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A shipwreck brings a new visitor--and a new perspective--to a small town in the 1920s.

A standalone story I started work on thanks to khakidoggy and his Voice of Dog project, an... attempt to create some optimistic fiction given the situation we're currently facing. I've been kicking this around for a couple weeks, so I figure it's time to actually get it posted. This is technically set in Cannon Shoals, but you don't need to know anything about the setting so if you are not a Shoals person, that's fine. Many thanks to khakidoggy for being wonderful, and to Spudz and kergiby for their help with the story. Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and stuff, most of which are honestly, uh. It's all just Oregon trivia :P

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

---

"Through Great Cloudy Skies," by Rob Baird

"Tell you what, though... it sure was loud!"

"With your ears, Roy? If you think so, well, it must've been."

"Couldn't hear a God-damned thing, I swear!" Roy Mikkelson insisted. And then, at the sound of a throat clearing, both he and his listener turned to look at the young dingo behind the counter. "Pardon me, miss. Got carried away."

They'd been carried away since John Findlay, passing by the open door, noticed Roy in the middle of paying for his shopping. John wanted to hear about the bear's trip over to the big city where--among other exciting things--Roy Mikkelson had been given a demonstration of an advanced new flying machine: a monoplane, he called it, with only a single wing.

"He don't even hear himself sometimes," John suggested, with a teasing glint in the Border Collie's eye. "You could tell him whatever price you wanted, I bet."

Roy tapped his forehead. "Don't count on it. I'm not that old up here. It's... it'll come to two dollars, forty-three cents, Miss Larkin?"

"Exactly right," Clara confirmed. A mix of sundries: some soap, a lantern mantle, thread, a tin of wax... she packaged it all up without needing to look at them, keeping her attention on Mikkelson and giving him a friendly smile. "You still had thirty cents in credit."

The bear's mind worked well--or as well as it ever had; Roy had a reputation for being scatter-brained as his shopping list--but his gnarled fingers took their time in counting out the change. "There you go," he finally said. "Sorry again for the language, miss."

"Don't worry. Have a good day, Mr. Mikkelson."

"While you can," John added, patting his friend on the shoulder, and explained further when the bear had left. "Barometer ain't lookin' kindly. Smart fishermen'll stay in tomorrow, I reckon."

"Perhaps it's been too mild of a spring," Clara mused. "It was too much to hope that the weather was making up for last winter..."

"Maybe, maybe." Findlay worked at the cannery; he had a vested interest in the fishing fleet's good health. "You ever seen an airplane, Miss Larkin?"

"No, I can't say that I have. Not ever."

"Not me, either. Hundred miles an hour--can you believe that? Roy sure does talk big sometimes." John chuckled, and gestured at the racks behind her. "Can I trouble you for some Camels? One pack."

"Three for a half-dollar," she reminded him.

"Yeah. And I remember when it was two for a quarter. Gonna save so much money I go broke," the collie muttered, before shaking his head. "I'll take three, then, and just tell the missus it was for a rainy day."

A facing building blocked her view of the sky, despite the open door, but the clouds that had settled in lent mid-morning an unmistakable darkness. "She'll believe you, for sure." Clara wrapped the dog's cigarettes up neatly in brown paper, and traded him for the two quarters he offered back. "Good luck getting home dry, sir."

"Same to you. Give Eddie my regards."

People were always giving Edward Larkin their regards. What they did not give the dingo was their money, though his daughter well understood that their small town still struggled to recover from the vicious storm delivered by the winter of 1921. And from the War, for that matter, which had taken from Cannon Shoals disproportionately in Clara's mind. Six of their menfolk dead; another three still in hospitals, and God alone knew when they'd return.

They earned a plaque for that, in front of the town hall, and a visit from Governor Olcott to commemorate their shared sacrifice. It was one of the few things to have made it through the winter unscathed--even the church hadn't been spared. Nor had Larkin General. Nor had Edward Larkin's properties up the river, where he had plans to harvest timber with Kenny Barlow. Those plans, like the buildings, were largely ruins.

But Edward carried on, and Clara did what she could to help him. By the time he stopped by that afternoon the skies had opened, though this proved to have dampened only his clothes and not his spirits. The dingo shook his raincoat, hung it to dry, and turned up the radiator Clara tried to keep low, especially when she was by herself and especially when the door was open so people knew they were still in business.

"It's free, anyway," he reminded her.

"We're not paying them, father. That doesn't mean it's free."

Kenneth Barlow had built a boiler to burn his mill's abundant sawdust and wood chips, and--like most of downtown--Larkin General was hooked up to the steam it produced. Barlow thought of it as a gift, and the nominal access fee was only for maintenance, but the Larkins hadn't been able to afford even that since the previous winter.

Unlike Edward, she wondered what Kenny might think if he stopped by and saw how they were wasting his steam. "Anyway, the morning was pleasant enough. I didn't really see the need."

"True, true. I don't think the afternoon's going to be. How's business, Clara?"

"Slow. A few people buying candles and kerosene, and we're sold out of the Capital Journal for today, but that's all. Mr. John Findlay told me to give you his regards."

"Ah! I wish I'd been here for that. He's doing well?"

"Complaining about the price of cigarettes."

"Terrible habit," her father said. "The tobacco and the complaining. You didn't charge him full price, though, did you? He lent us his truck last month when we needed all those crates brought over."

"Yes, and we paid him for that."

"Still. We have to stick together, Clara. Especially in these times."

The refrain was more or less a constant one, and she didn't entirely disagree. John helped when he could, and they returned the offer, and so--although they had bills to pay--Clara made herself a mental note to give the Border Collie a discount the next time he came around.

Light conversation had trailed off, and she was easing back into the routine of checking their stock, when movement caught her eye: a peppery-furred canine head, poking its way through the doorframe. "Are you... open?"

"Sure are." Edward waved the dripping man inside, and pointed to the coatrack. Beneath a battered greatcoat, the wolf's shirt appeared to be in little better shape, with the fabric worn to shininess. "Looking for something?"

"A roof, for the moment," the wolf said.

"Well, you've found it." Edward grinned, holding out his paw. "I'm Edward Larkin. Eddie, or Neddie, or whatever you please, though--we don't stand on principle, here. My daughter Clara and I run the store. We don't sell the roof, but... most anything else, we can help you with."

"'Preciate it." The wolf shook Edward's paw, and nodded politely to Clara. "My name's Tom. Guess it's nice to meet you both."

"At least, it's nice to meet us both dry. I don't think I've seen you before, Tom. You're new in town? Where're you from?"

"Utah, and without a map. I caught the train from Corvallis, thinking it was going back south. Somebody told me it was, that is, and I listened. Isn't so, it seems."

Edward nodded. "Isn't so. You're on the Pacific coast, now. I guess when they checked your ticket, they weren't too happy." Clara followed her father's gaze: now that he was out of the rain, nothing washed away a slow ooze of blood from the wolf's temple.

"I must admit, Edward Larkin, your town's very thorough about that kind of checking. I wasn't expecting such a reception."

"Probably the weather getting to the railroad bulls. Why don't you get some mercurochrome, Clara? A bit of gauze, too." The only medicine they had was unopened--for sale, in other words--but she already knew there'd be no arguing with her father, and she handed him what he asked for. "But I guess I might as well apologize for them, anyhow."

"Appreciate that, too. Wasn't the railroad, though. Some..." Tom winced as Edward treated the cut on his skull. "Some fox. Handsome young man, too. Might've heard he was called George? Is that a good name for a fox 'round here?"

"That'd be Captain Galvan," Edward confirmed. "Volunteer constable. His father runs the town savings and loan. So it's a good enough name, and a good man. Generally speaking."

"I might have to take your word for it."

Her father lifted the bandage away, gauging from the quantity of blood that a fresh one was apparently required. "Not my word, sir. It's the US Army's word--Service Cross, after the Marne."

"So if you're inclined to disagree," Clara added, "you might keep that disagreement to yourself."

Tom nodded carefully. "Thanks for the advice."

"You should be able to catch a ride back inland on one of the trucks," her father suggested, as he finished bandaging the wolf's head. "Perhaps not today, but I can give you a bed this evening, at least."

This, too, wasn't worth arguing over. Their mother would try--she might even raise her voice to Edward. But only once Tom had left, though the Larkins didn't have the money to be putting guests up. "I can work for it," Tom said. "Help you install new windows? I thought you might be closed, when I saw the boards..."

Edward laughed, his chuckle warm and irrepressible. "Sometimes, we think that, too. We don't have the glass, I'm afraid. There was a big storm last winter... we're still trying to put things back together."

