Morgan interjected. "There's always something happening in small towns."

"You came back to one," Dan pointed out.

"I did."

"I gotta be straight with you. You got a job?"

"Kinda."

"Meaning?"

"Dawn offered me some work at her studio." Morgan dumped a packet of sugar into her coffee, stirring it until the foam spun into the whirls of some distant, fuzzy galaxy. "Are you telling me I should get out of town?"

When Danny didn't answer, Carlos looked over at the stoat. His brow had furrowed slightly, the bronze fur wrinkling. He was, the coyote realized, trying to figure out how to say something. Danny wasn't often at a loss for words.

And Morgan, who apparently knew him, took the wrong conclusion. "You know? Cop pulls you aside and says 'it'd be better if you weren't here the next time I looked'--that kind of thing?"

Danny stayed silent, so Carlos stepped into the uncomfortable lull. "I'd stay away from Linc's, at least."

"Ain't helping, Scout." Danny shrugged, giving up on whatever musing had kept him quiet. "Town's got some problems. It would help if you had a place to stay. Which you don't, right?"

"I just got here."

"Don't sleep in your car, either. You can crash at the station tonight."

Morgan tilted her head. In Rainbow's fluorescent lights, her clear eyes had the pale green of sun-baked cornstalks. "Why are you offering?"

"Don't want trouble."

"I'm trouble?"

Hayes scowled. "You're someone the Shoals can make trouble with. I figure you know that, so you must've come back for a reason. And it must've been a good one, not just that you were done with Washington."

Her spoon clinked on the mug in a slow rhythm. "Do you care?"

"You comin' back to kill somebody?"

"No."

"Burn down yer folks' place?"

"No."

"If it ain't illegal I don't really give a fuck," he decided. "But if you feel like bein' chatty, well, we got the coffee for it."

"I couldn't land another job in time. Dawn told me she could find something for me to do, and she said things were doing okay in town, so..."

Left unsaid, Carlos felt, was the tradeoff that had been made. Moving back to a town where everyone knew your name, and everyone had expectations, and there was no guarantee that they'd put up with anything that looked to upset that status quo. Tim had been a case in point.

"It's doing better," Dan said. "Mill's running again, and it's tourist season. Hell, Scout here brought his girl out so they can look at houses or somethin'. Real estate prices are good."

"Oh, really?"

Carlos rolled his eyes. "Not exactly. My friend wants to do some hiking around Deerblood Creek, that's all."

"With a metal detector?" Carlos perked an ear; Morgan turned to Danny instead. "You worked with Mark at Mercado's, I'm pretty sure--he ever tell you about his metal detector? He used to hunt around Deerblood... always came back with old nails and coins and stuff."

Danny shook his head, grunting with what might have been a fond memory or might have been simple judgment. "Yeah, he sold a dime he found for twenty bucks. Wouldn't shut up about it."

"He took me and his sister once. We didn't find anything. What happened to him? I heard somebody got him a job and he was working at the mill."

"Was, until the riots. He's in for vehicular homicide--took out a cyclist on 520 two years ago. DUI, natch."

"Oh."

The state cops had handled that one, but Carlos at least remembered the incident, and the paperwork. "Mark Burke? That's who you're talking about?"

"Small towns." Dan's answer was dark, and oblique.

"I guess," Morgan said.

"I think your dad's working again." Danny worked a bite of peach cobbler free with the side of his fork, stabbing it sharply. "Which you knew. An' you know he's union. So Linc's was kinda... serendipitous-like."

"What if I did run into him?" she asked; Danny was busy chewing, but knowing the stoat, his stare would've been the only answer anyway. "Brian doesn't get to take this town from me. Neither does Judy. Neither do you. He can find that out now or he can find out next week."

"I think what Dan is trying to say is that--"

"What Dan is sayin'," the stoat cut him off, "is it plays easier if you don't start fights. If you're planning on staying, which I guess you are."

"It's home. I think."

"Hell of one," he said. "Fuck it. I'm gonna take a piss. Scout, talk some sense into her, okay? Can't sleep at the station forever."

Morgan watched him go, muzzle smoothly tracking his movement. When he was out of sight, she turned back to the coyote. "Is he like this now?"

"What do you mean 'now'? You know him?"

"I knew he was a fucking asshole when I was in school. Least surprising cop ever. I figured my mom asked him specifically for help when I left town. And..." She bit her lip, then laughed shallowly. "I keep up enough. You hear rumors. I don't know what to think."

"He's still a fucking asshole, don't worry."

"But?"

Carlos, who had worked with the stoat for half a decade, didn't know the best way to describe Danny. He was not a good person. He'd tell the coyote to go distract himself while he negotiated some alternate payment on a traffic ticket. Or he'd take advantage of a wayward housewife's boredom, and Carlos would find himself telling Chief Pacheco that he hadn't actually heard anything, but...

But then, he'd call Carlos at seven in the morning, too. C'mon, Scout. Need the truck. And they'd wind up hauling Astrid Brunault's worldly possessions to a new apartment after she'd been thrown out of her house. Or picking up groceries for KJ MacRory, who didn't always have money for gas and who was not, so far as Carlos knew, fucking the stoat on the side or anything.

