A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 11
Keep it Under Your Scouting Hat
Hank and I were super careful to play it cool Monday morning back at Saint Luke's. His face lit up when he saw me flying into the bike rack, and trotting over to our bench, but we kept it to a socially acceptable bro-hug. Everyone was amped up from Thanksgiving and from the rapid approach of Christmas, making Mr. Schneider's homeroom a dull roar both before and at the end of class.
Almost everyone had spent their Thanksgiving holidays in the predictable orbit of parents or grandparents. Hank and I were the only ones with a distinctly different tale. I think a few kids actually turned green when I described my haggis—but it all got eaten, so two-fingers to them! I couldn't help but grin when discussing my Towering House Clan adoption. A few kids snickered at my new name, Compassionate Snow Raider, but most thought it was legendary. Mr. Schneider certainly did.
I thought we were doing a stellar job keeping our new relationship off the radar—until midafternoon.
I was tutoring Betsy Hendricks in German, when Hank walked by the glass wall of our study room in the library. We both grinned when we saw each other and waved—okay, I might have glanced down at his crotch, but only for a fraction of a second.
"Oh my God, you're a couple!" she blurted out.
Be Prepared—why for any old thing —I was not! My eyes got big. I turned bright red. I tried to stammer out a denial—failing miserably. I did everything I could do to confirm her suspicions, short of throwing up a banner that says I'm gay and Hank's my boyfriend.
Then the blush drained away, leaving me pale as the realization hit: I'd outed us. We're dead. Life as we know it is over. I dropped my head into my hands, praying the library floor would open up and swallow me. "How did you know?" I whispered.
"Lachlan," Betsy whispered back, leaning over her German textbook with a leer that looked terrifyingly like that Gestapo agent from Indiana Jones. "Your faces are a total dead giveaway. You look at each other like no one else in the building exists. You both get those I'm in love grins the moment you're within ten feet of each other. Not to mention," she added with a smirk, "your eyes were glued to Hank's crotch just now."
"Shit." I leaned back, staring at the acoustic tiles of the ceiling, knowing we were guilty on all counts. "We thought we were being so careful. We're fucked."
"Maybe not. Most kids are completely oblivious," Betsy shrugged, spinning her pen. "I only noticed because I've been flirting with you since the first day of school. But you never noticed."
"Sorry?" I stammered, wincing in apology. Honestly, I'd never noticed. The idea that someone had been tracking me like I was tracking Hank was a bit of a jolt.
"At least I'm not losing out to Paige Strand," Betsy continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "That would really piss me off. But I can understand losing if...well, if you like cock."
I snorted. Did proper Betsy Hendricks really just say that? I rolled my eyes, leaning into the honesty of the moment. "Even if I didn't like cock, I'd never go for Paige. She's got maybe two brain cells, and not good ones."
Betsy giggled, "Paige doesn't need brain cells, Lachlan. Her dad is Big Oil. She farts royalty checks just getting out of bed. She'll be fine."
Moment of truth, "So…can you keep our secret? Maybe warn us if we're being uber obvious?"
"Oh, of course," waving her hand imperiously, "I'll even hang with you guys if you want. I'll be your beard, not like a dating beard, but a friend beard! A three-person study group is way less suspicious than two boys gazing into each other's souls over their American Pageant textbook."
Hank took our partial outing way better than I did. He'd obviously scouted the risk of discovery long before I had and wasn't the least bit surprised that we'd been too obvious. He just shrugged it off with that steady, Fierce Wolf calm that always made my heart skip.
Betsy became our cohort in crime—or sex, as it were. She'd walk the halls with us, positioned firmly in the middle with her arms linked through ours. It was actually brilliant fun having her in the mix. She was seriously smart, wickedly sarcastic, and fast with a comeback. We'd have each other in stitches in our study room, often earning a sharp admonishment from the librarian to tone it down.
Scouts was on hiatus until after Christmas—too many demands on everyone's time with exams; but cross-country was still going strong. By now, I was fully acclimated to the Texas environment—no more dying from the dust and heat. Hank and I ran both at practice and on our own, so we were in fantastic shape, pushing the juniors for position in the meets. The coach joked we were the Wonder Twins ; I think he was looking forward to next year with us shifting up to back-fill his departing seniors.