"I can at least help you nail new boards down, then. There's another storm coming--the weather's like to be real rough, if I know clouds like these. You won't want to stay open."

"If it's rough, folks will need supplies," her father countered. "But I thank you for the offer. Maybe we'll find something?"

***

Ruth Larkin was, in the end, able to talk her husband out of letting Tom spend the night and into giving him fare money for the last northbound bus that evening. Beforehand, in thanks, he did offer the promised repairs on the store's weatherproofing. Clara stayed home while the men worked, and her mother muttered about Ned and that blessed soft heart of his, sometimes... And, with a shake of her head: Lord, that man.

Clara sympathized, of course. Ned called her "older than" her 26 years, sometimes; she thought of it instead as pragmatism. Popular as her father was--well-respected, to a point--there were limits to the extent they could afford his good intentions. These needed to be checked: Larkin General was only barely solvent, on the razor's edge of toppling past the point of recovery. This was also why, first thing in the morning, she went to open the store for business.

Tom's reinforcement kept the windows from leaking--much--but with the door wide, she could barely hear anything over the downpour. It was, for example, louder than the sound of an automobile's engine: she didn't notice Phineas Galvan until the fox was already inside, scraping his polished boots against the mat and hanging his coat up to dry warily.

His muzzle opened uselessly; with a shake of his head, he turned to close the door behind him. "Sorry about that, miss. I'm surprised to find you here."

"Likewise, sir. It's not good weather for traveling."

"No. But I've errands to run, before it worsens. You wouldn't have a tire patch, would you? Just in case. Ah--wonderful," he said, from the purposeful way she moved to the counter. "And I don't suppose your father's around?"

"At home, seeing to mother. Should I take a message for him?"

The older fox's voice was as graceful as his clothes, and the smooth shake of his head. "There's no reason to trouble him at home, miss. It can wait until after the weather passes."

Clara didn't need to guess at the message, anyway. The dingo sighed. "How far behind are we, sir?"

His smile was kind, at least, even grandfatherly. "On which loan? Three months on the line of credit, Miss Larkin. Five on the mortgage for the store, but... I imagine business has not been brisk?"

"A little better than last year, this time. Nowhere near what it was." The same winter storm that cost her father's investments in Oak Valley cast a lingering shadow over the fishing town. "Unless you're a shipper... they're doing better. Apparently."

"Cost of freight is up? I heard that from the Wallace foundry, two weeks ago. We're doing what we can, I suppose, aren't we?"

"I'm trying. You know father. He's not good about understanding the... urgency, sometimes. At least we're saving money on employees."

"Your father's a good man, Miss Larkin. And he's lucky to have you here for him, I'll say that much. Just let him know, would you, that a... an update on his situation would be welcomed at my office. An update--that's all. How much for the patch?"

It was a dollar; he gave her two, and thanked her for keeping the store open in the storm. A good man: Edward said that about George Galvan, too. Darkly, as the sound of the downpour once again filled Larkin General, she thought of just how lucky her father had been.

That the storm destroyed nearly every building in Oak Valley, just as the lumber mill promised to be profitable. That Edward had chosen the insurance company of an old friend, and the company had become insolvent well before settling the storm's damage.

That Phineas Galvan had ended the decade with a local legend, medal and all--George was sure to inherit the family business, and he was all but betrothed to a vixen with eastern money--and Edward was lucky enough to have a widow who could be his shopkeeper for nothing but room and board.

Little productive came from these thoughts, and she'd feel better when spring had properly arrived, she knew. And summer, after that: warm and sunlit, but never too warm, never sultry and oppressive. Business would improve, and the days would be pleasant, and...

And, if she didn't think too far beyond summer, then everything would turn out. She kept her attention on Larkin General, and the prospect of customers. No more showed up, though, until the dreary afternoon was interrupted by a commotion from just outside and a trio of men stumbled through the open door.

She recognized only two of them: George and her father, who shut the door hastily. They were all soaked to the bone and all panting, including the third: a stout badger whose oilskin jacket hadn't spared him the storm.

"Billy Cook. Works at the lighthouse," her father managed. "George and I caught him coming up Bay Street, sprinting like the devil was on him."

The badger nodded quickly. "Shipwreck. Our cable's down, they--Mr.--Captain Galvan said--you've a telegraph office? Couldn't quite make him out. Christ, it's bad out there."

"That's right." George hung up his coat and took the towel Edward handed to him to dry the fur of his face. The fox was in his element: "I can send a message, if you need to get back to the light."

"Aye. Ah--what's that? Oh, I see. Good lad." Finished with the towel, he'd pulled his notebook out and held a pencil in his waiting fingers. "Send this up to Tillamook: 3000-ton Albion aground at Neatasknea. Twenty-eight souls, all saved."

"Anything else?"

"Ship and cargo total loss. Oh--latest report, I guess. Winds 45, gusting 55; 29.2 inches. Visibility under a quarter-mile."

"I'll get on it," Galvan promised, throwing his coat on hastily and making his way back out into the gale.

"We were lucky to get the lifeboat launched. I don't think we'd be able to do that for much longer." He took the cup of coffee Edward held out with relief plain on his face. "The master was a fool, trying for the harbor in seas like this. He said something about... old charts."

"Like the Norton?" her father asked--the wreck that cast a long shadow over his childhood. "No, it's not that bad. They're all safe, at least... you can figure out what happened when everything's calmed down. Have them sent up here, I suppose."

"Sir?"

"They can't all stay at the lighthouse, and I thought I heard you say some were injured. Send them up here. We'll help."

"You're sure?"

And he was, of course. The bear left as soon as he'd finished his coffee. Edward took a deep breath. "We've got a lot of work to do. Gather all the blankets and warm clothes we have in stock, that's a start... the grocery's closed, isn't it?"

"It wasn't open when I walked by, no."

"I'll track down Charles and have him unlock the door. How much does he owe us? Twenty dollars?"

"A little over thirty."

"That should buy enough food, then. When George comes back, ask him what else to do." He must've seen her face cloud; took his daughter's paw and squeezed firmly. "I know. But he's got experience. And you can put on more coffee... and we should still have some brandy under the counter?"

Thirty dollars might've been enough to pacify Phineas for a little while--to assure him that the store was still worth something. Clara put the thought from her mind, nodded her assent, and went to see what Larkin General had available.

A dozen blankets; thirty towels of assorted sizes. Not much for warm clothes, but with the store's radiator turned up she figured the rolls of wool could be pressed into service, at least until they could find proper jackets.

With George Galvan's help, when he returned, she separated out and organized their limited medical supplies, and set water on to boil. His eyes lingered on the bottle of brandy--but then he shook his head, and laughed softly. "An emergency, I guess. Have to talk to him later..."

Because the first of the sailors had already begun to arrive, along with a handful of volunteers who'd seen the store abuzz and wanted to know why. Trying to pack them all into Larkin General immediately became a fool's errand: she was grateful, and unsurprised, when George started directing them to the meeting hall two buildings down.

She spent the next three hours shuttling between the store and the hall, using her own raincoat to keep the towels and fresh clothes as dry as she could. And, when more townsfolk showed up to shoulder some of the burden, Clara tried to record what left their shelves. Edward might not have cared, but she at least wanted to know what would need replacing.

As the burst of frenetic activity died down, Clara paused to catch her breath behind the counter. A few minutes of peace elapsed before the elder Larkin joined her, his paw held above a bowl of soup to shield it from the rain. "Chowder," he said. "Flora Mikkelson's been helping me raid the grocery store."

With its scent, her hunger became undeniable. She took the spoon--I think I wrote that down. Didn't I? Yes, there it is. Three dollars in utensils, so far--and helped herself to a taste. "She's going to take this recipe to the grave, you know?"

"And barter with Saint Peter," he agreed. He grinned, and pointed affably to the sheet of paper. "What's the damage?"

Up to that point, it came to $107.91. "And whatever we owe Mr. Conway, now. Or... what Charles doesn't owe us."

Briefly, even her father blanched, his muzzle wrinkling into a frown. "Well, it could be worse, but... all the same, I guess we might close the store for a bit."

He turned to do so as one of the sailors, accompanied by George Galvan, entered. "This is the man," George promised. "Mr. Larkin, this is Hank Dean."

Hank was a younger canine, with the same golden fur and bright eyes as her father. The similarity became unmistakeable when he stepped over to meet their two guests immediately, his grin back and his paw offered with characteristic friendliness. "That's right. I'm Edward Larkin; I run this store. My daughter Clara helps out."

"Ned just owns the building--Clara's the one who runs it. Mr. Larkin, I think we're starting to find homes for people so we can close the hall. The soup's almost out, anyway..."

