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Bobby Dean was the head of the millworker's union. Russell is his son. When an opportunity comes to Cannon Shoals, the two men have to consider whether it's worth the cost.

Got to talkin' with Spudz about writing and gettin' back into it, and you know what happens when you talk to dogs. Or coyotes, for that matter. We're back to Cannon Shoals, with a typically Shoals-ian tone. Bittersweet with smutty goodness :D I think this might be the spring arc in the way that the rainstorm arc was the one for last fall -- stories connected loosely, but without sharing characters. Let me know if this storyline works! It's kinda personal, but hey.

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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"Stickin' with the Union" cycle:

1. One More for the Road
2. Small-Town Lies
3. Friend of the Devil
4. Consequences
5. Favors

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"One More for the Road," by Rob Baird

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"I'm trying. I want you to know that," the man in the suit said, but between the suit and his smile nothing about the fox seemed sincere. And as Bobby was fond of saying, actions spoke louder than words.

Bob Dean looked like he was about to say it again, as a matter of fact; the dingo's arms were folded over his chest and his eyes were steely. "You been tryin' for a year now, Larry. When are you gonna stop tryin' and start doin'?"

"Do you think I'd come out here if I didn't have some news, Bob? I'm just saying you have to be patient."

Russell Dean, listening quietly to the conversation, knew it was the wrong thing to say to Bobby -- whose patience had long since been exhausted. Just... stay calm, dad. Listen to what he has to say. That's why you asked me here, isn't it?

That, and Bobby wanted to have a witness; it wasn't like there was anyone else in the union office around to do the job. Russ was half surprised the lights even still worked, all things considered.

"How patient?"

"Your men did a lot of damage in those riots, Bob."

"Protests," Bobby corrected. "Assemblies."

But, when Martin-Barlow Western shut the lumber mill down, the 'assemblies' had been raucous enough that the police had to be called in. And the fire department, too, when somebody got it into their head to go after the cranes in the loading yard with a molotov cocktail.

So even if his father didn't want to admit it, Russ knew that Larry had a point.

"Look. We think we might be able to reopen. But there's a catch."

"Ain't there always?"

Larry set his briefcase on the desk, opened it, and pulled out a piece of paper. Russell had never been a lumberjack, but he recognized what he was looking at immediately. It was a map, spanning the area from Cannon Shoals east past Oak Valley and up the Neatasknea River.

Prime timberland, most of it; good Oregon fir and spruce. Lumber that had built Cannon Shoals from a tiny hamlet into one of the most important logging towns on the coast. Four thousand people called the place home, at its peak -- thirty-five years ago.

"This, here." The fox circled one of the dark green spots with his finger. "Just over six thousand acres. Worth a nice bundle."

"Protected old-growth," Bobby grunted. And they couldn't touch that, because some people got sentimental about elderly trees. "Ain't worth shit."

"Well, see..." Larry pulled a binder from his briefcase, and turned it so that Bobby could read the cover. "That's in dispute. Some reassessment suggests it might only date from the '20s, after the blowdown. Corporate commissioned a new survey and the results are... well, they're inconclusive but there's definite signs of previous harvesting. The records aren't very good. We're pushing to have the land reclassified."

"If you do..."

Larry nodded. "If we do, the Oak Valley mill would be the logical place to process it."

Russ looked over to his father in time to see the dingo's hesitant swallow. "Six thousand acres... fuck, Larry, that ain't somebody's backyard. That's a goddamn miracle..."

"Add in the Chinnakault properties and our privately held land upriver and we could be talking about something serious, Bob. If we turn this around, we might even have to look at the downtown processing plant." And he closed his briefcase, though he left the map and binder behind.

"What about Wide Creek or Jackson Ridge?"

"They haven't been worth exploiting. Not with the industry like it is. Now, if things picked up down here that might change -- but like I said, Bob, you have to be patient."

Russell trusted his father, but he couldn't help thinking the man might be in danger of losing his objectivity. "You said there was a catch?"

"Reclassification isn't a done deal. It's a state bill, as the state holds the rights to that parcel. They've been talking about adding it to Pauline Leopold." That was the state park that circled the town in a dark, green, forested stranglehold. "We've been talking to Representative Hopson, and she's in favor. But if Brent McCray could be brought around..."

"Who's Brent McCray?"

"Senator," Russ spoke up. "Democrat, twenty-fifth."

"See, and that would make it a nice bipartisan effort. Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of pull with Mr. McCray. Now, if a nice labor union chap were to have a talk with him..."

"Talk," Bobby echoed, in a tone that meant he knew what was implied.

"That district is up for election this year. Last time it was closer than they expected. This time, something tells me Brent might be happy to know he has the support of fine working men and women like yours."

"What kind of support?"

Larry shrugged. "You're a smart man, Bob. You'll figure something out." And then he stood, glancing around the office of Local 491, with its smoke-yellowed walls and the filing cabinets covered with a layer of dust. "I'll be in touch. Speak to Meryl."

When the door had closed behind the fox, Bobby sighed heavily. He picked the binder up, staring at it longingly. "If only they were for real..."

"Meryl?"

Bobby was still lost, reading and re-reading the binder's cover. Proposal for reassessment: Initial findings. "Ah, some lobbyist they got over in Salem."

"MBW does?"

"Who else? Ain't like we're payin' nobody. Fuck, son, ain't like we got anything to pay. This deal, though... six thousand acres? If it's anything like Chi'kault that's a third of the mill's capacity right there. More, if they let us log it right..."

"You trust their lobbyist? You trust Martin-Barlow?"

"Far as I can throw 'em. But I guess... guess it could be worth a meet at least, right? I do know the gal. From before."

Russell hadn't spent much time at the mill, but it had once been the largest employer in the twin towns of Cannon Shoals and Oak Valley: word got around about why, exactly, Martin-Barlow Western had a lobbyist permanently on-call.

The company claimed on their website, and in their press releases, to be dedicated to sustainable forestry. And it was important to keep up appearances -- that was why they didn't look too closely when crews lost sight of the edge of a property line and 'accidentally' wandered onto protected land.

Never very often, of course, and never very conspicuously: plausibly deniable. And they became even more plausible with someone in Salem to make friends and help ensure that the state forestry office had other priorities. It was good for everyone.

It helped smooth out certain land deals, too; bits of horse-trading here and there that had become ever more important as the mill started winding down and work got harder to come by.

Not that the writing wasn't on the wall. That was why Russell had gone to school, and why he worked as an engineer at Martin-Barlow's small machine shop rather than at the mill. Proud as his dad might've been of Local 491 and the town's lumber heritage, political correctness in the statehouse had choked that lifeline off while Russ was still a pup.

They drove to Salem in Bobby's truck -- the one with the union emblem on the tailgate, fresh despite the rust that showed through fading paint. The winding track of US-520 kept the length of the journey hidden; it had to be taken one bump and curve at a time, and that left room for thinking. "We gotta get this, Russ. We got to."

"Depends, pop. I mean... if you can't do what they want..."

"Then what?" The dingo jerked his head over sharply, baring teeth. "Then fucking what, Russ? Give up?"

"Nah, but..."

"There's no goddamn 'but.' Saw Troy Rucker at the Linc' last week. Bastard's got fifteen hours a week pumpin' gas for Christ's sake. What kinda life is that for a guy?"

"But if they want more than you can do..."

"Cross that fuckin' bridge when we come to it. And build a new fuckin' bridge if we have to. Can't leave those guys in the wind. Not more'n I could leave you in the wind, and God knows you got it better than most."

Russ knew it too. He wasn't a stranger to the Lincoln Street Roadhouse himself; he saw the clientele, and he saw how they'd changed after the mill finally closed. Not even desperate, really: resigned.

