Текст книги "The Dragon's Favorite Strays"
Автор книги: Ruby Dixon
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
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CHAPTER 109
DAKOTA
Melina’s polite words surprise me. I’d tried to think of a million reasons as to why we’d been invited for coffee and a chat, but…the dogs? “What about the dogs?”
“You know as well as I do that a companion like that wasn’t possible for a long time. With dragons attacking the forts, a pet was a bad idea. Now that things have settled down quite a bit, we’ve heard requests from a lot of our residents for pets. Cats, dogs…I even had a gentleman asking to find a snake and bring it inside as a pet. We told him no. But a dog is doable, provided the owners manage their food supplies properly. Cats are trickier because they’re meat eaters. I’d be happy with some mousers here in the fort, but I also don’t want to bring in cats that won’t hunt, because then the responsibility is on us to feed them.”
I’m a little surprised at how much thought has gone into pets inside the fort. “Wow. You really have thought everything through.”
Melina’s expression remains sober. “I have to. We’re responsible for everyone. Something that’s not a problem today might be a problem in ten years if not handled properly. It’s our responsibility to try and think ahead and handle situations before they get out of hand. Which is why I wanted to talk with you about your friend Aggie and her puppies. Jonah spoke with Thess last night and Thess came to me this morning. From what it sounds like, Jonah would receive a puppy once it’s of age?”
“Yes. Aggie thinks it would be good for him to have a companion at his side. I know the dog won’t be trained a hundred percent as a guide dog, but if he can train it to learn certain commands, I think it’d be wildly helpful for him.”
“I agree. Jonah’s very clever, much like his father. If anyone can train a puppy, it’s him. He also mentioned that Aggie had more dogs and she was looking to pair them up with children here in the fort? If so, it’s an extremely generous offer, but that’s where I’m seeing that there could be problems. The children he’s thinking of are either poor, or orphaned, or in need in some other way, which means they’re also bigger targets for the more unscrupulous. I don’t want a child to get knifed over a puppy.”
That stops me in my tracks. I’ve forgotten about the realities of living in a fort. How many times had I stayed up all night with a knife at my side because someone had looked at Rabbit the wrong way? Giving a child a puppy in a situation like this, where so many people have nothing day to day, is bound to cause issues. “You’re right. It’s a bad idea.”
“No, actually, I think it’s a good idea,” Melina says. “I think it’s wonderfully generous. But it needs to be executed properly.”
Gwen glances between me and Melina. “Tell her what you had in mind, Mel. I don’t think Dakota or Aggie would want anyone to be in danger. They’re just trying to bring some happiness, that’s all.”
Melina nods again, her expression thoughtful. “You’re probably going to hate this idea, but it would be best if the dogs were not gifts from Aggie, but instead, assignments from Lord Azar. A gift is easily stolen, and since you don’t live at the fort, there will be little thought of repercussions.” She lifts her coffee cup again, using it to gesture. “But, if the dogs are traded to Lord Azar, he can ‘assign’ them to the little ones so they can pull their weight in the fort. They will be told to train the dogs and to check in regularly with Lord Azar’s team. This ensures that Lord Azar’s stamp is all over the situation and no one will harm a child or a puppy. Furthermore, it allows us to ensure that the animals are being taken care of…and that we can control any breeding that might occur.”
“That’s a lot of micromanaging.”
“Micromanaging the people here is how we keep everything running smoothly,” Melina admits with a grimace. She sips her coffee, and for a moment, she looks tired. “I know it’s controlling, but we want to be very careful with the reintroduction of pets. We want it to be overseen to ensure both dogs and children are safe, and throwing my husband’s name into the mix is the easiest way to do it.”
I down the rest of my coffee. “I understand. I’ll talk to Aggie and tell her to speak with you about it. What about Jonah’s dog? Will that need to be run through Lord Azar, too?”
“We can say that Jonah’s dog was payment for Samir’s services for your sick friend.”
I nod. I’m doing lots of nodding as we talk. Melina really has thought through everything, and it all makes sense in a terrible sort of way. Forts aren’t completely awful, but for every good person, there’s also someone desperate and unhappy. People with nothing to lose can do unpredictable things. “Thank you for being willing to work with us on this. I didn’t realize that the puppies would be such an issue.”
“I think they’ll bring great joy to a place that needs some joy,” Melina says. “But we want to make sure it remains joy and doesn’t turn into tragedy. It’s a very generous idea, and if you’ve got more generous ideas, we’d love to hear them. I know it seems like we’re the bad guys, given that Azar is Salorian, but he and I are truly committed to making this fort prosperous.”
I think about the book in my bag, the one about farming. I think about the cow herd. They could probably drive the cattle closer to the fort, and someone here could tend to them. A source of meat and dairy for those that live here? Melina and Azar would be interested for sure.
But…I don’t say anything. “I’ll talk with my mate. See what he thinks.” And because I want to change the subject before I give up information I shouldn’t, I shoot Gwen a teasing glance. “You should have said something, by the way.”