I wouldn't say we coasted through finals, but all three of us worked really hard and did really well. We'd put in the long hours during study hall, at night, and on the weekends. My linguistic prowess, aided by Hank's tutoring, helped me to a solid A in first year Spanish. Our final for Mr. Schneider's class was our capstone project. Hank and I combined to cover the Saratoga Campaign in 1777. The Green Mountain Boys and the King's Royals had clashed in the second battle at Freeman's Farm in a grudge match that traced back to the Vermont-New York clashes before the revolution. Mr. Schneider was beyond giddy.
The week leading up to Christmas, I was all pins and needles—incredibly nervous about Magnus' arrival. Not because of him of course, he's still the twat he's always been; but because of what he's bringing with him. I'd had to enlist his services in procuring my present for Hank, as it was coming from Wilkinson, which had made MacKenzie Clan blades going back to the 18 th century. They'd stopped making swords for the public, but I was able to go through their agent to source a vintage, MacKenzie regimental dirk and sgian dubh from their historical stock.
Da was visibly surprised when I told him I wanted to be on the ride to pick Magnus up at the airport. At first, he didn't believe me; thought I was pranking him. I finally had to come clean, "He's bringing my present for Hank, picked it up for me in Edinburgh."
"Magnus used his own money to buy Hank your Christmas present?" Da sputtered.
I rolled my eyes, "Da, we are talking Magnus here. Of course he didn't, I had to Venmo him the money, in advance—he didn't want to lose out on any interest on his portfolio."
"Ah, okay, well that makes sense," he laughed, "That's the Magnus we all know and love. What are you giving Hank?"
"Nope, that's a secret. I even swore Magnus to secrecy. Though he probably has forgotten that…"
"Well, I promise not to ask him then, though he's a bit of a prat and might volunteer it anyway," Da grinned.
The automatic doors at Arrivals hissed open, and Magnus emerged, looking less like a traveler and more like a man who had just personally brokered a mega-merger. He handed me the wrapped package with the air of a king casting alms to the poor.
Once we were settled into the SUV, I retreated to the back seat, my thumb tracing the raised MacKenzie seal on the wooden box beneath the tissue paper. The weight of the Wilkinson history felt solid in my lap, but the air in the car was quickly filled with Magnus.
"...and honestly, the recruiter from Goldman was practically begging," Magnus droned, adjusting his cuffs. "But the London office is so provincial lately. I told them if they want me, it's New York or Singapore. Maybe Hong Kong if the bonus structure is aggressive enough. I need to be where the capital actually moves, you know?"
Da glanced at him. "What about staying a bit closer to home, Magnus? Houston's got a massive footprint. Dallas is booming with the firms moving out of California."
Magnus let out a sharp, jagged laugh that set my teeth on edge. "Houston? Da, please. Houston is where you go if you want to trade oil futures and wear a Stetson to a board meeting. Texas is, what? Fifty? Sixty on the global index? I'm looking at the Top Ten. I'm not exactly aiming for regional specialist status."
I just squeezed the box tighter in my lap. At least he won't be on my front stoop, I thought. He'll be too busy looking down on us from a skyscraper in Singapore. I said a silent prayer of thanks that Da had agreed to let me set up the family lavvu in the back yard. Hank and I had already spent a couple of nights in the tent—the mini-teepee Hank called it, and we were going to spend Boxing Day and the weekend camping out. We'd agreed that was when we would exchange our own gifts—in private.
Rhona rolled in a day later—with all her stuff—she'd successfully orchestrated her transfer to Texas A&M University in College Station. She got off the plane wearing her maroon sundress, white cowboy boots, and a maroon silk scarf tied to her handbag—she'd already converted. She was already talking about snagging a Texan and an Aggie sweetheart Ring. I kind of felt sorry for that unknown Texas boy, he's innocently celebrating Christmas with his family somewhere; not knowing the lasso has already been thrown; the rope just hasn't gone taut yet.
Our families got together on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day—more cultural exchange as we celebrated the Scottish Auld Yule and Daft Days; coupled with the Allen's Hai storytelling of the Coyote and Creation stories. Dinner Christmas Day was kind of a disaster, kind of hilarious—depending on your viewpoint. The table was set for ten—The five MacKenzie's, Hank, his parents, and older brother and sister. Hank and I were sitting on either side of Da; the Allen parents were at the opposite end by Magnus—I suppose someone had to sit next to him.
Magnus spent the first twenty minutes explaining why the Singapore exchange was the only serious place for capital in the next five years. Hank's dad, sitting quietly in a flannel shirt that probably cost more than Magnus's suit, just nodded, swirling his wine. "Singapore is doing some interesting things with digital assets," he conceded mildly.