He volunteered to come along because it meant something to his father, and by extension it meant something to his mother and the rest of his family. He wasn't quite naïve enough to think it would really mean something for the town... but maybe they'd get lucky.

Meryl, a leopardess with a quick smile and a well-cut dress to match her immaculate claws, met them at a steakhouse downtown. The pickup truck stood out, and Bobby's ragged, grease-stained field jacket got a skeptical look from the maître d' who took it from him.

Russ had his father's thick, muscular build. Between that and the mottled grey fur he could've passed for a cattle dog or a shepherd: a good, solid, blue-collar type. Outside Cannon Shoals he softened the appearance with a good leather jacket and clean blue jeans; this was a step his father had never been willing to take. Nobody ever confused Bobby for a businessman.

But, as the leopardess put it when they were seated, money is money. And they had a reservation.

"Brent is facing more of a challenge than we thought, come November. As far as state races go, this is one the GOP is interested in -- and their candidate is a well-known businessmen. Senator McCray is a good man, though. The kind who knows how to appreciate help."

"My kid here said his territory ain't exactly coastal."

"It's not. But it's valuable territory, and it's contested. Time and money spent here is more valuable than time and money spent out west. Your district's already a solid vote, if it comes to it. Martin-Barlow knows they'd just be wasting time."

Bobby paused to spread a dinner roll thick with butter, taking the same kind of hearty bite he would've at a truck stop or Rainbow's Diner. Swallowing and taking a drink before he spoke was his only concession to the candlelit table. "And did ya ask the good man about this land?"

"He's rather distracted with the election coming up. Something to ease his mind would help an awful lot."

"Money is money," Bobby muttered, and finished the roll. "How much to get the bastard's attention?"

"Please," the leopardess raised her paw. "That's not what we're talking about. McCray would notice a donation, of course. But it's not only that. To smooth things out, you'd want a public relations firm to tidy up your proposal and give the senator something shiny to pitch. Nice optics. A good story, but also air cover from the Statesman Journal if they get curious. A friendly impact statement, clean and massaged. Making the language in a rider look innocuous. I know people who could help with all of that."

"How much?"

"In total? I don't think it would go very far into six figures."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, lady," the dingo coughed. The couple at the next table glanced over in surprise.

Russ put on his best smile, and dipped his muzzle to indicate his father as he explained. "Just saw the bill. Anniversary dinner, you know?" They laughed, politely if understandingly, and returned to their meal.

The leopardess remained completely impassive. "In 2012, campaign spending in the district was 1.6 million, Mr. Dean. Six hundred thousand of that went to the GOP's candidate... which wasn't enough, was it? So this isn't running for student council we're talking about."

"Where do you -- where does fuckin' anybody think the union's gonna come up with a hundred thousand dollars?"

"I know you have your ways. I don't look too closely; it's better for everyone."

Bobby clenched his teeth. "What are you suggestin', lady?"

She was suggesting, Russell knew, that money was money, and they had ways of finding it in unexpected places. Her eyes betrayed none of it, though, and she went to carefully dismantling her filet mignon. "I'm not a lumberjack, Mr. Dean; nobody in my family ever was. I can't judge how much this matters to you or to your union one way or the other. You would have to make that call."

The dingo kept his jaw set. "They said it'd mean reopenin' the plant..."

"And?"

"What d'ya mean, 'and'? Ain't that good enough? When did jobs stop being good enough? Decent jobs, I mean. Union jobs, not this part-time punch-clock bullshit."

"Well, in some corners that plays, sure."

"Yeah, and what the fuck plays in your corner? If you did your job..."

"Excuse me?" If she took it as an insult, she didn't show it. Too much of a professional, Russ supposed, if it was the kind of thing folks were professional about.

"Aw, ya heard me. Christ. Why does this have to be complicated? It ain't like I'm askin' for the world here..."

"You're not. But you know what, Mr. Dean? You need to understand something about your mill: nobody cares. The statehouse is interested in getting the future here. That means the service sector. Finance, software companies, tech firms, data centers, media agencies... good optics is getting an aerospace contractor to open a research park in Lake Oswego. Lumber mills? Lumber mills are two paragraphs on the first page of a grade school textbook on Oregon history. You're a mural in the capitol building. That's just how it is. Nobody's looking at you guys. And that means if you want somebody to notice, you're going to have to make it worth their while."

Russ saw in his father's eyes that he wanted to say fuck you, and he wanted to add the most impolite words he could to follow it. He wanted to overturn the table in the leopardess's face -- to salvage what he could of his pride in a burst of anger. He had his muzzle so tense that the cords stood out on his neck.

"Hey, pop. You've got, uh..." Russ pointed to the lapel of the man's jacket. "Something on your coat."

"I got what?"

"Some steak sauce or something. Check it out in a mirror, pop."

Bobby dabbed at the coat, grumbled, and excused himself to the bathroom. "Need a fuckin' break anyway..."

The leopardess waited until he was out of earshot. "Thanks for, ah... saving me from your father."

"Shouldn't have said that."

She averted her eyes for a moment. "It's true, though."

"Shouldn't have said it anyway. You think he doesn't know it?"

The woman took a deep breath. "He needs to start acting like he does, then. That temper of his..."

"He's got a lot on his plate," Russ explained. "We all do."

That got a knowing chuckle. "Ah, true. Tell you what, Russell: if you guys change your mind, or if you figure out a way to make things work, give me a call, why don't you? We can talk it over next time you're in Salem."

"Yeah?"

She reached for her purse and returned a few seconds later with a business card, in the sort of fluid movement that suggested it had been honed into a fine art. "And if you want to handle this without your father..."

"He's the boss, you know. I don't even work for the mill."

"I know. But..." The leopardess laughed, and gave him a wink. "You're easier to talk to."

Bobby returned, a little calmer. "Thanks for the help," he told their companion. The rest of the dinner was tense; the dingo kept his calm with a visible effort, and limited himself to single-word responses.

It wasn't until he was back in the truck that he snarled, and brought both fists down on the steering wheel. His fingers trembled, and his lip curled; it called attention not just to the teeth, but to the scars on his muzzle that said he knew plenty of ways to end something besides talking.

"Fuck, Russ! God damn it. God damn those fucking people."

"We'll figure something out, pop. If the assessment's good, maybe we push for it ourselves. Without the PR firm and the donations." What kind of state senate seat was worth spending a million dollars to buy, anyway? "Play it straight."

"Lot of fuckin' good that's got us."

When he'd calmed down, Bobby pointed out that the plan didn't even matter. The union didn't have anywhere near the money being asked of them, and it wasn't like any of the mill workers could afford to chip in.

The opportunity, though, clearly haunted him, for over the next few days Russell saw the glint in his father's eye every time they met. He talked about borrowing against the union's remaining assets, swearing that Dougie Galvan at the credit union would be willing to help. Or the union's national office. Or Martin-Barlow. It's not that much, he insisted.

Russell's mother was a Border Collie, the source of his piercing brown eyes and uncharacteristically thick fur. And his stubbornness; as obstinate as Russ could be, she was tougher still. Even Deborah, though, proved unable to dissuade her husband.

"He doesn't," she groused to her son over the phone, "understand 'can't be done' that well."

"I know, ma."

"That man needs to be leashed."

He grinned at the mental image. "Isn't that your job, ma?"

"Go talk some sense into him."

His first stop was the Lincoln Street Roadhouse, always a reliable haunt. Even at 6PM it was fairly busy. Leo Mazzi, the old barkeep, said his dad hadn't been in. That left only one real alternative; he was getting ready to head back out, with his paw on the door, when he overheard a voice behind him.