"It's more like... I think it's more like he wants to be the only asshole. Doesn't like competition. Also, he kinda has it out for the mill. They're always causing problems."

"Do you know what happened to my uncle Harlan?"

"Not a clue. There was some... an incident," that was the cleanest euphemism for what had gone down. "And he skipped town. I guess you know that, if he's your uncle, but the truth is we didn't have the resources to investigate anyway. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. If he was dead in a ditch I wouldn't bother animal control to come scoop him up." She paused; her ears lowered. "I guess I don't mean to be so... combative. I wasn't sure what to expect, and..."

"And you ran into the mill guys and wound up with Danny. And he's Danny, and you don't know me. I don't mind, I just get that there's some backstory I'm not privy to, newcomer and all."

"How long?"

"2012. I didn't want to wait for the world to end, so I took the bull by the horns and got as close to the end as I could." She gave him an odd look. "No? Fine. I ran into Mike Pacheco at a job fair. I was trying to find something with the government--dad was always big on having us 'give back to the community.' It had a pension, Mike waived some requirements... plus, I have a bachelor's degree and I was managing a call center for twelve-twenty an hour."

"Had you been to Cannon Shoals before?"

"Nope. But after six years, I think you let me apply for a green card or something. Isn't that how it works?"

"Funny." Morgan was starting to relax; she no longer fidgeted with the spoon before taking a drink. "Do you like it?"

"I do. You do, too?"

"I hope. I think people are meant to belong somewhere. I hope this is where I belong. Chicago was just alright. I didn't like Olympia much, and I hated the work--always felt like I was just some cog in the machine, and..."

Carlos watched while she went back to tapping the spoon in agitation. Finally, seeing that the coyote wasn't going to save her, she pulled it out and set it on the napkin to remove the temptation.

"The way the world is, I feel you either have to make it better or accept that you're making it worse. I wasn't making it any better in Washington. I don't know that I'll make it better here, but I think I can. I think I should."

"Can I ask you a question? Personal question, I guess."

"So I don't need a lawyer? They say you should always have a lawyer." She was playing it off, but her finger rested on the spoon.

"I know other people who've come back, too. I listen to 'em, and it's like. This closed store, that closed store, this guy that ODed, that guy that's doing twenty years for a DUI, this boat that sank..." He ran out of fingers on his paw, counting them off. "I never knew it in the 'good old days.' This is it. Why come back?"

"Sometimes you can't walk away anymore. That's how you learn that you belong somewhere. You can't walk away, and when you think about it, you think of the good stuff. And 'the way it was' and 'the way it could be' all run together."

"Huh."

"You think you don't belong?"

"Beats me. It's familiar now."

"They know your order at Luigi's?"

"No. Fuck. Fuck, no. I got a calzone there that I think came out of a bomb shelter. Fuck that place."

"Well, yeah. Stay away from the calzone. They had a good arcade, though."

"It's still there."

She nodded; took another sip from her coffee. "Do you fish? Ever get up to Cattail?"

"Once or twice. To be honest, I think it's better at Old Mill, if you don't mind the hike--what, are you testing me?"

"Maybe," she admitted, smiling at last. Her muzzle stayed open; she paused, her breath catching, and the smile faded. "Brian was the only one I went to Old Mill with. I guess you've figured out I wasn't born Morgan Finch, right? But it's hard to think of them as family. Just Brian and Judy Crow. You wouldn't blame me, if you knew them."

"Well, we've dealt with them before--more than Harlan. Your..." He stopped: what had she just said? "Brian gets in trouble, too. So, yeah. I don't blame you."

"And you see what I'm saying? I should belong. Why should anyone get to take the town from me?"

"They don't."

"Then I'm staying." She finished her coffee, prodding at the sugar left at the bottom with her spoon. "I'm staying. Simple as that. See how the trout are doing these days..."

"Depends where you go."

"Is that why you're going to Deerblood Creek, the fishing at Old Mill? You know there used to be a camp there? I don't know what for... mining or lumber, I suppose. It's upstream from the lake. There's a busted waterwheel that's pretty cool. I think it's from the 1800s or something."

"1930s. PWA, that's what my girlfriend says." He'd used the word without meaning to--Danny hadn't helped things--but correcting it would've made things more awkward and Morgan didn't comment. "She wants to take some pictures. Kinda has a thing for broken stuff."

"Oh, neat. Tell her if you follow it back another couple hundred yards there might be something left of a little dam, too. The rest of it washed away in the '90s, but there's some pipes and a shack for a pumping station hidden in the woods. Well, there was when I was a kid."

The coyote nodded. "I'll let her know."

"Broken stuff," Morgan echoed his phrasing. "Like those shipwrecks... the Peter Iredale, and the machinery left in Boiler Bay, and if the tide's right you can see part of the Nottoway, too, just north of town. All these things that got built, they stop working--we call them 'ruins'--but we can't get rid of them all the way. The scars are still there, if you look."

"It takes a long time, I guess."

"I guess."