The look she gives me is utterly blank. “About…what?”
“The mental connection between mates? I thought it wasn’t there anymore at all. That’s what Murr said.”
Suddenly both women are intently trained in on me. “Wait. You mean to tell me you and Murtades can speak telepathically?” Gwen asks, her eyes wide. “How?”
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CHAPTER 110
DAKOTA
Both women stare at me like I’ve grown another head.
“You still have a mental link to your mate?” Gwen asks, her expression a mixture of both surprise and vague hurt. “How is that possible?”
“I…I don’t know how it’s possible. The same as all other mental links, right? We only met after the Rift closed, and Murr was convinced that he was cut off from everyone entirely. We mated just because it was important to share each other’s traditions.” I touch my neck, thinking of his bite. “We didn’t think it would do anything. But after a while, we noticed that each other’s thoughts were leaking… It’s hard to explain.”
“Try,” Gwen presses. Her hands are clasped under her chin, and she leans in against the table, intent. “I want to know what you’re doing.”
I feel weird about this. They’ve been mated to their dragons for much longer than I’ve been with Murr. How is it that no one else has noticed the thought swapping? “We didn’t think we had a connection, but I noticed after a while that we kept ‘guessing’ what the other was thinking. Then I’d notice that a thought would cross my mind that didn’t feel like me, or would think of things in a way that I didn’t. It wasn’t until I was in danger and Murr showed up without me saying a thing that we realized he’d somehow known that I was in trouble. He’d picked up on my fear and came to the rescue. After that, we tested things.
“We tried a blindfold to see if removing one of the senses helped us lock in to what the other person was thinking. I don’t think we believed at first that we were really connected, but the blindfold allowed us to realize that it really was a thing.” I touch my temple. “It’s not like speaking to each other directly. It’s more that you’re sensing what the other person is thinking or feeling. You have to really lock in to it…but not, if that makes sense. The more you focus in on trying to hear, the more you won’t hear anything. It’s almost like you have to meditate and let down your barriers. I only ‘feel’ what Murr is thinking when I’m not expecting it, and it’s not every time.”
“But it’s something,” Gwen says softly.
“You used a blindfold?” Melina asks. “Can you tell us exactly what you did?”
Blushing, I try to recount how we tested things without getting into the nitty gritty of our sex life. My explanation is weak, but the two women are thoughtful once I finish talking. They exchange a look.
“You don’t believe me,” I state, noticing their expressions. “I don’t blame you, but I’m not lying.”
“I believe you,” Melina says, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s just that I don’t know if it’s going to work for everyone. Some of the drakoni have stronger mental connections than others, my husband says. It stands to reason that some might have their thoughts leaking through even if they’re not connected like they were before the Rift.”
“There’s one way to find out,” I joke. “Get a blindfold and test your partner.”
“I hope you’re right,” Gwen says, her face thoughtful. “We’ve tried so many times to get in touch through the mental link like we used to and it’s never worked.”
“We never had a mental link in the past,” I say. “Maybe that’s how we were able to notice the little things. We never had anything to miss.”
“And maybe that’s how we’re overlooking it,” Gwen agrees. She fiddles with a lock of her hair, considering. “I’m going to give it a try. I miss feeling him. I can’t imagine what it’s like for the drakoni, being completely cut off like that. I know it’s necessary because the Rift was making them crazed, but it hurts to lose that closeness…”
I nod, thinking about Murr and how devastated he was to not have a link to the other drakoni. How he’d been in hiding, surrounding himself with cats because he’d thought he was broken the whole time. It took meeting Thess and realizing that all of the drakoni were suffering from the lack of connection to heal his emotions.
He’s never been broken. He’s just been muted, like a radio dial turned all the way down. “Just get a blindfold and get your mate and give it a try,” I tell them. “And don’t chase it. Just let it happen.”
“Like an orgasm,” Gwen says.
All three of us break into laughter.
I wonder if Murr can feel my happiness in this moment, and my love for him. I hope that he does.
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CHAPTER 111
DAKOTA
It takes another week for Samir to declare Dottie almost fully recovered. She stays at the fort and in bed the entire time, and Samir (and Rabbit) monitor her constantly. Dottie fusses the entire time, but she gets a lot of her knitting done, and by the end of the week, she’s cracking jokes and demanding people entertain her, and I think she secretly enjoys the attention.
Since she’s bedridden for a full week, we bake her birthday corn-cake one night, wrap her presents, and bring the celebration to the fort the next day. She loves all of it, but most of all, the tiny, ridiculous antique teacups. “Reminds me of my mama’s good china,” Dottie tells us, clutching one of the cups close to her heart. “It makes your tea taste better. You watch.”
I don’t know about that, but I was able to haggle for a few coffee beans from Melina’s store in exchange for a bunch of books for the fort library, and several haunches of fresh meat. I’m going to crush those beans and add them to my grounds, and squeeze a bit more life out of my sad supply of coffee when we get home.