"I'm looking for Robert Dean."

Russell perked an ear up and turned back around. The man asking the question looked like a tiger, maybe; a striped cat, anyway, with a broad chest.

The bartender shrugged. "Can give him a message, I guess."

"Somebody said he was here."

"Mistake, I reckon."

The tiger rolled his eyes. "You think I'm a repo man or something?"

Russ made his way back quietly, trying to size the stranger up. He was reasonably dressed, and could indeed have been trying to collect on some debt Russell wasn't aware of. Or he might've been with Martin-Barlow. "If you're not, then what are you?"

The tiger looked over. "Robert?"

"I'm his kid. What's up?"

"Outside."

'Outside' the air felt of late winter, cold and bitter and ill-tempered. Russell recognized the tiger's car immediately, because it was by far the newest in the lot. The silver SUV, perfectly spotless, had California temporary tags. "Nice ride. Not local, huh?"

"Do I look like it? Where's your dad?"

"Do I get an introduction, maybe? I'll start: Russell."

The tiger looked at the dog's extended paw, and finally shook it. "A friend. Perhaps. Somebody told me your father might be looking for one of those."

"What kind of friend?"

"One with a business proposal. Entirely friendly, Mr. Russell; I know how skeptical you are of outsiders. All I'm asking is for a chance to speak to your father. And to let him hear me out."

"Just to talk?"

"That's right."

A light was on in the office at the Oak Valley mill, as Russell had known it would be. Even when there wasn't much work to do, his dad came there often. 'Keeping up appearances,' he said.

"Hey, pop. Met this guy down at Linc's; said he wanted to chat."

"Well, ain't nobody stoppin' him, are they?"

Following such a curt introduction, the tiger didn't bother with any further greeting. "Mr. Dean, we have certain mutual connections, and therefore mutual interests."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Which are?"

"I was told you'd engaged the services of Bridges-Margulis in organizing a pitch for Senator McCray." The tiger waited for an answer, and when none came he carried on alone. "The firm has other relationships, of course. In some cases, certain... opportunities arise."

"I bet. Y'all are always shakin' hands and sniffin' assholes down in Salem."

The striped feline's veneer finally cracked; he laughed. "So they are. But I'm not a lobbyist. I work for a real estate company. One of my clients has noticed something interesting. Your union owns several buildings here and in town. This office, one more in Cannon Shoals, and three warehouses."

"Yeah? And?"

"And you need money. And those buildings have some value -- even in a depressed market like the coast. Even for industrial properties. My client would be willing to pay quite reasonable rates. The warehouse on Kydonia, for example..."

"We're usin' it. All of 'em. Ain't for sale."

"They're your most valuable assets."

Bobby nodded. "'S why they ain't for sale. Market'll turn around one day. If they get the mill open, we'll need the warehouse space. Hell, I know we ain't but just barely ahead on the taxes, but if it's that or give up the last of our property here?"

"We could negotiate a deal that would allow you to continue using them, naturally."

"Then we'd be converting a short-term cash infusion into a long-term liability," Russ pointed out. "Even if we make a few hundred thousand now..."

"I think you'll find it would work out quite well," the tiger said. His voice was firm, and flat. "You get your mill reopened, you get enough money to put the union above water; you lose the property tax liability."

"An' what do you get?"

"Well, the rent, of course. Over time, it could be a very nice profit."

"Ain't you heard my son? It'd be fuckin' dumb for us. Where the hell would we get the money to pay you?"

"Union dues."

"Are you for real?"

"My client doesn't make mistakes on investments like this, Mr. Dean. According to your records, you have almost a hundred members in 491. The cost would be --"

Bobby interrupted with a bitter laugh. "Fuck off. Yeah, I got a hundred, and ninety of 'em it's been eighteen months since they worked any wood they didn't wake up with."

At this, the tiger only smiled. He set the folder he'd been carrying down, tapping it with his claw. "As I said, my client doesn't make mistakes. This is an initial estimate of a rental schedule, based on your union's dues, and a proposal for the sale. I think you'll find it's very thorough."

"And if we don't want to sell?"

"Then you don't want to sell. We certainly wouldn't force you."

"Bad deal, dad. You know it; I know it. Trying to pick off the warehouse?" He looked over the tiger, whose gaze never left the old dingo's face. "More like vultures circling than anything else..."

"You think we're dead, eh?" Bobby picked up the folder, and slit the seal with a letter-opener. "Maybe you an' he know somethin' I don't."

"That's not what I meant."

The dingo's head canted, scanning the first page. "Wait a second..."

"What's up?"

"You want us to rent the warehouse back, right? Russ, look at this."

There were two problems that Russell saw. For one, the warehouse had been last valued at $300,000 and the tiger was offering half that. But they proposed to charge six thousand dollars a month in rent, too, which was far above what the union could reasonably afford to pay.

"Dues." Bobby spat it like an oath at the feline. "How the fuck you base this on our dues? You take a fuckin' look around, pal?"

"It was a conservative estimate. My client calculated it on what you might reasonably be able to solicit on a monthly basis. It would entail an additional fee to your members, to be certain, but you can explain it as an investment and I'm sure they'd understand. You'll find the worksheet attached."

Russell watched as his father, still scowling, flipped the page over. A manila envelope had been affixed to the cardstock of the folder with a paperclip. He opened the flap and looked inside. "Worksheet?"

"Indeed."

"A month?"

"Indeed."

"I don't..."

"I'll let you review the tabulations on your own time. Please, check our work thoroughly; we wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable with the proposal."

A curious glance had passed between the pair, and Russell felt a sense of relief when the tiger had finally left. "What the hell was that about? There's no way you can tabulate that much out of your guys -- is there? Pops?"

Bobby tipped the envelope upside-down, and six thin stacks of bills tumbled from it.

"Oh, fuck."

491 had never gotten around to taking its dues automatically from the millworkers' paychecks; too much technology, for one, and if Bobby Dean wanted the dues at all he had to be flexible with the schedules and currencies of pawnbrokers and gamblers. Money, as Meryl said, was money.

In this case, something else she'd said came to his mind: Nobody's looking at you guys. But the two dogs both saw what was going on. Bobby could find ways to account for six thousand a month in cash, slipped into their pocket. That meant six thousand in clean income for the tiger's employer; nobody would be any the wiser.

Each of the six stacks had an eleventh bill in it, as a gratuity. At length, Russell forced himself to speak. "Dad. Dad, you gotta call Mike." Mike Pacheco was the chief of police. "Call him up and tell him."

"Tell him what?" The dingo slowly set the folder on the desk, covering the money from view. He looked as though he'd been struck. "Tell him I got some random real estate broker comin' through here tryin' to make deals? Tell him I don't even know this guy's name? Tell him I just got some number to call, probably for some pager with a fake address?"

"Something. You're going to get yourself in trouble, pop."

Still in a daze, the dingo raised his head and slowly turned it, taking in the room. Weary eyes slid from the old campaign posters to the faded maps that still showed the Union Umpqua & Western depot, before Southern Pacific bought the line and before they finally shut it down.

Filing cabinets full of useless surveying records. Shelved plans to expand the drying kilns. A framed photo of workers posed in front of a huge stack of lumber: the mill's record, set in 1966. His father's continued silence only made it seem even more like a mausoleum.

"Like we ain't already?" he finally said.

"I mean legally. This isn't right. Mike oughta know what happened. He'll help."

"Legal?" Bobby was coming to his senses only slowly. "After all the shit we put Mike through? Not just the fuckin' protests, I mean... like how he looked the other way when Chris got busted? Like how he ain't ever inspected Lantern Ridge without givin' us a day's warning first? Yeah, Mike loves us, I'm sure."