"Sure, sure. Let me know what I can do. And you, son--how can I help?"

George raised his paw in a wave and stepped back outside, leaving Hank looking between the Larkins. "You're... dingoes?"

"Once upon a time. Darwin, I'm told--but I was born here. You are, too, I guess?"

"Aye. Wasn't expecting it..."

"We're full of surprises! I was wondering, from the way you talk. Welcome! You needed something, though?"

Shaking his head to dispel the serendipity of their meeting, the young man remembered his reason for the visit. "It doesn't feel right to impose further, but, ah..." He held up a well-used raincoat. "I tore this. Getting off the ship, maybe it was, or... well, anyway. If you might have a sewing kit?"

"Probably. But if it's just that, I'm sure your mother can spare some thread--right, Clara?"

She blinked. "Ah? Oh, probably, yes."

"Well, then, that'll be easier. He needs a place to stay--you do, don't you, son? Well, in that case, we've got space for you. Call me... entranced by the accent--I want to hear about the old country." Or he saw something of himself in the younger dingo. Or he thought the coincidence would soften the blow to his wife when she found herself with another guest.

Fortunately, the newest dingo spared himself the brunt of any ire by being unfailingly polite to Ruth Larkin. By the end of dinner, and Hank's offer to help the Larkin women with the washing up, she'd even stopped glaring at her husband. And over coffee and cake--Clara's mother managed to aim at respectability without seeming to put on airs--she listened attentively as Hank talked about life in New South Wales.

"And then," he finished--by that point, and his father's lengthy interrogation, coffee had turned into rum for the two men. Prohibition notwithstanding, her father hadn't been shy about sharing his stock. "And then, I signed on to the Albion towards the end of that summer. Next month it would've been two years. It really was a shock to see you, Mr. Larkin."

"The Larkins were sailors, too," Ruth spoke up. "That's how they wound up here."

"Is that so, ma'am?"

"And they're never going back to sea, if you ask any of them. This is home now."

Hank looked over at Edward. "How did that happen?"

"William, my father. Story is that he jumped a ship in Coos Bay, and moved up the coast. Saw the look of the timber here and figured he didn't want to live anywhere else. We're not the only family, either, and I'm sure that did help. There's the Walkers... and the Birkbecks, over in Newport. Both of them, now, I suppose... but the Birkbecks are older. Better than us, of course... can't imagine why they'd marry down."

Ruth rolled her eyes, patting the back of her husband's paw. "You lied about the Larkin dowry, that's how."

"And you didn't argue much," Edward retorted.

"How is the timber? I hope it's better than the sailing."

"It's doing well enough," he said diplomatically. "Though I'm not sure that would mean much, son, would it? Do you know what happened to your ship? Was it the maps?"

"No, no." Hank shook his head and, though they were alone in the Larkin house, lowered his voice. "Don't listen to the captain. That's just an excuse. With the mercury dropping, he figured we needed to put in. But he was worried about grounding on the bar, and overcorrected. Bit of wind caught us, and the next thing we knew we were on the rocks. There was absolutely nothing to be done, then... I saw the look on the chief engineer's face. Bloody miracle, really, that we all got out alive."

"Well, we're definitely thankful for that. Lordy, was it ever a row to get a lifeboat stationed there." Edward didn't say it, but he had been part of the argument, for no reason Clara could tell beyond a sense of civic duty. "Every winter they launch at least once or twice. When the fishermen run into trouble... which is why Larkins don't sail, by the way."

"I can't blame you, sir. Is this weather normal?"

"Not much like Sydney, eh, Mr. Dean?" Her father winked. "We get this every once in a while. It's not as bad as last year--I hope it's not going to be as bad as last year, rather. Lost half the buildings in Oak Valley."

"To a storm?"

"Indeed. And more than buildings, though we'll rebuild--don't worry. Here, I'll tell you a story, about how we got our name." Ruth opened her mouth, preparing to interrupt her husband, but when Hank didn't seem bothered she settled back down. "Go west, young man"--that was Horace Greeley, did you know that? But what was out west? Well...

In the early 19th century, the Pacific Northwest was contested--the British actually laid claim to much of it. But already, people could see what would become of Oregon--what could become of Oregon. And in 1830, the United States Navy was so committed to our future that they sent a brand-new warship, the USS Kydonia_, to stake our claim to the Pacific coast._

I'm sure they must've fallen in love with this beautiful country--who wouldn't? And that was good for them, because in 1833, another storm forced the ship to take shelter here. And... Edward paused with a soft chuckle, and a warm smile directed at their guest. I suppose it should come as no surprise that the ship grounded in the river mouth. Everyone aboard was saved, and most of the cargo, and they founded Fort Jackson, here in Neatasknea Bay.

"Eventually the fort burned down, and the territory became a state. And we were one of the first in that state to have a post office! They named it 'Cannon Shoals,' because you could see the Kydonia's huge cannons where they'd been abandoned on the sandbank. Almost as if they were still protecting us. You could see them for a long time. Or, if you were Clara..."

"One day, my friend and I rowed out at low tide," she explained, without Edward's penchant for storytelling. "To see them up close. He... he'd told me there was a stone there, too, with a treasure map."

"There wasn't. And they were almost trapped when the tide came in." Ruth's voice was curt and severe, leaving unsaid the tongue-lashing Clara'd received. Or, for that matter, the less metaphorical lashing visited on the reckless, hapless Albert Walker. "It was good fortune that Al could swim well enough to make it to the boat."

"Yes," her father said, without the same sort of judgment. He was looking at Hank--who, Clara noticed, was looking at her. Sizing her up, perhaps; forming his opinion of the young woman. "But, as it happens, Clara and Albert were perhaps the last of us to touch those cannons. During the War, when they wanted to scrap them, only one could be seen, and it was gone when they found a boat strong enough to haul it from the sand. And after the storm last year, the shoal disappeared, and the cannons with it."

"Perhaps that's... fitting, in a sense?"

"What sense is that, Hank?"

"You said you'll rebuild, right? It's a new chapter for you, then--chance to reinvent yourself. The whole town. The past is... well. There'll always be more 'past'--what's there now can stay there comfortably."

"True," Edward said. "But you could take that as far as you want, couldn't you, son? Whatever future we make, that'll be somebody else's history in a hundred years..."

Hank saw--from the old dingo's smile, probably--that Edward was not really arguing. "And in a hundred years, somebody else will be building from it. So why not make it a bit more meaningful than a few rusty cannons?"

The friendly smile turned into an open grin. "Well said." He stretched, and got to his feet. "And in ten hours, the store will be open again. So we should be taking advantage of the moment for rest, I believe."

"Yes, sir. It's been a long day..."

He thanked Edward for the story. And, more astutely, he thanked Ruth abundantly for their kindness while she and Clara found fresh blankets for him to sleep on. That man, Ruth muttered to her daughter, as they hugged goodnight. But it lacked her usual resignation, and that seemed an auspicious sign.

Perhaps, despite the storm, peace could reign in the Larkin household.

***

Neither her father nor Hank were anywhere to be found the next morning. According to Ruth, they'd gone to tell his captain where the dingo was staying, and then to acquire materials for a patch to stop the worst of the leaks in the Larkin family's shed.

Clara didn't see the men on her walk between their home and the general store. In fact she saw almost nothing at all, save for patterns worked by intermittent gusts of winds in the downpour. The storm had deepened: those same gusts threatened to tear the door off if she left it unlatched.

She turned up all the lamps instead, hoping any customers would see their glow through the hazed glass of the door and know the store was open. Or they would try the handle... but as the day wore on to chilly afternoon, only five of the townsfolk had. And of those, only four bought anything: the fifth was Roy Mikkelson, on his way from the harbor, who wanted a few minutes to warm up and gossip about the Albion and her crew.

Another hour went by, after Roy left, before the door opened again. Clara turned from tidying the shelves to see who it was. "Oh! Hello, Mr. Dean."

"I'm not that old," he chided teasingly. "Am I interrupting?"

"No. It's been quite slow, to tell you the truth. Did you patch the shed?"

"We did. It's a little better, I think." He started to unbutton his overcoat. It had been repaired, she saw, and not with her mother's precise skill. "Would you mind some company?"

In the course of her work she saw plenty of men unchaperoned. Something about this felt slightly different--perhaps his ready smile, or the cant to his head when he asked. But then she'd have to admit that to herself, and the store had been quiet. "I would love company, Hank. Coffee?"

"If you have it, I'd be grateful."

She'd been keeping it on, in case any of the other customers wanted to warm up, and there was plenty left. Clara took a clean tin cup, poured it full, and set it on the counter for him. "How is your day so far?"