Magnus leaned in, that helpful smirk firmly in place. "It's more than interesting, Mr. Allen. It's essential. Honestly, I've been looking at the regional portfolios out of Dallas—the one your firm handles? You're heavily over-leveraged in domestic commercial real estate. If I were you, I'd be pivoting toward the emerging tech corridor in the ASEAN bloc. I actually have a few contacts at Temasek if you need a warm intro to help stabilize your Q1 outlook."
The table went dead silent. Da looked like he wanted to slide under the tablecloth.
Hank's mom didn't even look up from her turkey, but her voice was razor-sharp. "That's very generous of you, Magnus. Though I imagine the warm intro might be a bit redundant, considering my firm just cleared the regulatory hurdles for the Allen Group's new Singapore-Texas partnership last month."
Hank's dad just smiled—a slow, patient banker's smile. "He's right about the domestic leverage, though, honey," he said to his wife, then turned back to Magnus. "We actually just offloaded four billion in Dallas commercial assets to a sovereign wealth fund yesterday morning. But I appreciate the tip. It's always good to hear what the students are reading in the journals these days."
Magnus's wine glass stopped halfway to his mouth. He looked like he'd just been told his favorite suit was a polyester knock-off from TJ Maxx instead of Saville Row. Hank and I burst out laughing; we couldn't have kept that in if we'd tried, and we didn't. Da kept trying to admonish us and get us to settle down; but then Hank and I would catch each other's eye and the giggles would start all over again. Finally, Mum stepped in and directed Hank and I to start clearing—that gave us something to focus on and calm down.
After dessert—Cranachan, a mix of toasted oatmeal, honey, raspberries, heavy cream, and plenty of Scotch whiskey; and my new favorite, Tanaashgiizh, or Blue Corn Mush, sweetened with sugar, honey, and juniper ash—Hank and I finally escaped to the lavvu in the backyard. The floor was soft, slightly springy because of the cedar branches underneath. We had spread out reindeer furs and Navajo blankets earlier in the day. I fired up the stove to fight off the plummeting temperature of the cold Texas night.
"We're alone?" Hank whispered.
"Really alone," I giggled, repeating our exchange at the hogan, "From here to the farmhouse...it's off-limits to everyone else until Sunday."
Trembling like our very first time, we came together, arms sliding around, bodies pressed hard against each other. We started slow, foreheads touching first, gazing into each other's eyes—his coal-black; mine bright-blue. Breathing in his breath, as he breathed in mine. The last two days had given us no alone time—the torture of being so close, but not being able to kiss.
Hank moved his hands up to my cheeks, and pulled me into his lips. Starting with soft kisses, chewing lightly on my lower lip, then our tongues reaching out for our dance ritual—tips touching, sliding in, curling around each other, and finally thrusting. When we broke apart to breathe, my Fierce Wolf dove for my throat, my head tilted back—beta to his alpha, he licked, kissed, then bit, lightly, marking me as his.
"Way too many clothes on," he whispered, going for my shirt.
"Present time first," I gasped, my breath hitching as I fought to keep my hands from helping him with the buttons, "Then clothes."
He groaned in frustration, "Okay, open mine first."
I giggled, "No way, has to be mine first."
A flip of Grandda's half-crown won the day for me. I made Hank sit down, Indian style, his honey-gold skin glowing redder in the light of the fire, and close his eyes. I moved behind him and undid the wrap holding his ponytail—a single leather strap adorned with a piece of Navajo silver and a small turquoise bead. His beautiful black mane spilled out across his shoulders.
I ran my fingers through it, whispering softly as I did, "I love your hair so much Fierce Wolf, so long, so black, so powerful." Hank just tilted his head back and moaned with pleasure.
Finally, I retrieved my present from its hiding place under the blankets, sat across from him, our knees touching, and placed the heavy box gently in his outstretched hands, "Open"
Hank's eyes got really wide as he focused in. He ran his fingers lightly over the box, tracing the raised crest of the MacKenzie Clan carved into the lid. "It's the MacKenzie Clan crest," I explained, "These are watch fires atop a mountain, to warn of invaders. And this is our motto— Luceo Non Uro, I shine, not burn."