At that point, Danny returned, dropping back into his seat. "Gettin' along?"

"Catching up. She wanted to know if you were still an asshole."

"You give her my business card?"

"Fresh out, sorry."

Penny Shobe drifted back over, looking at the empty plates and coffee cups. "Time for you to head home, boys."

"You don't close for another hour on Fridays."

"We're out of coffee."

Carlos found that about as unlikely as Danny did, but the stoat shrugged and took the check Shobe held out. He scanned the receipt, handing over a ten-dollar bill. "Keep the change."

From a quick glimpse, Carlos thought it had all come to about $9.50, and Penny's scowl confirmed that he couldn't have been that far off. He followed Dan's retreat out to the car rather than brooking another argument.

So did Morgan, who looked up the street as if she was thinking about heading off. Dan held up his paw. "Scout and me are off now, and they ain't payin' OT for this. You want the couch or not?"

"I... guess. If you're offering, I'd appreciate it."

"Car's still up at Linc's? I'll drive ya back."

He sent Sam Rigney a text message and prepared to wait. As it happened, though, she was just around the corner--the cop car was just barely out of sight when her old Toyota rumbled up.

She gave him a kiss when he climbed into the passenger's seat, almost like they were more than just friends. Almost. "Sorry about that, Sam."

"No worries." She wasn't given to worrying. Not about his whereabouts, nor about coming to a full stop before her left turn onto the highway. She looked at him; shrugged. "Oh, don't give me that. Met your car going the other way--nobody's gonna ticket me. Besides, there's no traffic."

"What if it's the principle of the thing?"

She rolled her eyes. "Spare me. What kept ya, anyway? Solving crimes and helping old ladies?"

"Nah. Just some stuff at the bar. One of the bars," he amended; for being a small town, it had more than its share. "Just took longer than it needed. I guess."

"Well, I wasn't bored," the mutt assured him. "I used the opportunity to do some scouting."

"Anything good? Somebody told me there's some more ruins further up Deerblood, if you want to take a look. A pumping station or something?"

"Not on the USGS maps," she mused. "Or I wasn't looking in the right place. Do you know what it was for?"

"Pumping, I assume. I'm not from around here."

"I know, I know. But close enough!"

Is it? He didn't reply.

"There's a lot of pretty interesting stuff right here in town, actually. You know the school? I'd bet you anything there's some good shots on the inside. The doors were all locked."

"You're not supposed to get in," he pointed out. Sam just stuck out her tongue. "What? You're not! Can you be here for a full day before getting me in trouble?"

"Sounds like a challenge. Nobody was watching me. Nobody was watching us earlier, either, don't you worry." She patted his knee. "I know how to be discreet, 'yote. That's just how I... hold up." She checked the rear-view mirror, glanced over her shoulder, and swung the SUV around abruptly. They came to a stop in a turnout off 101--a scenic overlook, just before the one where they'd caught the sunset.

Had there been any traffic, and had Carlos not seen the look in Sam's eyes, he might've protested the sudden maneuver. As it was he watched to see what she'd do next, which proved to be killing the engine and stepping out of the car.

When she opened the tailgate, the coyote figured they'd be there for a while and decided to join her. Sam was all business, going through her backpack--when Carlos brushed her side with his paw, she jolted her muzzle to point with it. "There."

The night was moonless, and clear but for low-lying mist on the harbor, drifting through the bridge and softening its lights to a dreamy glow. The Neatasknea Light stabbed at intervals through the thin fog, silent and timeless; above, the summer stars kept cold watch. No boats were out; nothing moved in the bay. "It's pretty," he admitted.

Sam clicked a lens into place and checked the film counter on her old Pentax. "I can't break into the lighthouse either, right?"

"That's federal property. It's a bad idea."

She grinned and slipped past him, digging the legs of her tripod into the gravel. "Federal? Doesn't that mean you don't have jurisdiction?" The mutt kneeled, heedless of the sharp stones, peering through the viewfinder. "What should I say when I get caught?"

"Give me one day, Sam. C'mon. Just one. Be a good girl."

Sam looked back over her shoulder. "Later," she promised. Her wagging tail kicked a few pebbles. He didn't bother arguing--she would be distracted, anyway. He heard the camera's shutter click a few times. "Maybe..."

"Maybe?"

Her head jerked, and he realized she'd been talking to herself--laser-focused on the camera. Sam grabbed another piece of gear from her backpack. "See if I can get this timer working."

He couldn't tell whether or not she'd been successful, but after a minute Samantha stepped away from the tripod. She took his paw, pulling him towards the guardrail.

And she leaned against him. Even in late summer, the night was growing cold; the wind off the ocean was crisp, and biting. They watched the heartbeat of the lighthouse; she squeezed him when its beam swept past. "Wonderful," she said. "Sometimes you just have to... enjoy it, you know?"

"What about the pictures?"

"Hm?"

"How's the picture gonna turn out?"

"Who knows, Carlos? Have to wait and see."

"Why be so noncommittal? It should be good. Let's say it'll be good."

She nodded; patted his paw softly. "Fine. It'll turn out great."