"Wet. Once we came in from the shed, we had to dry off for half an hour--your father needs a better raincoat, I think. He's still back there. If you didn't have that fireplace, it'd be miserable."

"I suppose, growing up here, I stopped noticing."

"That makes sense, if you've not seen different. You haven't traveled much?"

Compared to a sailor? She shook her head. "No. Not out of the state. I attended school for two years in Albany before I had to come back. And I went to Lincoln City once with my father on business. Mostly I stay here."

"You don't even go to the other towns?"

Only when there was reason to do so--but even when Edward Larkin had money, and investments to visit, that was rare. Now... Clara shrugged. "Sometimes. It isn't as though I'm trapped or anything, Hank, if that's what you mean."

"No, no. I know this isn't the wild frontier. You have neighbors."

"Exactly. And ways to visit them! There's a road to Newport, up north--we have a bus, even. But Cannon Shoals is mostly fishermen, and since the cannery opened here everything goes by boat... or else on the Neetashnee & Siletz. That's the new train that runs east to the cities. To the west is ocean, and we Larkins won't have anything to do with that, as you heard. To the south, you have to cross by ferry, and not in this weather."

"What about the people who live there?"

"South? What do you mean?"

"Aye--who lives south of the bay? More fishermen?"

"Nobody. Not until... Florence, I suppose, and that's forty or fifty miles. There's a few folks living in Yachats, but most traffic stops at Cannon Shoals."

"Huh." Hank seemed a little puzzled--hesitating, as though he might've misheard her.

"Why do you ask?"

"I'd half-thought about goin' to give 'em a piece of my mind for Jonesy. My chum, Jonesy," he explained as she cocked her head. "Broke his arm comin' ashore. He's our lookout, and a good mate, and he was swearin' to me up and down that he'd spied something there."

"Something?"

"Well... Jonesy said a lighthouse. But you couldn't see nothing, not for the rain."

"Oh! The Devil's Light, yes!"

"What?"

"Local story. I suppose I was joking. I'm sorry about your friend's arm, Hank; I shouldn't be so cavalier."

"He's had his run of poor luck. That's not what I'm interested in." The other dingo leaned against the counter, eyes suddenly bright. "You can't just say 'the Devil's Light' and leave it at that, Clara."

"You should ask my father this evening. I don't... yarn like he does."

He smiled. "I don't know that, though, do I? Why don't you try?"

Because I should be working. Or: because it's not seemly, the two of us alone like this. Perhaps in Portland it might've been, or had she still been studying at Albany, and maybe not even then. But of course, there was his smile--and was his tail... wagging? "It's probably silly, you understand?"

"I can judge that."

Hank's tail was, indeed, wagging. She gave in: "After the town's founding, the leaders petitioned the government to put up a lighthouse. Like a lot of pioneers, they had expansive plans... they wanted to dredge the harbor, eventually. And to put a railroad between here and, ah, Corvallis, further inland. That one happened--the harbor didn't. But they would begin, they decided, by making the harbor safer."

"Because everything started for you with a shipwreck. The..."

"Kydonia, exactly. This is such a bountiful area that the logic of making it a port was clear, I suppose. And so, finally, the government agreed. But... there is a complication. The plan, as submitted, was to build the lighthouse on the head south of Neatasknea Bay, where the construction would be simpler.

"Except--the town argued this--it's impossible to get to the south side of the bay. All the materials would have to be ferried across, and the road was already on the north side of the Neatasknea River. The Lighthouse Board provisionally agreed, and builders blasted a foundation, and while that was happening they also sent surveyors to confirm that moving the location would be fine."

Hank took a thoughtful sip of coffee, and nodded. "It's there now?"

"Yes--and a lifeboat, even, as you saw. The experts agreed it would be perfectly fine to move it. It started operations in the summer of 1885, and it was marked accurately on charts that had been made in anticipation of the light being lit. What seems to have happened is some confusion over the new survey. The expert's confirmation that it could be moved was taken as that it had been moved. And, therefore, that the charts were wrong."

"And it was on the south, where it was originally?"

"Mm-hm. Truthfully, our town didn't--uh, doesn't--see much shipping that wasn't local. But that October, at night and in poor weather, the SS Norton tried to shelter in Neatasknea Bay and ran hard aground. There's plenty of stories." She ticked them off on her fingers. "The ship was carrying a fortune in Arizona silver. It was sabotaged by Spanish agents. It was shelled by Navy ships after a mutiny. And even the idea that the captain was mistaken about the lighthouse is just speculation, because it was lost with all hands."

"Poor bastards," the other dingo muttered. "But that's the theory?"

"What is known is a warship sent to tow the wreck into deeper water was mistaken, and also grounded. Her crew was rescued, though the ship was a loss, and... so the legend is, naturally, that this fate befell the Norton. And..."

"And?" He leaned forward, and in spite of herself Clara smiled. "G'won..."

"That winter, a bottle washed up at the foot of the head where the lighthouse was meant to be. In it was a message, written by the captain of the Norton, damning our town for leading him and his ship to their graves. He cursed us, and said the only ships fit for Cannon Shoals were guided there by the devil himself, as punishment. And they say that, when the seas are high, the devil listens, and turns on a light where the bottle came ashore."

"They say, do they?"

The young woman shrugged. "I've heard it more than a few times. I mean, I've heard from others that more than a few sailors have seen the light. But do you remember what I said about the south of the bay? Nobody goes there. There isn't really a place for convenient bottles to wash up. I also read, I think, that it could be a rare trick of the light, in the right conditions, but honestly..."

"Sailors are known for believing... strange things," Hank admitted with a grin. "I'd hate to think I was brought by the devil here, though. Like as not to clear off at once, and never mind the storm--better than the alternative. Is this a cursed town?"

"No, I don't think so. Maybe a little battered. You're not seeing us at our best."

Hank paused, eyes searching upward while he turned that over, and finished the last of his coffee. "I don't know about that. You took us in, didn't you? Helped when we had no cause to expect it. If this isn't you at your best..."

"Well, that's true."

"Do you like it?"

"I do." There was, after all, plenty to like about Cannon Shoals: the people were friendly enough, generally speaking, and the weather in late spring and summer would more than make up for the storm.

She told him about watching the harbor, as a girl--her father took her down to see the ships that carried timber and canned salmon from the Shoals off to Portland, and Seattle, and San Francisco. And how the harbor was mostly fishing traffic, now, ever since the Neetashnee & Siletz finished the new line east to Corvallis.

Phrased that way it was almost a little... exciting, really, to be living in a town that was still developing, its potential growing up alongside her. Hank's smile seemed more genuinely enthusiastic for her than indulgent. He laughed when she described the previous summer's Fourth of July festivities, and admitted how much she was looking forward to the next one.

He left when actual customers arrived, but for the remainder of the afternoon Clara found that her spirits had lifted. His perspective had been helpful--had held a mirror up to how she thought of her home. Even a visit from Captain Galvan didn't fully dampen them, although it was the first thing she told her father when she returned home.

"Oh? From George, hm? What did he want?"

"To make sure the brandy was gone."

"Used up, isn't it? I think we used it all up."

"Yes, and I told him that. Captain Galvan saw fit to remind me that, in his words, 'rules exist for a reason.' That's all."

Ruth's sigh was a short, sharp huff. "One of these days, that man will stop being trouble. Perhaps he'll even stop causing it."

"He'll be mayor some day," was her father's bland response. "Phineas never seemed to want the job, but I think his son's got a mind for the office."

"Or the notion he was born to it." Her mother rarely grew so curt about others; George was on that short list. "And if he's mayor, I'm sure he'll be the first man from the Neatasknea Valley to sit in the governor's mansion, too."

"He doesn't mean ill. It's just a mood sometimes."

"And it seems to be more common ever since we started owing the Galvans, doesn't it?" Ruth sighed again, heavily. "Not that they even apologized for the Victrola."

"An accident. It hasn't worked since the Fourth," her father told Hank by way of quick, unconcerned explanation. "They borrowed it for a ceremony at the hall, and it got... dropped, I think. Jostled. We'll fix it, though."

"Yes. We will," her mother seethed. "I just wish there was less trouble."

"You're talking about the fox?" Hank asked. "The constable?"

"Yes. The Galvans have lived here since the town's founding. They're the wealthiest family; always have been. I think they came from the east," Edward pondered aloud. "But I never asked. They're ours, anyway. And we stick together."

"George is a little less even-tempered than Phineas," Clara added; her father wouldn't have said it on his own. "He knocked our teacher clean out when Mr. White tried to break up a brawl between George and another boy."