"This is different, though."

"Sure. I mean, I'll give it back, but Russ..."

"Pop?"

Bobby shut his eyes, and swallowed to steel himself. "What ain't right? The way they bend us over, that's what ain't right. Fuck me, how'd we get here?"

The question didn't have an answer, and Russell didn't offer one. He watched his father put the folder into the locked drawer of his desk, where neither of them needed to look at it and nobody else would find it.

An uneasy silence on the topic lasted until the following day, when the two met after work at the Roadhouse. "Good day?" Leo asked.

"Made it through, right?" Russ grinned. "How about yours?"

"Can't complain. At least the work's steady, right? Can't wait for spring -- this weather's been really getting to me."

"Feel it in your bones, huh?" Bobby teased the old wolf. "Joints tellin' us we're in for another storm?" It had been a bad winter for weather, what with a gale in the fall and the first white Christmas anybody could remember for decades.

"Just cold all the time. And all this rain... it's not good for a body, Bobby. Your Australian ass ought to know that."

Russell snickered. "Think it's time to retire, Leo? Move down to Arizona; start taking up crosswords?"

Leo Mazzi always said that he wouldn't retire until they invented a replacement for beer, and since that didn't seem likely Russ figured he'd be working the Lincoln Street Roadhouse until the end of days.

Linc's was a good place, full of good people. Annie's, the fishermen's dive bar, seemed a bit sketchy to Russ, what with its off-level pool table and its dusty bottles of whiskey. The owner, a surly lioness, didn't help matters much. She was practically a bouncer, keeping out anybody who wasn't soaked in saltwater so they swap dumb stories and get blackout drunk together.

The Roadhouse served a different sort. The guys from the mill, and the canneries -- shift types, who could knock off after a hard day's work with something to feel proud of. The jukebox was old -- nothing newer than Excitable Boy -- but Leo kept it running and the music was always good.

Even after things started going south for the town, they kept up a certain level of decorum. So when a big dog slunk through the door, dropped onto a stool, and downed his first glass of beer in two long pulls, the rest of them noticed.

Russell knew the man only vaguely. His name was Charles Parton, a forklift operator at the Oak Valley plant. He was a big Rottweiler, with sharp teeth, but by all accounts he had no temper. His mood had clearly put Bobby on edge, too, but the dingo waited until a second glass had been served to speak up.

"You okay?"

The Rottweiler shook his head. "The hell you think, Bobby? Got papers. Bank's after the house -- after Kim's van, too, but that one moves, so they haven't gotten anybody to find it. Hard to hide a house. Or an RV. I hope."

"Aw, shit, Chuck. You movin' back into Kim's folks' RV, then?"

"Have to. Unemployment and the union benefits don't stretch as far as mortgage and food, turns out." He let that linger until it became uncomfortable, and lent its edge to what followed. "Heard a rumor, though... Fat Will said MB had a team looking over the mill."

"Can't sell the property without us knowin', Chuck."

"Isn't what I meant. Will said they had some surveyors. They were staying at a motel here; Will served 'em breakfast. Said they had maps. Said they were talking yields. And Leo said you were at the office this week... didn't you say that, Leo?"

"Beats me." The wolf turned away, and pretended not to be listening.

Bobby gave a quiet snort. "Thanks."

The Rottweiler hunkered down. "You were though -- weren't you?"

"Yeah..."

Charles took a moment; lowered his voice and his ears. "Look, uh, Bobby. You know I have seniority, right? Like if the mill was running I'd get a shift, almost guaranteed."

"Yeah."

"So if they were reopening... maybe could... talk to Melody about getting a kind of... like an advance, or... well. You know?"

"Chuck..." The dingo's voice, too, had quieted. Russell could hear the shame from both of them. The desperate guilt of being unable to give what had been asked of them, reasonable as it was.

"Or aren't they?"

"It's not decided yet. Some land might've opened up, and if it did, we'd be in good shape. But you know how things go at the fuckin' statehouse, Chuck; it's always a gamble. And you know the granola guys..."

"Don't I?" Russell didn't know quite how old Chuck was; the Rottweiler had looked the same forever. Old enough to remember better times. "Every damn tree they see is some special-ass protection-deserving motherfucker. Don't get it..."

Russ didn't really get it, either; one acre of Siuslaw looked about the same as any other, which was to say it was full of tall trees and having a few less didn't really hurt anyone except the terminally oversensitive. "Maybe this time they'll be distracted."

"Yeah." Chuck scoffed. "Maybe. So what is it, Bobby, you don't know yet? Another year of waiting? God, I shoulda been a fisherman."

"It's not exactly a growth industry, either."

"Nah, Russ, it isn't. But you know, I have a cousin up in Tillamook. Still got steady work, but he says he drinks with a guy... when the fishing's slow or whatever, they go out anyway. Says fish aren't the only thing you can catch if you know the right people at sea... and you know the right people back at the docks..."

"Lovely."

"Not saying it's great, but it beats begging. Wouldn't be like I'd ever do that." The Rottweiler tried to play it off as a joke that didn't quite land. "Sorry, Bob."

"How much d'you need, Chuck?"

"Eight, to keep the bank off my back. I'm trying to sell the car, but until then things are pretty tight. Eight hundred."

Bobby nodded. "I'll... I'll see what I can do. Figure at least y'ain't payin' tonight, how's that?"

With that reassurance, Parton no longer seemed to be looking to get drunk. They let him go after another round, with a promise that he wouldn't drive. Probably his judgment will go that far. But what about ours? When the two Dean men finally left, Russell stopped his father at the door to his truck.

"Can you really float that money to Chuck, pop?"

"Maybe."

"Really?"

The dingo kept his paw on the handle without pulling it open. "Could if I knew he was working. Knew he could pay me back. Otherwise... have to look for money in other places."

"Ah, fucking hell. This world, pop..."

"Ain't the world, it's the folks livin' in it." He opened the door, and pulled himself into the truck. "I'm gonna ask the company for another meeting. Can you come along? Want some... I dunno. Need a moral compass."

"You better not be thinking what I'm thinking..."

Nobody would've been reassured by the dingo's smile. "Can you come? Tomorrow morning. I'll make 'em send a suit over."

The alternative, which was leaving Bobby Dean to his own machinations, didn't sit well with the younger man. He joined his father and Larry Gross, the representative from Martin-Barlow, who didn't seem to know why he'd been asked back. "Is this about our agreement? Were there... questions?"

"Complications."

The fox gave the kind of easy shrug you could afford to give, with a steady job and a fat savings account. "Well, okay, what can we do?"

"We talked to Meryl. It's steep, Larry."

"But a big payoff. I guess that means you're considering it, which must mean you've been giving it some thought. And you looked over the proposal, I assume, so you know we're not making this up. There are just a few formalities, that's all."

"I know. Talked to Meryl about that, too."

"And?"

"It depends, Larry. How serious is corporate about this?"

"Serious. It's a valuable parcel, Mr. Dean; we have first dibs. If we can get the feds off our back, it could change everything in the Neatasknea Valley. You think you're optimistic? Last conference call I was on, they wanted to check right of way for Southern Pacific."

"That would be..."

"Hasty, I know. My point is, Bob, we're serious."

Russell watched his father fidget, shuffling papers on the desk. "Meryl thinks we can get McCray. I'll talk to the national leadership and see what's available. We'll work the senator, and... hell, I guess we can take the impact statements, too. They got a proposal and all. But."

"But, Mr. Dean?"