"Lachan, this is beautiful. Walnut, right? And this carving is incredible; I can almost feel the fire. This is the most beautiful box, thank you." he whispered, then giggled, "Thank God the fires didn't always work, otherwise I wouldn't have my Viking Raider Lachlan."
I snorted, "Fortunately It only takes one Viking sperm pillager! The present is not the box though; that's just the presentation case. The presents are inside."
Hank's jaw dropped when he opened the box, there, nestled in forest green velvet, a MacKenzie Clan dirk and sgian dubh —the light of the fire glittering off of the steel blades. "Oh my God, Lachlan, these are stunning." He whispered reverently.
"This larger blade is the dirk," I explained, "It represents the Scottish Warrior Spirit —bravery, honor, and martial prowess. And the smaller blade is the sgian dubh, or concealed weapon. You wear it visible in your sock to represent honesty and trust."
Hank traced his fingers lightly over the glowing steel, his voice dropping to a low, rough vibration. "Your crest on my skin...it makes me yours as much as any kiss could."
I got overwhelmed with emotion. I had to swallow hard against the lump in my throat before I could find my voice, "We Scots don't have a formal ceremony like the Diné, so this is my way of bringing you under my colors. You're a MacKenzie now, Hank. You walk the mountain with me and with the Clan."
I think I hit it out of the park as the Americans like to say! Hank, for the first time since we'd met, was speechless. Finally, he leaned forward and kissed me, "I love you, so much. I'll walk anywhere with you, your blades at my side."
Hank set the box aside and made me close my eyes. With my sight gone, my other senses flared—the radiating glow of the stove on my skin, the scent of crushed cedar and sage, the soft rustle of him moving behind me. I didn't have a grand mane like his, but as he ran his fingers through my hair, slow and steady from front to back, I forgot all about the world outside. I just tilted my head back and purred.
I felt him move in front of me, and sit down, our knees touching like before. His hands touched mine, pulling my hands out in front of me as I had done with him. I could sense that he'd leaned in close, then I felt his breath on my face, the soft brush of his lips on mine. Then my present in my hands, soft, flexible, heavy.
I opened my eyes—deerskin. A complete, soft, sexy deerskin outfit, just like the one Hank wore in his archery exposition, and in the stable where I slid my hand in to touch his cock for the first time. I blushed just looking at it. I got hard just stroking the soft leather.
"You like it?" Hank whispered, his voice as thick as mine felt, "These are the leggings—they represent movement, protection, and the connection to the earth. They mold to the muscles of your legs, even better than my 501's. These are a modern version of the old leggings, with a butt and crotch; the old ones they just wore with a breechcloth."
I ran my thumb over the grain of the deerskin. It felt alive, still holding the faint scent of woodsmoke and the wild. This wasn't just a costume; me wearing this was as profound as Hank strapping on my blades. "These are beautiful Hank. I've wanted a pair since I first saw you riding out from behind the copse at Amá Sání 's. We are Warrior and Raider dressed for the world we will build together."
Hank continued, "This is your warrior shirt—these markings and beads give you protection and power in battle. Finally, these are your moccasins, the red dye represents the red Diné earth; you are always walking with the ancestors in these. Ready to try them on?"
I shook my head, blushing even deeper, "I think if I try to put them on right now, especially if you lace mine up like I know you're thinking, I'm going to get these brand-new clothes really messy."
Hank stared at me for a minute, then giggled, "We can't have that, can we? Maybe we should put the blades and skins aside and see what we can do to relieve some of the tension in the room."
I moved in close, really close. Our eyes locked, noses touching, mine rubbing gently against his. We moved together so slowly, taking forever, breathless forever, until our lips brushed. Both of us moaning and letting the rest of our bodies come together. I was painfully aware of his pulsating cock pressing against mine. The heat of both of us threatening to burn through our jeans.
"I'm pretty sure I was unbuttoning your shirt when you distracted me with presents," Hank murmured, his fingers going to my button-down. I leaned back, presenting myself to him, trembling as he exposed my chest, button by button. He slipped my shirt off my shoulders and splayed his hands out across my chest and down to my abs, caressing my muscles, playing with my nipples.
"Oh God, Hank, you know my nipples are wired right to my cock, this is torture," my voice thick and husky.
Hank snickered, his Warrior Spirit firmly in control, "I know exactly what this does for you, that's why I do this…" He bent and took my nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue back and forth, then biting me ever so gently.