"Knocked her teacher out, and young Philip's front teeth. Phineas wouldn't let anything happen, of course. Obviously he hasn't grown out of it. That poor wolf..." Ruth hadn't been terribly happy to see Tom when her father brought the hobo over, but his plight served as useful ammunition now. "Ned, you're too soft."

He said nothing.

Hank spoke instead: "there was a bit, in the hall. He was right helpful to me, ma'am, no mistaking it. But our captain, Hughes? He talked back at George--can't even remember why--and I thought there'd be blood from it."

"That's about right," Ruth snorted. She made up for the outburst by turning her attention immediately back to her lap, working knitting needles crisply. "Thank the Lord for small miracles, I mean."

"When you call him 'captain,' that's not his police rank, I suppose."

"No, it's not. He joined the Army the day he left college. A few of our boys wound up over there with him, but he's the only officer. And the only medal, too, after the Marne. Phineas wasn't happy he volunteered, but, well... he did pay for the memorial at town hall, when we needed one."

Hank nodded. Ruth and Clara remained silent, and though Hank opened his muzzle he, too, considered his words before beginning quietly. "I wondered. You know, if he'd... if he'd been in the war." And, after a pause when nobody pressed him, and he could've let the comment dim and go out: "I saw it, I thought; that's what I meant. The hall was real packed, proper loud, everyone tryin' to be heard... he got a queer look. Just... just stopped what he was saying and stepped outside. I mean, I figured for a cigarette, or what have you. Not my business. He came back in and picked up with me and that's when he took me to your store, Mr. Larkin."

"As I said, son: he doesn't mean ill."

"Aye, and I don't envy him. Not him or his father, money or not. I'm sorry there's trouble, though, sir. Especially since the brandy was on our account."

"It was for a noble cause." Edward grinned, and with that the mood lifted. "And so is having good company. So I don't mind it, nor the rum we had last night."

"Both appreciated. Still. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Larkin, now that I've been reminded? More work on your shed?"

"No, no. We're fine." A gesture from his wife caught Edward's eye. "I suppose we're running a bit low on kerosene for the lamps. We have some left at the store, I think... don't we, Clara?"

"Yes. At least a few gallons."

"Then let me get it for you. I'm a sailor," Hank pointed out. "I'm used to being drenched."

"He'll need a key. I can go with him, father. My coat's still wet, anyway."

Still, they hastened through the storm, which--while she thought it might be starting to ebb--remained blustery enough to chill Clara through her coat. Her fingers trembled when she unlocked the door and slipped inside. At least father remembered the kerosene just after we closed. The radiators probably haven't cooled off...

"Being out of the wind makes such a difference." Following her example, Hank took off his raincoat. "You're planning on staying?"

"I don't want to drip all over the floor." Clara lit two of the lamps, enough to fill the store with a soft yellow glow. Not enough for much heat, but the building was well-insulated even despite its absent windows and in any case he was right: the contrast alone was substantial.

She heard Hank's footsteps behind her; he was almost close enough to feel his warmth. "A half-dozen cans left?"

"Yes." And no way to know when--or if--the next delivery might come in. Probably it was safest to only take one. She lifted the heavy container up and set it on the counter.

"How much is it?"

"A dollar. But my father won't..."

Clara trailed off. Hank had taken out his wallet. What he pulled from it was not a dollar, though, but a tiny pebble, gleaming like the gaslamps. "This should cover it. Perhaps pay back a bit of your father's generosity, too."

"Is that... gold?"

"Yeah." The tawny dog chuckled: "Wish it had a good story behind it. You know, if I'd struck it rich or something? I didn't. I've just been trying to save up, and gold works almost anywhere."

"What're you saving up for?"

"Settling down. I was... can you keep a secret, Clara?"

He was smiling, and the warmth of his boyish grin seemed to soak into her fur. Impetuous, teasing, she tilted her head. "It's not murder, is it?"

Hank laughed. "So, y'think we're all still convicts and criminals? No. I was going to jump ship when we landed in Seattle."

"What's in Seattle?"

"Nothing. Just a new start. I don't fancy going back home. Ever since I was a boy, I wanted to make a life for myself in America. I never knew how I'd make it, but I wanted to. And finally I did, even if this isn't quite what I expected. It might not be Seattle, even... that was just where the ship was bound."

"Oh. Seattle could be nice, though?"

"Maybe. I had a... question. If you don't mind staying a moment," he added quickly, for her ears had dropped a little.

"I don't mind. It's just--cold," she decided. That would be plausible enough to cover up the tension between her desire to stay and the sudden anxiety about what he might've intended to ask.

But then he had his jacket unbuttoned, and was holding it out. "Better?"

It was oversized on her, and warm even without the lingering heat of Hank's body. And, when she worked her arms through it and let the heavy fabric fall about her, she realized there was something comforting about that, and the subtle way it captured his scent. Her ears lifted. "Thank you."

"Of course."

"What did you want to ask?"

For a second, Hank faltered himself, until he found his cheerful disposition once more and made it stick. "I'm curious--just... as a traveler, even. I've seen plenty of places. Sometimes I try to puzzle out how they tick. And the people in 'em, too."

"That wasn't really a question..."

"What keeps you here?"

She stalled, fumbling for an answer. "In Cannon Shoals?"

"Yes. What ties you to it? Why's it home?"

"My father. Somebody needs to mind the store."

"You do that much business?"

"Not that much business, no," she admitted. "I guess the truth is: I don't know what else I'd do. There isn't much for me in Seattle, either." This she played off as a joke, but her smile was half-hearted and she could tell Hank saw through it. "The store does need help. But... I thought maybe I'd move to Oak Valley. Or even further inland... good farming country."

"You still could, right?"

"I could. But it wasn't really my idea." The coat made it easier, for some reason--not just the warmth, though she told herself that for the moment. "It was my husband's. And he didn't come back from France."

"Oh."

Ordinarily the words met with resistance in her muzzle: caught, until she was left speaking in empty hints. "They didn't find anything--I guess that bit of ground changed hands about a dozen times before it was over. His name's on the plaque in front of town hall, and that's... that's about it. His parents felt the loss even harder, I think: they left town three years ago."

"I'm sorry," Hank told her softly.

"Maybe a farm wasn't a good idea, anyway." It felt good to have told him the truth--for there to be one less ghost joining them in the empty store. "But until I think of something better, this is where I'm staying."

"It doesn't seem like a bad place, though."

"It's not. The town's full of good folk. The storm did a number on us, that's true, but we'll manage, eventually. Some of the richest fisheries around, and we'll even have electricity next year. I think... hopefully. Even up in Newport, the storms are always blowing trees into the power lines."

"Well, until then you have kerosene..."

"True."

"And the timber?"

"One day. The hills around Cannon Shoals are pretty much spoken for, but there's beautiful timber just upriver. That's Oak Valley--it's not really a town, just a few buildings. There were more. My father invested heavily in it."

Hank understood at once. "But then, last winter..."

"Pretty much lost everything. If he didn't have me to help, I think he'd need to close the store."

"No." The other dingo's voice was oddly firm. She looked at him quizzically. "He'd find a way. I like Ned. I like that this country has his kind about, y'know?"

"Yours must, too."

"Yes, it's lively enough. In parts. Not mine," he added. "My father has a station, him and his brother do. Not too shabby, either--nine hundred head, or so. Got it from their father, and back in the day, question was how we'd part it out, y'know, between me and my brother and my cousins."

"Is that enough to live on? I don't know much about cattle."

"Sheep. And, well... aye? It can be. Didn't matter none, anyhow. My cousins... well, I used to have cousins, if you follow, and so it seemed it'd be two brothers again, just like before. Didn't sit right, I suppose, that life: find a cocky's daughter, spend the rest of my days shearin' and raising the next generation to take it over..."

"Do you know what you'd want to do instead?"

He chuckled, and Clara caught a glimpse of what her father must've looked like, thirty years earlier. "Some ideas. I'd seen a bit of the world, and I liked that, for the most part. Didn't care for Turkey, but..."

"You've been to Turkey?"

"Oh, yes. Me and my chums spent the spring of 1915 doing some construction work for His Majesty. It wasn't looked fondly on by the folks already there, as my cousins found out. I don't really care to talk of it, miss, if you don't mind."

"I don't." She tried to think quickly of a new topic. "What ideas did you have, then? Starting a business? Another mill? God knows, Kenny Barlow couldn't handle the trees here if his own firm were ten times bigger."

"Maybe. If I stayed in your town. I mean, if I had a reason to."

"A reason?"

"Besides trees," he said.