"If Martin-Barlow's serious, we should start gettin' ready now. The men need retraining... equipment's gotta be checked... fixed... replaced, if we ain't lucky. Hell, Russ, your machine shop ready to take a full-tempo operation right now?"

Russell shook his head. "No. You'd have to ask my boss to be sure, but we're at maybe half capacity."

Larry took that in. "You want corporate to reopen the plant."

"If we're gonna put our money where our mouth is..." Bobby let the suggestion dangle for a few seconds. "There's enough timber to justify at least two shifts as it is, Larry. Not like you'd be running at a loss."

"No. No, you're right. I'll run it up the flagpole, sure." The fox shrugged his light, airy shrug again. "Can't see why they'd say 'no' to a thing like that. You'll handle Meryl?"

"We'll handle Meryl."

Russell wasn't certain why his father had asked him along. It couldn't have been just to provide a witness for the handshake that followed, before Larry excused himself for the drive back to company headquarters. The dingo wanted something else, his son felt. Something beyond a moral compass, too. Approval?

Forgiveness.

"You're thinking about taking that tiger up on it, aren't you?" Silence. "National leadership won't fund all this... maybe they won't fund any of it. They've got better politicians to buy."

"Probably. Thinkin' about puttin' it to a vote, that's all. Not the whole thing -- sellin' the warehouse, I mean."

"Which they'll approve. They trust you."

"Like Chuck does, huh?"

And Russ understood, to a point; he could see his father torn by the obligation to his men. "This isn't the same -- just -- dad, come on. Be careful what you're getting into. Talking about the mill, and -- and Larry letting slip about the railroad? Martin-Barlow's not taking any risk, are they? They're playing you. It's not going to be like that anymore."

"Is that what you think this is about?"

"Well..."

His father shook his head sharply. "You think that's what this is about? Really? Because it fuckin' ain't, Russ. It ain't. You think I'm one of them sardine cannery foremen, drinkin' their fuckin' ass stupid at Annie's an' talking about the fuckin' good old days?"

"No, but --"

"Think I go down to the goddamn historical society to jerk off to the pictures of the old Earnie Barlow mill?"

"No..."

"Good." The dingo stood -- pacing to work the agitation from his stocky body. "It ain't about what it was. It's about men like Chuck Parton -- good fuckin' men, god damn you, Russ -- beggin' like they might as well have a cup out and a fuckin' cardboard sign. I got a hundred men just like him that want an honest damn day's work and that's fucking it. You hear that poor bastard talking 'bout he wished he could run dope off a fucking tuna boat? God damn it!"

"Dad, I'm just saying --"

"'Cause you can, Russ. I'm not an idiot, not me nor your mom neither. You think we saw you growin' up to work the mill? That's why we made sure you had an education -- made sure you could do something with yourself. Buncha useless assholes in the statehouse with a hardon for five thousand acres of prime timberland here we can't touch 'cause it makes 'em sad when we log a fucking tree? You'll be okay. What about Parton? What about Andy Butcher? What do you think his kid's doing?"

Russell had no good answer -- none that was divorced from the sight of his father, coming home every night exhausted and leaving in the morning before his son woke up. Or from the look of pride Bobby'd had when he got his degree, and started work in an office at Martin-Barlow's machine shop in the Shoals.

"It's not about the past, Russ," his father finished softly. "The past wasn't even all that. It was hard work when I was a kid and my pop was workin' here. Anybody says otherwise, they're lookin' back on a time that never was. But this is now, an' I can't let this go without trying..."

"I know. These guys, though... you don't know what you're getting yourself into, pop, that's what I'm worried about. I... I know you care about them. Rucker, and Parton, and all the rest of them -- I know that. But that envelope..."

"Gets us the mill back. Got us the mill back."

"At what price?"

"Not yours."

Russ tilted his head to the side. "What?"

"Not your price to pay, Russ. It's mine. Troy Rucker went from a decent union job to pumping gas like some high school student. Stu wound up sellin' that car of his, you know, that old Chevy? And Chuck Parton, hittin' me up at Linc's like that? If they can carry that on their shoulders, Russ, God knows, I gotta carry this on mine. Nobody has to know."

"Not quite true. I do."

"But they don't. It's all cash. Anything happens, it's on me; not like it's gonna happen 'cause not like anybody gives a fuck. But if they do, well, I'm the asshole who couldn't stand up for what was 'right' with a lot of parked loaders and a dead mill and a hundred families with no goddamn future 'less somebody stepped up. So judge me if you want, Russ, but shut the fuck up about it."

"At least..."

The dingo scowled. "What'd I say?"

"At least let me go to Salem. I'll see if I can talk to McCray myself. Maybe it won't be so hard. Maybe you can keep the warehouse. And if you can't, I'll..."

"You'll shut the fuck up?"

"I'll keep quiet to mom."

Bobby laughed, though the sound reminded Russ of the way an old engine did, when it was trying to turn over and you knew it wasn't going to start. "Guess that'll do."

"For now."

"Your granddad said I was an idiot for marryin' a Border Collie anyway. Said they was stubborn and crazy. Well, guess she decided to stick with me, so..."

Russ grinned. "She's not the only one."

All he needed to do was to tell his boss that he was headed to Salem on Bobby Dean's business; no objections were raised. And anyway, as Russ himself had pointed out the machine shop wasn't exactly working around the clock.

None of them did.

Russ decided to take his car. No sticker for 491 on the trunk, no CB antenna; no window cling about how his kid was an honor student at Matthew Rex. His old Cougar lacked for stories to tell.

Instead he turned the radio up, and listened.

Lido missed the boat that day; he left the shack. But that was all he missed and he ain't comin' back. That was something you could count on in the Shoals: decent music, at least.

Russ turned the volume up, daring US-520 to stop him as he leaned on the accelerator. "Next stop Chi' town, Lido put the money down; let 'em roll. He said: 'one more job ought to get it. One last shot 'fore we quit it...'"

The dog stopped himself, frowning slightly. Was that how it worked? Really? There was Salem before him, sure, but where would it actually end? Nobody really knew; his father certainly did not. It was a hell of a reckless gamble. He said that he could carry it...

And maybe he can. But I'm his son, and if I can help...

In a world full of decent people, his father would only have needed to be decent. But that wasn't how it worked, was it? What are you going to do if McCray says 'no,' anyway?

Maybe he wouldn't. Russ felt he had a simple, clear case to make. The land's not useful for anything but logging, and it would make a great story for the election season -- 'good optics,' like that leopard lady puts it. Just a little bit of help, because you're a good man and you want to be seen as caring about the little guys. All Russ would need to do was a bit of explanation. It would work out just fine.

"He be makin' like a beeline, headed for the borderline, goin' for broke. Sayin' one more hit oughta do it. This joint ain't nothin' to it. One more for the road..."

By the time he got to Salem he was facing a gray, bleak afternoon; the Oregon sky had the miserable, ponderous gloom of failed poets in a coffee shop, studiously ignoring empty notebooks. He was reluctant to leave the car, even -- but he had a job to do.

"Senator McCray's in a meeting," the secretary told him. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No. I'm just... I'm a concerned citizen. And a client of Meryl Margulis. They talk, right?"

"Well... yes. Ms. Margulis told you two to meet?" Russ hoped that silence might bestow useful ideas on the secretary. "Let me see what his schedule looks like..."

McCray, though, had a packed schedule -- the sort of 'busy' one became in a senate seat worth a million dollars of campaign spending. I'm sure he's a very dedicated public servant, that's all, Russell tried to tell himself. Oregon has a lot of issues to deal with.

Just past seven, the senator emerged from his office. "Judy, see if Kip can reschedule tomorrow. I want to... uh..."