I arched my back, my fingers knotting into his hair as I tried to pull him closer—or push him away—I didn't even know anymore. The world narrowed down to the wet heat of his mouth and the dull ache in my chest that had nothing to do with the bite and everything to do with how much I wanted him.
The Celtic God Dagda, god of virility, must have been looking out for me, because Hank wore one of those western shirts with snaps instead of buttons. So even leaning back, my whole focus absorbed by my nipple and his mouth, I was able to reach out and rip open his shirt, sliding it off his honey-gold shoulders to join mine on the floor. I grabbed both his shoulders and pulled his chest into mine, forcing him to come back up for more kisses.
Double pop-pop-pop 's sounded like gunshots in the silence of the lavvu as we pulled open our button-fly jeans. Both of us were commando as we always do now in our form-fitting Levis—which makes seeing Hank in jeans anytime, anywhere just so sexy. We slipped our hands down the back, caressing our bums and sliding the jeans to the floor. Now totally naked, we rejoined chest to chest, cock sliding against cock, corded thighs gracefully kissing.
I looked down at where we joined—my pale, moonlight-white skin against the deep honey-gold that is Hank. In the red glow of the fire the colors almost bled together until I couldn't tell where my heat ended and his began.
"Time to Feast," I thrummed, my voice dropping an octave, "The Warrior-Raider pack is low on protein and needs to gorge!"
"I want to try on our sides this time," Hank growled softly, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
In the red light of the fire, he looked every bit my Fierce Wolf, his eyes locked on mine with a hunger that made my pulse erratic. We descended to the bedding as a single unit, our skin fused at the hip and shoulder, anchored to one another as if breaking contact would break the spell. We tangled together—my moonlight-white skin a stark, bright contrast against his honey-gold. This wasn't just the Best Mates in our scout tent; this was the Pack, forged in the wild.
With the intuitive grace of two runners sharing a stride, we cocked our lower legs in unison, each providing a corded resting place for the other's head. My eyes feasted on Hank's masterpiece—swollen, pulsing, the plum crown almost fully revealed—and a shudder of pure anticipation racked my frame. I started slow, we were in no hurry, tracing one finger lightly up and down his shaft. I watched, fascinated, as his cock reacted violently to even that ghost of a touch. Leaning in, I flicked just the tip of my tongue across his slit, capturing the thick, salty bead of pre-cum that signaled the start of the gorge.
I moaned as I felt Hank's slick hand wrap around my shaft, spreading his thick wad of spit from crown to base, preparing me for the feast. I giggle-moaned; he was kicking the pace of the run up a notch, and I was more than ready to keep up. I opened wide, slicking back his sheath, and sliding my mouth down over his thick cock—God, I loved sucking his cock as much, maybe more, than being the one served.
I swallowed, pushed, and swallowed again, taking every inch of him into my throat until my nose pressed into his silky-black pubes. Being on our sides was the perfect tactical angle to deep-throat him, letting me own every bit of his length. Under the red firelight, I was no longer just the Scout; I was the Raider, taking what was mine.
We were purely focused on the feast of the other, a frantic but precise exchange of pleasure. Hank slid his hand back to my bum, pressing two wet fingers deep inside me, methodically massaging my walnut with a steady, rhythmic pressure that made my vision swim.
My own hands were circuit training—a relentless, hungry loop from the base of his cock to the heavy, velvet weight of his jewels, then back to the heat of his tight pucker, repeating the cycle with the stamina of a long-distance run. Competing sounds of slurping and raw moaning filled the tight, canvas cocoon of the lavvu, drowning out the crackle of the wood stove.
We'd come a long way since those first, frantic explorations. Now, we paced ourselves for the endurance run, ignoring the sprint for the steady, relentless burn. We understood the mechanics of each other intimately—the exact pressure that raised the intensity and the subtle shudder or whimper that signaled a need to de-escalate, to breathe, and then to climb again.
Hank's punishing rhythm on my walnut signaled the final turn of the race. I massaged the velvet weight of his jewels in response, knowing exactly what would put him over the top. Just as his cock swelled to its limit, right before the burst, I slipped back, bringing his plum crown to my tongue. I wanted, needed, to feast on every drop of his flood.
Bucking out of control, we finally unleashed, and the gorging began. Hank's upper leg clamped down—sandwiching my head and locking it in place—an anchor I didn't want to break. I eagerly swallowed shot after shot of the feast, no longer spilling or choking, my rhythm finally matching his. I gently massaged the length of him, milking every precious drop as his Warrior Spirit finally quieted.