Hank looked at her when he said that--not long. Furtively, even, and perhaps that made it yet more striking. She was glad for the dim light, sure that her ears had reddened. "I didn't mean to suggest you would stay," she offered.

"But as I said: it has its charms. Or I could be a fisherman, or work on the trains, or even learn electricity. I'm good with my hands. I figure I'll think more when my captain's cleared off and not barking like he owns my damn hide. What about you, Clara? What would you want?"

He did not seem to regret his oath, nor the 'would' in his question, as if the outcomes were somehow twined. As if she might as well have asked: for you? and it wouldn't have been rhetorical to think he meant her to offer some direction. She pushed that thought away, flushing deeper. "I'm not sure. I'd like to see my father back on his feet, but... after that? Finish school, I think. Start a family..."

These were, of course, not separated from one another: Clara's view of her future depended on other things happening, and the longer they waited, the more that future slipped further and further beyond her vision.

In a brief moment of distraction, she missed what Hank said. "I'm sorry?"

"The Devil's Light. You'll tell your kids that story."

She didn't answer because, oddly, their previous conversation clicked into unexpected place. "That's why you came to the store earlier. You wanted to hear me talk about the town."

"Maybe, maybe..."

"Why?"

"Wasn't enough if I just liked the sound of your voice, eh?" he teased, and she thought he was about to stick out his tongue when she opened her mouth to protest. "But if you ask me, Clara: anywhere you've not been is just ink on a map. And maps are lovely, but a map don't tell nothing about its personality. Its spirit, or whatever you want to call it. They don't send out surveyors for that, but it's just as important to know if you're where you belong."

"I... I'm pretty sure I do belong."

"I am, too." Before she could ask what he meant by that--who the subject of the sentence was--Hank took a deep breath, and looked to the door. "We should be getting back, right?"

He didn't repossess his coat, a fact Clara failed to notice until they'd returned to the Larkin house. Fortunately neither of her parents saw, either, and her father had other news for them: "Your captain stopped by, Hank. The storm's easing, and he's planning on heading inland tomorrow... asked for everyone to report to him."

Hank nodded. "Did he say when?"

"No. Afternoon, probably, if he can negotiate something with the railroad."

"I suppose it's not right to make your daughter keep my secret by herself..."

"You're eloping?" Edward suggested. For a moment Clara panicked; wondered if he had seen her take off Hank's jacket. More likely, it was just him being his jocular self.

Ruth shot him a fiery look. "Ned!"

Hank managed to twist his ill-advised laugh into a cough, lest the dingo matron's ire be sparked further. "No. Sir. But I don't intend to go back to sea. I told Clara I was perhaps heading to Seattle. Maybe somewhere closer. Not a ship, though: I've got some money saved up, and it's time to stay on dry land."

Edward raised an eyebrow but, until he'd tipped a bit more rum into his glass, he said nothing. "You want me to harbor a fugitive, son?"

"No, sir. Of course not. I'll head out... well, tonight, I suppose."

"Not if you want to stay on dry land, you won't. Even if the roads aren't washed out, it'll be hard work getting to Newport."

"The bus isn't running?"

The old man's eyes lifted again. "Oh, so you know about the bus? No, it's not running. Tomorrow, at best. Either way, you might as well spend the night, and leave after sunup..."

But they were still getting ingredients together for breakfast the next morning when someone knocked at the door, and called out from their porch. "Mr. Larkin?" Hank tensed: it was his captain's voice.

"Better hide, I suppose, eh?" Edward suggested. "I'll try to buy you some time."

Clara's first thought was one of the closets, but even a cursory look revealed the futility of that idea; they were too packed for that. She glanced around, the sound of her father's pleasantries a ticking clock in her ear--then pointed at her bed. "Under there."

"There's space?"

She'd moved everything from under it ages ago: to the closet, in fact. Hank slid under the frame, and Clara quickly padded the edge with some of her folded clothes. The effect wasn't a bad one, she thought--with the bed neatly made, nothing really seemed out of place.

The captain's voice had moved indoors. "Well, he was here."

"I've not seen him this morning, though. Gone when we woke up."

"What about your daughter? I'll need to talk to her."

"Need to?" She heard her father's mirthful laugh. "You sound like a policeman. Unfortunately, she's not here, either." What? Clara's ears pinned. He must've been figuring that it would speed the questioning along. "She probably went down to open the store. You could check there, if you want."

"I will. But first I'll... I need to take a look around. I can get Mr. Galvan down, if it helps, but--can't have my crew just up and vanishing. Must be some clues left, eh?"

"I want to help, really, but..."

Clara knelt down and pulled one of the clothing stacks free. "How much room is there?" she hissed.

"A bit?"

Hopefully, her father would be able to talk the captain out of doing anything. Just in case, though, she wriggled into the closed space beneath her bed, and pulled the clothes back behind her. If her father gave in--which, she had to admit, he probably would--perhaps the subterfuge would hold.

"Can I ask, ah... why?"

She twisted around to face Hank, so she could keep her voice low. "Ned told your captain I wasn't here. For some reason. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

His breath felt warm on her nose, ruffling her whiskers. "The tight quarters."

She felt Hank's smile, and then his all-but-inaudible laugh. "You think you need to apologize for that?"

Her heart raced and, in honesty, her anxiety was no longer simply born of the risk that he might be discovered. He's going away anyhow, she decided. With his captain, or tomorrow, but... "I think," she whispered, having steeled herself. "That you think that you're going to kiss me."

"Bold," he whispered back. It was too dark to see his expression.

But he shifted, and before she could even appreciate the doubt in that flickering moment of suspense his muzzle brushed her own. Clara's tail thumped--once, but then she caught herself, and held still even as the other dingo pressed close, and their lips clung warmly.

Voices. Her father: "--or perhaps a truck? If the roads are good, you might wire to Newport." "How far's that?" "Not too bad. And it's the most logical direction. Tell the office I sent you; they probably won't charge." "I should still..." A heavy sigh.

And then the click of the door opening. Clara swallowed hard, and she felt Hank's arm around her. Pulling her tight, their kiss deepening--the fierceness of it a warning to stay quiet, lest she need to confront the regret of its end. The dingo woman trembled, panting shallowly through her nose, and let herself melt into the other dog's embrace.

"Bed's made..." "Of course. My daughter's a responsible young woman, sir." Someone pulled the edge of the blanket up, and even in the darkness she shut her eyes tightly. But nothing happened. "I really don't need this. The company's gonna tan me." "Like I said, sir: send a telegram up the coast for them to be on the lookout. If he's wanted." "It's not criminal, Mr. Larkin, I just..."

Her bedroom door closed heavily, and their muffled dialogue continued down the hall. Clara held as long as she could before pulling back, gasping raggedly. The guttural unevenness in Hank's mutter spoke similarly: "think we're safe?"

"Not yet."

She meant that his captain was still in the house, that they wouldn't know he was in the clear until Edward came to tell them. And she knew that Hank knew this. And that, when Hank worked his arm into a firmer hold about her, it was because he also knew she'd seek his lips out once more of her own accord.

His strong paw clasped her side. A brief hint of warm velvet teased her, and at once her muzzle parted to invite what followed. And when their tongues met, and his fingers gripped harder, she allowed herself the plaintive, needy whimper that the kiss muffled and the closed space kept secret for the couple.

Clara thought she might've heard the front door's hinge creak--thought that the immediate danger was passed--thought that her father might come back to check on them--and despite all that the panicked sense of impropriety still took long seconds to assert itself. "I think--"

His chest heaved rapidly as he tried at once to laugh, and to keep his voice under control. "That I think I'm going to kiss you?"

"That your captain might be gone."

"And after that?"

"After that we don't have to worry about him." It wasn't a very proper answer, and when she'd have more time to reflect Clara would figure that was why Hank let her push him away. Of course, he didn't have far to go, and she could feel how the temperature had built between them, and it would be easy to yield again, but...

But she fought her panting down and waited for footfalls on the stairs. "Clara? You're not in the attic, are you? Anyway, he's gone."

She pushed her clothes from under the bed, startled momentarily at the contrast of cool, fresh air, and got back to her feet. Never had she been more thankful for a regimen of dusting: a few pats of her paws and she looked as she had before hiding. "In here, father," she told him, and opened the door.

"Oh. I was worried he'd check the closet. Not bad work. Where's our friend?"

"Also under the bed." Her father's expression was a little too amused for her tastes. "I had to think quickly. Why did you tell him I wasn't here? That would've made things easier."

"I didn't want you to have to lie. Hello, Hank."

"Mr. Larkin," the dingo answered, nodding. "Thank you for your help."