"This is Russell Dean. He's been waiting for a few hours."

"Just two minutes of your time, sir," Russ added.

"Sure, son. What's on your mind?"

Simple. Clear. Just the facts. "There's six thousand acres of the Siuslaw that were surveyed wrong and should be coming back on the market. Opening the parcel for logging would secure a whole lot of jobs on the coast."

"My district is Gresham, son."

"I know. But we're all in the same state, right? We just need some support, Senator McCray. And... well, with the election coming up, it's a good story, right? You have people talking about how they want to make American great again, well, this is jobs -- good jobs, senator. Decent wages. You could help, and..."

McCray was looking at him blankly. "I'm sorry, who are you? You're from..."

"Cannon Shoals, sir."

"I see. Well, son, you're right. I might not have many of you farmers in my district, but you're all important."

"Uh. Loggers, sir. Basically, we just need --"

"I'll see what I can do. Judy, make sure this man gets his parking paid for. Thanks for coming by, son."

"But I didn't even tell you what --"

McCray patted him on the shoulder. "I have to run. Judy, the parking. And, see if Kip can reschedule. You've got my calendar."

You farmers. Russell watched the man leave, and then slowly turned back to his secretary. "He's not going to do anything, is he?"

The secretary shrugged.

"Is he?"

He took the parking slip she gave him with a sigh, and made his way back to the car, looking more desolate than ever in the rain that fell in sharp streaks painted hard white by the glare of a streetlamp.

Sitting in the driver's seat, he pulled his wallet out and took a business card from it. A minute went by, and then two, before he worked up the resolve to give it a call. Meryl answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Meryl, it's Russ Dean. Bobby's son. You told me to call if I was ever in town?"

She suggested a bar, not terribly far away. And she laughed, when he asked for directions and told her that he didn't have one of those phones with a map on it -- but he told himself that the laugh was a friendly one.

The 'tavern' was nothing like Linc's or Annie's, back in Cannon Shoals. It was not even like Three Sheets, the upscale bar where the tourists ended up. The aesthetic, Russ was given to understand, was 'frontier': slabs of raw wood for tables and stumps for barstools. Fiddle music played on the speakers.

"Can I get a beer? Whatcha got on tap?"

The bartender looked at him the same way Senator McCray had. They were all from local breweries; Russ hadn't heard of any of them. He picked one at random, and waited.

Meryl showed up and immediately fit in. She might've come from the office, even, in her slim-cut grey skirt and jacket. Russ noticed for the first time how flat the colors were: a deliberate contrast to her striking black rosettes. Nobody in the Shoals really cared about things like that.

A pair of rings picking out the feline's ears in complementary gold were the only signs that she was anything less than a consummate professional. The rings, and the way she winked when she saw him. "Hello, Russ."

"Hi, Meryl. Buy you a drink?"

She nodded to the bartender. "I'll have an embassy, then. You're drinking..."

"I dunno. Beer."

"Good enough." The leopardess grinned. "So I hear you were down at the capitol building, rubbing elbows?"

"Yeah. That's what I wanted to talk about."

"Just that, huh?" She accepted her glass with a gracious smile, holding it in front of her muzzle before the first sip. Long whiskers framed the glass, pointing back to her smile. "Well, what happened?"

"I feel like I got blown off. A little."

"You did. What were you even trying to do?"

The beer was crisp, and far too bitter, but he took a long drink from it anyway. "It should've been easy. You know? Open-and-shut. Nobody even knows how this land wound up protected -- it's just trees. Nothing special; I mean, without the government getting in everybody's business we wouldn't even need to have a discussion."

"But you want the government's help, don't you? You and a lot of others, Russ. Particularly in an election year, there are plenty of people with their hand out... only, some of them have something in their hand."

But that's the point_, Meryl_. "Why's it got to be a bargaining chip? Why does everybody have to get something out of it?"

"Is this really what you wanted to talk about?"

He sighed and gave up. Meryl was, she told him, 'off work' -- she said it with a little grin that hinted at baser purposes. It hadn't been his plan, and it wasn't really his goal, but at least she was a friendly voice.

And so instead of politics, and the sour taste it left in his mouth, they talked about the coast itself. She'd been to Astoria, she told him, and some of the other tourist traps. I'm a cat. We're not much for open water.

And she wanted to know about him. He told her about growing up in Cannon Shoals, where most of the town depended on the fish or the forests. It was almost like joining a team: when you turned eighteen, were you going to pick up a boat tiller or a chainsaw?

As the son of a lifelong mill worker, of course, his life had been clear. He told her about exploring the woods before the crews got to the big trees -- hunting for arrowheads and playing with black powder and fireworks in the damp undergrowth.

Her eyes widened when he told her how they'd used to race across the wooden trestles that spanned the creeks and valleys. How you'd sprint across, knowing that if you heard a train coming one stumble meant you'd be meeting it head-on. How when they were old enough they used to dare each other to hang from the wooden beams when a Union Umpqua diesel was rolling over, until they lost their balance and fell to the creek twenty feet below.

"It's a wonder you survived," Meryl laughed. They were on their second round, perhaps; maybe their third. "My father would've killed me if I'd tried something like that."

His father had always been occupied with other things. The environmentalists started complaining really loudly when Russ was in junior high school, and already then dad had told him to start looking for other options.

The military didn't appeal to him, and the fishing fleets didn't seem any healthier. Working at the machine shop was a good compromise. More of the next generation was doing that, too -- Sam Benson and Pete Springer and the rest, five or ten years younger than Russ and wondering how to make a living in the Shoals.

When the bar closed, they stood just outside the door, trying to keep dry, and he looked in the direction of the parking lot where he'd left the Cougar. "Should be headed back."

The conversation hadn't even been cathartic, although he knew he should've enjoyed it. Meryl was easy to listen to, with a good smile. Cute, too. His age. And she liked him, he thought, for when he said that she bit her lip softly and looked up at him with keen eyes. "Well..."

"Well?"

Meryl glanced around slyly, like she was letting the dog in on some big conspiracy. "You probably don't want to drive home so late, right? How long would it take you, Russ? Couple of hours?"

"Yeah, about."

The leopardess slipped her paw around his, and squeezed lightly. "Come on, then. I'm just around the corner. I can give you a couch to sleep on... or something."

Something. Not like he was oblivious, and maybe it wasn't a great idea to get behind the wheel; all the same, she was their lobbyist. "You're not expecting a donation, are you?"

She laughed, rolling her eyes, and led him from the safety of the awning out onto the rain-slicked sidewalks. Thankfully, it had eased into a light mist; even more thankfully, she wasn't kidding about being just around the corner.

Salem was no Manhattan; there were no glamorous penthouses to be lorded over one's social inferiors. Even still, Russ knew that Meryl's apartment had to be worth three or four times what he made in a month. The lights came on automatically when they entered, and when she brushed her paw over a control by the door they dimmed and softened.

"Would you like a drink? I'm afraid I don't have PBR," she teased, looking over her shoulder to grin at the dog. "But I'm sure a nightcap would help distract you from the rain."

He was still a little fuzzy from the beer. She thinks I need more convincing? "It's Oregon. I'm used to it. You're not from here?"

Meryl poured two small glasses, and directed him over to her living room. The curtains were pulled back from an expansive glass window; beyond, past the balcony, lay the muted lights of the sleeping city. She took a seat on the sofa, waiting for him to join her. "We were from New York. My father worked for Reed Crosby at Crosby-Dawson-Moore before he started the firm with Tony Bridges."

"I don't know who any of those people are," he admitted. "Probably not a surprise."