We continued to nurse until the sensitivity became too sharp to bear. I flipped around, sliding back into the heat of his arms until we were face to face. We were both grinning ear to ear like idiots, the Warrior and Raider Spirits replaced by the sheer joy of just being us. We kissed, slow and deep, tasting the salt and the heat of ourselves on each other's lips. With light caresses and whispered nonsense, the firelight faded to embers, and we fell asleep tangled in reindeer skins and Navajo blankets.
It snowed!
The unusual resistance against the flap of the lavvu confused me at first, until I realized the world had changed overnight. Six inches of fluffy white powder covered the backyard, delicately painting the cedar trees with frosted tips and burying the bushes. Everything was muffled, the usual morning sounds of the neighborhood swallowed by a pristine, quiet blanket.
I scooped up a handful, the bite of the cold sharp against my skin. Holding my breath, I pressed it lightly to Hank's bare, honey-gold chest—his nipples shot up instantly. He tried to ignore it at first, mumbling and rubbing his chest in his sleep, but I was annoyingly persistent. I played a game of dodgeball, darting my snowball around his swatting hand, biting my lip to keep from laughing and ruining the surprise.
Finally, his eyes popped open. He squinted at the snowball in my hand, his brain clearly not computing. "What are you doing? It's freezing...come back to bed."
"Get up, Hank! It snowed!"
That hit him like a jolt of caffeine. He shot up, the blankets falling away. "Snow? It never snows in Austin!" He scrambled to the opening and looked out. His eyes went wide, reflecting the white glare from the yard—he looked like a kid seeing Santa for the first time. "This is going to shut down the city!"
"It's just a bit of powder, Hank," I teased, my voice still carrying that low, Scottish thrum. "Back home, we'd be trudging to school in this."
Hank snorted, "Austin shuts down for an inch of snow, Lachlan. Six inches is an apocalypse!"
I jumped into my jeans, moving too fast to even give him the chance to button me up. "Snowball fight! The King's Royals versus the Green Mountain Boys—get dressed. Game on!"
We burst into the yard, dodging in opposite directions to put range between us. Then it was frozen musket balls at twenty paces; no sniping, just right proper volleys. Stand and deliver. Our shrieks of laughter filled the muffled air as we jinxed and jived through the drifts. I tried a pincer assault—a heavy volley to his chest, followed by a reckless dash to shove a handful of snow down his neck.
But the Navajo warrior was too quick. He thwarted the flanking maneuver, tackling me mid-stride. We went down in a tangle of limbs, face-first into the powder, our heat steaming against the cold, both of us claiming victory in the Skirmish of the Snow.
Bonnie burst upon us like a furry cannonball! She jumped in with both paws—seventy pounds of floof, snow, and pure exuberance.
"The Minutemen have arrived!" Hank cried triumphantly, shielding his face from a face-lick.
"No, no! She's my Hessian mercenaries—here to give you a proper drubbing!"
Suddenly, the two of us were under a coordinated assault. Da, Rhona, and even Magnus emerged from the back door, launching a combined volley of white powder.
"The dastardly French!" I cried, pulling Hank toward a cedar tree for cover. "Stabbing us in the back from Canada!"
United against our sworn enemy, Hank, Bonnie, and I launched a counter-attack. The battle was spirited, but the French were doomed from the start. Rhona did a lot more shrieking and running than actual throwing, though when she did find her range, her accuracy was lethal—far better than Magnus.
True to form, Magnus was the first to sauve qui peut, retreating to the warmth of the kitchen as the French always do. Eventually, the field was cleared of everyone but Da, with Bonnie acting as an ever-shifting ally, wagging her way through the crossfire.
Truce finally declared, we retired from the field of battle, shivering and triumphant. The smell of Mum's breakfast was already drifting up the stairs, a warm promise of bacon and coffee, so Hank and I scampered up to my ensuite for a scorching shower.
We stood under the spray until the chill of the Austin snow was a distant memory. There was a quiet, comfortable rhythm to it—mutual hair washing and soaping each other's bodies, our hands moving with the easy familiarity we'd developed over the last month. We kept it simple, though; the gorge was satisfied, and the hunger now was just for warmth and food.
Six inches of snow meant the city was officially offline. Hank wasn't going anywhere until the Texas apocalypse was sorted, and as I watched him rinse the suds from his hair, I couldn't think of a better way to spend a frozen weekend.
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