He thanked Ruth, too, who had apparently stayed quiet through the ordeal--which, if nothing else, meant she hadn't given anything away. Hank kept out of sight for the rest of the day, and nobody asked about him at the general store. The sailors, she learned from a customer that afternoon, had finally left.

Presumably, Hank would, too. The thought gnawed at her as she closed up and trudged home. Her mother was already halfway through making dinner, and finishing up the rolls that would accompany it. "Was your day pleasant, dear?"

"Pleasant, yes. And yours?"

"Keeping an eye on Ned." She indicated the living room with a jerk of her muzzle. "And his newest friend. Mr. Dean offered to take a look at the Victrola. He said he's good with his hands... Ned promised that he'd keep him from breaking anything."

"I'm sure they really just wanted to talk."

Her mother acknowledged that with a soft, knowing laugh. "I am, too."

"But who knows? Hank might be able to fix the phonograph machine, right? I noticed he mended his coat." She softened her voice, as if they were about to share a secret: "Was he too nice to ask you?"

"Yes." Her mother took the same conspiratorial tone. "And I was too nice to offer. Even if it wasn't a terribly professional job. At least he tried--and it'll work. Very practical sewing."

"Good with his hands."

"Hm. I hope he finds whatever he's looking for. He's a nice young man," Ruth mused, speaking up again, dividing the dough steadily in time to her conversation. "Reminds me of... well. He's a nice young man, anyhow."

"He is. Some of our houseguests are."

Ruth sighed heavily. "Your father's a good judge of character. That doesn't mean"--here she shot Clara a sidelong glare with decades of practice behind it--"that he can keep turning our living room into an inn. I'm sure the store's no better."

Clara held the oven door open so her mother could slide the dinner rolls in. "Sometimes customers pay us..."

Another sigh. "And you know what those two are talking about, don't you? I'm sure your father's telling him all about Oak Valley again, and the trees, and how any day now--oh, that man. He picks dangerous houseguests."

"With good character?"

"This is an important lesson: you can have good character, and still be dangerous, if you fall in with the wrong crowd. Which happens," she added, shaking her head with the admission, "to be Ned's crowd, too. You know we couldn't have stopped him from hiding that young man."

"Why do you think we didn't try?"

At once, a crackling came from the next room, and then the opening notes of 'The Stars and Stripes Forever.' The Sousa stopped nearly as soon as it had begun, but Ruth Larkin perked her ears: "well, my goodness. Did they..."

Clara went to investigate, and returned with as much of the explanation as she'd followed. "They did. Hank said it was the spring--that it had been knocked loose. There's still bits on the floor, but I guess it works."

"My goodness," she repeated. "Almost seems a shame he's leaving."

"Oh?"

"Could have a working furnace again, too." Ruth smiled, with more cheek than her daughter was accustomed to. "Or at least your father might learn something. Well, but so it goes."

After dinner, Edward demonstrated the repaired Victrola with the music he'd used to convince Ruth of the machine's value: Toscanini, drawing the soaring notes of Italian opera into their room, ten thousand miles from Milan. She took her husband's paw, and leaned on him, and listened with the distant gaze that hinted at daydreams.

They retired to bed unusually late; Clara did nothing to hurry them along. Her mother's softened mood forestalled any protest about how close she sat to Hank. He was no more partial to opera than the younger Larkin, she imagined, but it put off having to part.

At last, though, it was unavoidable. His fingers brushed her as she rose--light enough for it to be accidental, had anyone noticed but Clara. They didn't. She kept the touch to herself, after she'd changed into her gown and settled into bed, and felt the gnawing futility of sleep.

He would stay, if you asked. Perhaps if she merely hinted, he would stay. And when Clara thought about the unwritten sequence of her future, the images sharpened as she considered what might happen if he did stay. Getting the store back in working order was no longer such an impossibility. Going back to Albany for the last two years seemed entirely manageable. Starting a family...

Her stomach tightened. The kiss flashed back into her mind, and with it the touch of his fingers, and the way his breathing lost its rhythm along with her own. It was all too easy to picture how it might've gone further. All too easy to imagine his weight over her, how the same sureness in the way he'd held her would press her legs apart, how his fur would mix with hers...

All too easy to imagine a set of events just as deliberately ordered as her long-term plans, but only an evening long. And if she did that, she couldn't help but put the words in his mouth that Hank might whisper when he was tied to her, and anticipate the tenderness with which his paws would smooth her fur.

The picture was so vivid that the shock of how badly she desired it startled Clara back into momentary sobriety. She looked up at the moonlight ceiling for an aching minute. Are you in heat? You can't be in heat, not already. It's only been...

Moonlight. The storm had cleared, she realized: moonlight cut sharply through her curtains, and the night sky beyond would be star-filled and crisp. And, at the same time, she realized that her thoughts were not so illogical--at least, not so biologically motivated. It was the future, the one beyond the moonlight, that drove them.

And its tangibility. He would stay, if she asked. She could.

She might at least consider it, in the morning. Until then there remained the kiss to recall, and his scent, and his touch. What he might've looked like, had she been able to see his eyes. What he might've--

Click.

Her bedroom door opened silently. Hank slipped through, and when he closed it behind him there was no sound at all from the latch. Nothing from his bare feet on her floor. Nothing until his whisper. "You're awake?"

"I... I couldn't sleep."

"Same." He put his paw on the bed, carefully, waiting for it to creak. Clara made room for him, tugging the blanket with her, and after he pulled himself into the empty space she settled the comforter back above them. "Thanks."

"You lent me your coat," she reminded him. "It's only fair."

"You're very generous."

She might have been content to revel in nothing more than the intimate heat of a shared bed, but she sensed that he was looking at her. And when she rolled onto her side, and faced Hank, the dingo's muzzle was a fraction of an inch from hers.

And their eyes had locked, and she couldn't pull away.

"Hank..."

"If I stayed, do you know what you might want to do?"

Her throat had gone dry. But as she swallowed, she realized that it didn't have to be dry. That it was safe for her to ask his moonlit form: "do you mean tonight? Or longer?"

He kissed her, stalling any answer, and Clara found she was putting the question itself aside as her arms slid around him. Her gentle tug had no right to have overpowered the man in the way it did, but all the same, he fell against her. Edward hadn't given him a robe, or he'd left it behind: his upper body lay exposed to her inquisitive fingers.

And with his tongue seeking out hers, and his warm frame every bit as comforting and exhilarating as she'd pictured it would be--with the two of them snug together--she abandoned any idea that she might have tried clinging to reservations. Their shifting movements began to tug her nightgown open, and the flannel seemed to be too warm, anyway...

She worked it off, and had him back in her arms a second later. Their bare pelts met, and Clara let a helpless whine escape her nose at how good it felt to have the dingo so close to her. How satisfying: the satisfaction that picked up on the subtle pressure at her hip, guiding her onto her back with the knowledge that Hank would follow.

That he'd sink between her legs, and she'd find her thighs clasped about the warmth spreading them apart. And that an instinctive, searching nudge would push the hard bulge trapped for the moment by his underwear against her. When they met, he grunted into her lips; his ears flicked.

She tilted her head, and made to pull away and ask him why. Instead he pressed his muzzle tight to hers with the deepened angle. And she felt his fingers, briefly in the silky fur of her inner thigh and then stroking her directly. Warm pleasure radiated from his touch--the contact was slippery and effortless, she realized, and that must've been what caught his attention.

It barely had the time to catch hers. His paw disappeared, followed by the unmistakable shuffling of clothes, being impatiently removed in close quarters. Hank's weight pinned her again. Again he nudged--leaned down and forward--but there was no fabric to stop him this time.

He was hot as he found her, subtly textured and slick as nothing else could've been. And even as she gasped, even as she sensed how desperate her hold on the man had become, that heat was pushing inside her. Smoothly: one inch after another filling the dingo with its rigid heft until it came to an unsteady halt and she realized their hips had slid completely together.

"Clara," he groaned: low, untidy, and almost unrecognizable... for the first time that she heard it.

She'd wanted to do more than just groan, herself. Could've cried out to wake the whole damn house with the exulting gratification of having him hilted, the stretching fullness of his shaft, buried as completely as he could go, his pulse throbbing in her. But she put a shaky finger to her lips.

And she put the arm around him immediately, because he was pulling back and she felt the pressure relax in his slow, careful movement. Already she knew what to expect when the dingo's next thrust claimed her, as her folds yielded to the full, thick length of his maleness.

Even knowing it, she whimpered aloud. The kiss kept them quiet as he sought out his pace, a gentle rocking between her thighs that slid his hard flesh through her in a steady, pumping rhythm. Clara's whimpering quieted but never vanished entirely as he took her, as the sheer bliss of it spread through her nerves.