"Nah. It's good to get away from that scene. That crowd. Find somebody a bit different... you know." The leopardess shrugged once, and scooted over to lean against the dog's side. "How do you like the drink?"

His first, cautious sip revealed nothing particularly offensive -- it was sweet, though, almost overpowering the faint hint of alcohol. "What is it?"

"Caramel liqueur. One of my mother's friends made it. She lives out in Bend now, so I don't get out to see her much. At least she's keeping busy." Meryl lapped at her drink daintily for a few seconds before pausing, looking up at him with soft, curious eyes and her muzzle half-hidden by the glass. "What about you?"

"I don't travel, really, beyond Salem. Or up and down 101, a bit."

"Don't like it?"

"Just prefer home, really. Quieter."

"Is that so..." Smile widening, she set her glass down on the coffee table and turned on her side to face him, pressing her paw against his stomach. "Country living, huh, Russ?"

He grunted. "Not exactly a farm boy, Meryl. We've got running water and telephones, even."

"Oh, I know." She extended her claws so that the dog could feel them, stroking teasingly up his side. "Still not the big city. I know you keep telling me that you do things differently out there..."

"Yeah, I guess." The implication was less than subtle, and the liqueur probably hadn't helped. But what was the worst that could happen? One for the road. Might as well make it count.

"I wouldn't know, myself, not --"

Russell turned, silencing her with a sudden kiss that left the feline gasping in pleased surprise. She abandoned his side to wrap her arms around him tightly as he rolled to pin her between his weight and the sofa.

He worked his tongue between her lips eagerly, until it met the rougher texture of her own. The taste of caramel rewarded his hungry exploration, and she whimpered into his mouth as his fingers started to unfasten her shirt from the bottom up.

There weren't many felines in Cannon Shoals; he didn't have much experience with a nice coat like hers. Short and soft, creamy along her belly with honeyed sides dappled by those curious charcoal rosettes -- it was a good look. Classy.

Maybe there was something to leopards, after all. He pulled back from the kiss to take in her open, grinning face -- the smile muting the effect of her sharp fangs and bright, grey eyes. "Well hi, Russ!"

"You gonna purr for me or what, kitty?"

"Can't," she panted.

"What?"

"Can't. We can't. Leopards. Can't purr." Gasping and out of breath, every word needed to be fought for. "Sorry."

Russell lifted his lip just a bit, for effect. "Find something better, then."

"Than purring?" She swallowed, and grinned hopefully at him. "Fuck me, Russ. I want you to fuck me; how's that?"

It would do. He got to his feet and pulled her with him, mindful of her lashing tail and the claws that seemed to be sharper than Meryl realized. By the threshold of the bedroom door they'd slipped her jacket off, tossing it to a heap on the floor. He finished unbuttoning her shirt and pushed it from her roughly until she got the message and tugged her arms from the blouse.

Her lacy bra was next to go; when she twisted to pull it off, though, the leopardess briefly lost her balance and Russell finished the job with a shove that toppled her back and onto the bed. "Ready, huh?" she asked: he had his paws bunched up and into her skirt, drawing it down and off her golden, velvet-furred legs.

The dog unzipped his jeans, kicking them with increasing frustration until he was able to work his legs free. "Guy who said 'good things come to those who wait' wasn't in a bedroom." And he was fully, desperately hard -- every second now just serving to remind him how long it had been.

Meryl's eyes flicked to his crotch for a moment. "I meant what I said. Fuck me for real, Russ. Like I'm just a bitch you picked up at some bar out there."

Desire was getting the better of his critical thinking. Well, if that's what you want. "Hands and knees," he growled, and she immediately pulled herself up on the bed, rolling over onto all fours for him. Her thick tail swayed and danced like a charmed snake, pulling his gaze inexorably to her sleek, curved rear and the bare, dark lips of her sex.

There was no point in wasting any more time. He got behind her swiftly, pressing the tip of his length to her entrance and pushing in until the slight resistance yielded to the slippery, wet, irresistible warmth of her body. "Ohgodyes," Meryl breathed the words all at once, all together. "God, Russell, yes that's -- ooh!"

The mutt thrust forward smoothly, groaning as the slick, hot satin of her pussy engulfed him. He gave her a second, so she had a chance to think on what it was like to feel his cock filling her. Then he started to move again, pumping into her with quick, sharp bucks that slapped his hips flush to her flawless rump.

She mewled and gasped and moaned with his tempo as he pounded her, gritting her teeth and crying out every third or fourth lunge hilted that heavy canine member in her dripping folds. "God, yes, fuck me!" Meryl was already practically sobbing -- trembling and shuddering on his dick as he pounded it into her.

The sight of the slim leopardess bent over and taking him like a dog was damn near good enough. The talking? "Like you mean it," he snarled to her. Might as well play it up. "Beg like you mean it."

"Harder, please -- please, Russ!" He grasped her hips in both paws, pulling her into him with each rough thrust. "Oh, yeah -- oh -- yes -- ungh -- give it to me! Fuck your little bitch, Russ! Fu -- ha -- wha --"

She stumbled through a few more broken syllables before settling on a badly muffled roar, shoving her head against the bed to quiet herself. Her whole body shook -- the white spots on her ears quivered into a blur as she fought to keep from crying out again.

"My god, Russ," she finally managed. The sheets were damp with where her saliva had soaked in, and she was still panting. In complete fairness, they were damp beneath her hips, too; they'd made a mess of things already. "That was good."

Not without some reluctance, the dog pulled out of her, patting her side. "Over, then."

"Yeah? What?"

"Haven't come yet, Meryl," he explained, and followed up the pat with a shove that finally got the message through. "Want to see your face when I knot you."

In the haze of her climax, the feline wasn't much for counter-opinions. She spread her legs, arching her back to help him. Not that it took much help to find her now-soaking folds and press his cock into her, settling deep with a solid, grinding thrust. "Tie? You'd do that?"

He drew his hips away, then rocked firmly forward, setting the pace for his rhythm. The thick girth at the base of his shaft was already noticeable; already enough to count when he slipped it into her. "Not much reason to fuck a bitch except to knot her, you know?"

When she didn't comment, Russell rolled his hips in a circle that let her feel it from every angle, tugging at her walls from within. "Ooh. Ooh, that's nice... that's nice, I've -- I've never had o-one of those b-before..."

"Of course you don't have to, but since you're playing harbor slut and all..." He reminded her with a stronger, sharper thrust, sensing from the difficulty that there wouldn't be many of those left.

Meryl's eyes rolled back. "Mm-no. Give me everything. Knot me."

Russ jerked his hips back hard, so that she'd feel the solid bulge slurp free of her. "Say it again."

"Knot me," she hissed, before gasping with the tension of the thrusts that followed. He had to shove, stretching her slowly around his knot. "Take me, stud. Don't hold anything back. Don't hold -- don'hol' -- ohmygod isthatgonna --"

It fit. She might've been a leopard, without a dog's natural gift for taking a knot, and she might've been pretty small for a big cat, but it fit. Her claws tugged at his fur, and she squirmed underneath the mixed-breed as his last few thrusts went erratic and quick and the need for release clouded his mind.

He managed to growl for her when it hit him, a heady snarl broken by the harsh gasps for breath in time to the waves of pleasure that thudded into him. Meryl's eyes screwed shut and he heard his name echo in an aching moan. Her walls rippled and squeezed around him as he filled her, drawing every last spurt of thick, warm canine seed kept nice and trapped by his knot.

As one of the other guys at the machine shop put it, there was a predictable curve that came with getting tied for the first time. Beforehand they were all skeptically curious. Then they got interested. Then they begged for it...