She could tell he was holding himself back. His muscles quivered with restraint, every harder buck and faster tempo careful; his ears were strained, listening for any sign the bed might give them away. Fighting--she could see that in his slitting eyes--the need to just take her.

He would make her howl--one day. Clara was sure of it, like she was sure she'd know the sound of his passion-tense voice by heart. He'd pin her down, growling, rutting his fierce way into his mate until she howled for him without a trace of shame at strokes far sharper than he allowed himself now. And she would let him.

That certainty wrapped around pleasure more insistent and purposeful than simple coupling. It rose every time he slid into her, and his shaft asserted its warm presence between her legs. Hank kept thrusting all the way in, pulling out ever more hesitantly, and as a widening bulk made all the way increasingly noticeable the heat coursing through her only built faster.

For a dozen firm shoves Clara felt the effort of his forceful plunges. And knew what it meant, but at the end her concentration went to staying quiet--she was losing control, clamping her paw over her muzzle on fortuitous instinct. And instinct gave way to ecstasy, the uncoiled spring of a tight pressure that took her in heavy waves.

It rolled through the hapless dingo, painting her closed eyes in sparks that echoed with every tug and twitch of the knot locked in her. Hank's thrusts were shorter now, sharper, but it wasn't until the convulsions had started to soften she found her legs just as securely fixed behind him.

Not that he'd argued when she ensured the tie--or stopped himself. Now he did, a shuddering, erratic pause. Only for a second--probably, Clara's mind was still a bit hazed--and then he jerked, and shoved forward, not even truly relaxing before he shoved again. Her eyes opened to see his ears pin in her peripheral vision, and his back arched beneath her twined arms.

He grunted hoarsely, and she felt the brief spasm as his tail flagged. The soft weight of his sack, pushed against her by their tie, as it clenched. The twitch as his solid length jolted. The wet splashes that followed, those first eruptions blending swiftly into the building, messy warmth of his dingo cum as he seeded her deeply.

The male's whole body rocked with his deliberate humping, and Clara let herself ride it willingly. She embraced him tighter, by degrees, while he spent himself in her--grunts changing to throaty gasps, bucks to hitching shudders, strong pulses to relaxed, gentler throbs... until at last he collapsed. And then, she held him so gratefully close there was not much else he could have done but pin her.

Half a minute later he pushed himself up, and kissed her fondly. He looked like he was trying to say something, but if so words escaped him. He settled down again. It was another minute before he moved, turning onto his side and pulling Clara along with him. A minute more, while he nuzzled her neck and she let her thoughts wander to the heat of their tie, until he drew a deeper breath. "So..."

"Mm?"

The other dog pulled back so he could look her in the eye. "I was considerin' if maybe I might... might not move on to Seattle."

"I'd like that."

Hank's paw stroked her fur, smoothing her cheek down. "I think I fancy seeing your town in fair weather. And... I'd fancy seeing more of you."

"There isn't much more of me to see." She hoped he wouldn't mind a bit of teasing, and was gratified to see that, even in the dim evening, his eyes glinted with mirth. "But I'd like that, too. If you weren't just staying for the timber."

"I'm not. Can't promise nothing, but I... I do want to see where it might go."

It had all happened very quickly, too quickly to be talking about houses and families. So quickly that she searched for regret, or second-guesses... and, finding none, Clara snuggled herself up into Hank's arms. "No promises, then. We'll see."

***

She hadn't meant to drift off, and she certainly hadn't meant to rise only with the sun bright and piercing through the curtains. Hank was gone, and she was a bit of a mess--probably more than perfume alone would cover. Clara managed as well as she could, dressed herself, and made her way downstairs.

"Well! There you are!"

"Good morning, father. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to rise so late."

"The store can wait. Mr. Dean helped me with some cakes, if you're hungry. Your mother's gone down to see how Flora is faring. Which means they'll be talking until sunset, I expect--but it's good to be out in the fresh air."

She expressed her hope that the day would be beautiful, and took the pancakes her father offered. The three of them sat at the table, mid-morning light pouring in warm streaks across its surface, while Edward said a brief prayer.

And then, after a forkful of pancake, looked over to Hank. "How'd you sleep, yourself, son?"

"Fairly well, Mr. Larkin. Thank you."

"Good, good. I'd noticed your bedroll was unoccupied, that's all."

Clara wondered if she was the only one who caught the brief, subtle twitch of the younger man's ear. "I was visiting the privy. But the sleep was good."

"Ah, yes. I see." Edward let that hang for another bite of his breakfast. His voice lightened: "We must've just missed one another, in that case. It's a short path, but... at night, you know... strange territory."

"It is that. Perhaps I got lost. You know, I wonder if I might figure out the town a bit more, if I stayed here longer."

"Do you wonder that?"

"Yes, sir. Might be I could try speaking to a Barlow? Your daughter's mentioned Oak Valley a few times. I understand the right partner could be an interesting opportunity."

"For Clara, or Kenny Barlow?" She nearly choked on her pancakes, coughed, and ignored the peculiar glance Eddie gave her. "Mr. Barlow, then."

"I... would not mean to presume."

"Yes. Yes, I also avoid that." Her father chuckled, set down his fork, and leaned back. "I can make introductions, of course; Kenneth Barlow and I go back many decades. As for Clara, I'm afraid I can't help. You are your own woman, after all," he added, holding both his wry smile and the stare he turned on her a few seconds longer than really necessary.

"I should open the store," she said quickly. "It's getting late."

And people would want to stock up on supplies. And she'd need to write up new orders. And someone had to check for leaks. And--this brought her briskly to her feet--she didn't trust her father not to keep pressing.

Opening the door, she nearly ran into George Galvan. The fox blinked, and drew back, startled. "Oh! Excuse me, miss."

"No--it's my fault, I--hello. Hello, sir."

"I checked at the store, but..."

She nodded. "Just going to open it now."

"This is fine, too." He looked over her shoulder. "Mr. Larkin. Oh, and--our runaway, I suppose. Mr. Dean, right?"

"Mr. Dean," Ned agreed. He strolled over, head tilted. "He's decided to stay for a little while. How can I help you on this fine morning, Captain Galvan?"

George was in his constable's uniform and, with the brief excitement having passed, he stiffened to his typical bearing. "Partly here on behalf of my father, sir. Mostly here from the station."

"About the runaway?"

"No, sir. Thinking on, ah, on your help with the sailors and all. And Mr. Conway, too. I thought it might be proper to take a bit of a collection, sir, and everyone I asked agreed." One of his paws had been clasped behind his back. Now he held out an envelope. "For your volunteering."

Edward hesitated. "It was volunteering."

"I know. But not everyone would have. I'd, ah..." His stoic expression faltered. "I'd say 'in your position,' sir, but... my father would say that your 'position' is the esteem the town holds you in, Mr. Larkin. Maybe at least you could fix your windows, so we could look inside..."

Her father took the envelope with a careful nod. "Thank you, son. Would you like some coffee? A bit of breakfast?"

"I should be going, sir. I'm on duty. But I felt this was important."

The fox's crisp, restrained bow seemed almost more of a salute. Clara shut the door and turned around to see her father open the envelope, and lift a slip of paper halfway from it. His ears lowered, and he dropped heavily into his seat at the table.

"Father?" Instead of answering, he held her the envelope. Now it was her turn to read the brief note, written on a check drawn at the Galvan's bank. To scan the number, and to feel her breath catch. "Oh."

"Windows?" Hank asked.

"Yes." Windows, and enough to settle the line of credit her father had taken to keep Larkin General open. Clara set the envelope down, and gave him a gentle hug. "We can put it to good use."

"We can. Just a bit..." Overwhelmed. He was overwhelmed, but at last he managed to get his ears up again. "I think it was his idea. Phineas might've donated more than his share, but the idea..."

"I think so, too."

"I know you don't like him much."

"People are complex," she said. Not just that it was possible to be of good character and still dangerous, as Ruth had told her. But that complexity could not be avoided. Her father could be overgenerous--capriciously so, even--but it was for the right reasons, despite the consequences. George, perhaps, was his opposite.

She herself could stand to be less reserved, given how it had turned out for her. Hank... Hank would prove imperfect. He'd have quirks of his own; she'd learn them, as he'd learn hers. They'd adapt to one another. She would look back on an April morning, damp and tattered in the aftermath of the storm, and think instead of the blue skies it woke under.

"And it doesn't matter. What have you always said, father?"

"Hm?"

"He's ours. And we have to stick together. It's the only way."