Then, afterwards, they started wondering what they'd gotten themselves into. By Meryl's squirming, she was hitting that point now. Russ was still coming down from his high, and not quite ready for the fidgeting. "Stoppit," he muttered into her shoulder.

"How long?"

"I dunno. Long enough to sleep. 'Sides, you got what you wanted..."

That reminder settled the leopardess down. She sighed, wrapping her arms around the dog. "Mm. Yeah. Mm, you country boys..."

"Can't find that here?"

"They're all too civilized." She took a deep breath, and began to pet his sides softly. "Except the college boys, and I'm not going to hook up with one of them."

So, what? Russ found himself thinking with an inner smile. We're good for something anyway, huh? At least he'd found a way to get through to her. In some fashion.

The next day he woke up to find the bed empty and less of a headache than he'd feared. Meryl was in the kitchen, fiddling with a coffeemaker; she glanced at him when he padded up behind her and nodded. "Hey."

"Good morning." He slipped his arms around the leopardess, who turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. "Sleep well?"

"I slept fine, yes." Meryl carefully pulled the dog's paws away from her belly. "I have to get ready for work, though."

"Right now?"

"Right now. You should probably head back to town, anyway, right? Don't you have work?"

"Day off. Shifts aren't so great these days." He nosed into the side of her neck, catching the faintest hint of lingering perfume in her silky, short fur. "I could stick around for another day."

"I've got a busy schedule..."

"Yeah. You and everybody. Fine, fine -- what about this weekend? You ever thought about coming out to the coast? We've got bars, too."

Meryl bit her lip, and then carefully turned around to face him. "Russ. Look, Russ, I had a good time last night, and you're kinda cute, but..."

He stepped away, both to give her space and to let him cross his arms over his chest. "'But' what?"

"It's not... look. I don't mean to..." Meryl's whiskers twitched, and her eyes darkened. For a lobbyist, Russ thought, she was not doing a very good job of communicating. "It's just that --"

"That what? What, c'mon, I need to slip a few grand in to sweeten the pot? Would that make for better optics?"

She glanced away briefly. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry I gave you the wrong impression. You're not..." At the last moment she caught herself, and turned to look him in the eyes. At least. "You're a good guy. But maybe not what I'm looking for. I'm sure I'm not what you're looking for, either --"

"So for like a one-night stand, that's fine. But I'm not your type, huh?" It was taking some effort not to growl at the implied insult. "What, 'cause I'm not the future, right? Isn't that what you told my dad? Fortunately we got you Valley types to tell us who's better than."

"Russ..."

His lip curled, and he didn't bother to hold it back. "Well look. You're not better than. And I'm not some dumb redneck. Maybe I don't have a suit and a BlackBerry and a busy schedule like you do, but I got a job. Hell, I even got one of your fancy goddamn degrees. You could do worse."

"You work part-time in a fishing town that's been losing people for thirty years, Russ. Come on."

"And what the hell do you do? At least I make something. Loggers like my dad, they built this state. The dams, the roads; the bridges. You know how we got to the moon? Guys, engineers like me, putting together a Saturn fucking rocket -- not a bunch of people at some cocktail reception saying they just need a few thousand to brush the tangles out of some senator's ass fur."

"What, and you think you're working the Apollo Program? You have an associate's from Linn-Benton and twenty hours a week at a machine shop. Get over yourself."

He bristled, feeling his hackles lift. "Fuck you."

"Right. Russ, I know you don't like us, or what we do for you. But we do it. You and your dad, you can rant all you want about 'cocktail parties,' but you need us. And those inbred don't-tread-on-me libertarian yokels with their eyes fixed on the past can go on about 'big government' all they want, but they need us too. And what happens in the statehouse isn't just backroom deals. We're working for the public good. I'm working for the public good."

There were no words; nothing came to his enraged muzzle. "You're right. You're right -- I should be going." With a final growl, the tore himself away and went to grab his shirt and coat. His fingers were trembling too hard to fasten the buttons; he left the coat undone and turned back at the door to face Meryl again. "And you're right, okay? Maybe we do need you."

"I won't, uh... I won't let this change anything between your father and my firm. Everything's fine."

"Of course it is. Money is money, right? You made that real clear. You know what's funny, though?"

"If I don't, I'm sure you'll tell me."

"It's so easy to talk down from your nice apartment. Your nice job. You can just brush us off. The lumberjacks. The fishermen. The ranchers. Everybody getting their future squeezed out of them. Everybody just wanting to make a goddamned honest buck while you strangle their way of life and tell us it's just some sacrifice for the public good. Funny thing isn't you talking down. Funny thing isn't how if anybody fights back you just laugh us off. The funny thing's how the 'good' part is always 'good' for you and yours, and the 'sacrifice' is always for me and mine."

"Just that simple, eh, Russ?"

He snorted. "What do I know? I'm just an inbred yokel. Rant at you later, Meryl." And he slammed the door behind him, before she could reply.

It hadn't made him feel better; if anything, the walk back to his car only stoked the dog's anger. He saw what his father had seen: that the civics lessons back at Matthew J. Rex High School had all been nothing but pointless homework, teaching fiction just like English class.

Maybe Bobby was living in the past, clouded by nostalgia and the longing for better days. Then again, if he was naïve, so was his son. And where Bobby dreamed of canneries and mills, Russell dreamed of the days when for the people had meant something.

But like Bobby said, he was looking back at a past that had never been. Just so many words; so many empty promises. That meant they were going to have to take things into their own hands. Heading back west, into thick woods that hid the sun, there was no way to deny that.

Rather than be alone with his thoughts, the dog reached over to the radio and turned it on just in time to catch Joan Baez protesting: they should never have taken the very best.

He tapped the steering wheel with his paw in a slow, steady beat, half-singing along. "The night they drove old Dixie down" -- and all the bells were ringin' -- "the night they drove old Dixie down" -- and all the people were singin'...

Even the windshield wipers seemed to be in time, slinging the cold rain in the thankless rhythm that futility breeds. There would always be more rain. Like my father before me, I'm a workin' man. An' like my brother before me, I took a rebel stand. He was just eighteen, proud and brave, but --

Russ clicked the radio off. He was not in the mood for laments.

His father's truck was parked outside the mill office. He found the dingo inside, reading glasses on and attention fixed on a stack of printouts; Bobby only glanced up long enough to see who the visitor was. "Repair estimates; bring this stuff back online. Looks pretty good. Some of this machinery ain't been run in more than a year, so..."

"You take your lumps, I guess."

"Yeah. Speakin' of. I talked to the men a bit 'bout maybe we sell some of the property to cover union costs. Ain't much for their pride, but I reckon they understand. How was Salem?"

"I did get to meet with the senator. And with Meryl." Russell took a seat on the other side of his father's desk. It was unadorned: no plaques, no newspaper clippings; no knick-knacks or pictures of his family. Only the paperwork, and a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour before. "He wasn't convinced."

"Figured. Been thinkin', though. Maybe you're right. Maybe we ought to fight a bit longer -- I know, I let myself get excited. All this..." He held up the reports he'd been reading, and then tossed them gently onto the desk. "If it ain't worth it, it ain't worth it."

"It's just a dirty game to start playing."

Bobby nodded and, with a sigh, took his glasses off. "So what is it, Russ? We don't play?"

He thought of the tone in the senator's voice when he'd said I'll see what I can do and patted Russ's shoulder. Words, though, were just that. The only sure outcome of not playing was to lose. To forfeit whatever they had left. To give Meryl the satisfaction of her smug, high-brow condescension.

Russell met his father's expectant eyes, across the desk, knowing the man was waiting to hear the voice of better judgment. Higher ground. He shook his head, and kept his voice soft.

"Call the vote, dad."