By the end of the week, while I’m thrilled Dottie is better, I’m tired of the fort. It’s too many people. It’s dirty because so many live there. I’m ready to get back to our daily life and spending time around the fire with the cats. I’m ready to sleep in with my mate at my side.
I’m ready for Rabbit to take some time away from Jonah. They’re now holding hands furtively, and he calls her by her real name, Everleigh. The mama in me thinks it’s less cute now and getting a little too serious too fast. It’ll do them good to spend some time apart.
It’ll do me good to see them apart, too.
We just need to go home and back to our regular schedule. My plants at the bookstore aren’t thriving. They’re wilting under the chilly air. It’s been unusually cold for North Texas, and they’re suffering. Maybe plants aren’t meant to grow in potholes. Maybe they need real dirt. Who knows. Stella is missing us, too. She whines for attention when we get home, abandoning her puppies to snuggle with Aggie. Even the cats have been more needy than usual, and when we come back from the fort every night, we’re greeted with an angry chorus of meows and demands for food and petting. We leave the door to the bookstore cracked open all day so the animals can go in and out without us there, which means that when we get home, the store is drafty and cold, and there are piles of leaves in the doorway.
I’ll just be glad when things settle down, I tell myself for the millionth time.
We’re heading back to the fort today, on day eight. Samir says Dottie can go home tomorrow if her urine remains clear and she continues to show no issues with the antibiotics. I repack my backpack to add in Rabbit’s favorite sweatshirt and a warm sweater for Dottie, as the day is cold and blustery and it might rain. As I pull out ivermectin and dried meat, I pull out a book, too. Introduction to Homesteading.
And I pause, gazing down at the cover with a cow on it.
In the last week, we’ve given a ton of books to the fort in exchange for a few things. Children’s books and schoolbooks, romance novels and classics. For some reason, I haven’t been able to part with this particular book. I’ve held onto it, and I haven’t mentioned the herd of cattle we found, either. The area where we found them was a series of pastures near the big barn. I’m sure they’ve spread out a bit, but something tells me they’re still in the same vicinity. It’d be easy to find them again. Easy to go back to that barn and repair the roof.
And where there’s a farm, there’s a farmhouse.
“Ready to fly?” Murr asks, coming into the “room” we share together. He leans against one of the empty bookshelves. “Need anything?”
I glance up at him and really study our surroundings. At the bookshelves that make up the “walls” of our room, and the pictures we have tacked onto them, the objects set on the shelves themselves. At my mattress on the floor. I think about the giant broken window at the front, held together by duct tape and hope. I think about the broken asphalt outside and my plants that aren’t thriving in the spots in the broken pavement we’ve tried to squeeze them into. This isn’t home. This is existing.
I’m tired of just existing.
I glance up at my handsome husband. His expression is calm and cheerful, but I worry he won’t like what I’m about to ask. “What if we lived somewhere else, Murr?”
“Where?”
“The place where we found the cattle?”
He considers this. “Not long flight. We take cats? Dottie?”
“Of course. We’d take everyone. Dogs, cats, ladies, whatever we want to bring with us.”
He shrugs. “Then we go.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Dakota home,” he says simply. “Murr home with Dakota, with cats. Dakota with cows, Murr with cows.”
“Well, not directly with the cows,” I say, stifling a giggle. My heart fills with love for him. “And it doesn’t have to be there. If there’s somewhere you’d rather be that’s more comfortable, we can go there. I just want to think about the future for a change. I’m tired of living day to day. I want to settle down and stay somewhere. Really stay.”
He pauses. “But not…fort?”
“No, not a fort. God no.”
“Good.” He looks relieved, and I laugh all over again. “Fort smell terrible.”
“I thought you said you could live anywhere,” I tease, getting to my feet and moving into his arms.
Murr pulls me close and nuzzles at my throat. “Murr live in fort with Dakota, if Dakota want,” he murmurs. “Cut off nose, too.”
I snort with amusement. “Guess we’ll just have to find somewhere else. I like your nose.”
“Murr like Dakota nose, too.” And he kisses the tip of it.
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EPILOGUE
SIX MONTHS LATER
DAKOTA
I hum to myself as I put a log into the stove and heat the cast-iron skillet. The theme song from Little House on the Prairie plays in my head, and I’m tempted to pull out an apron and go full-blown pioneer. But breakfast is just eggs and tan coffee-water, so there’s not really a need to cover my clothing. I wait for my cast-iron skillet on the stove to warm up, and as I do, I crack eggs.
God, I love eggs.
Even more than the coffee, they feel like a daily luxury. The coffee is sad and watered down, a constant reminder of what used to be, but the eggs are fresh and delicious every day, courtesy of the chickens we now have on the farm. We have them for breakfast every morning, and I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of them. I don’t care how poopy the chicken coop gets or how many times they peck our hands as we pull out the eggs every day. Chickens are magical.
Our flock was initially small—three hens and a rooster that showed up at the barn a few days after we’d moved to the farmhouse. While Murr and I had worked on transporting cats slowly to the new house, Rabbit had worked on catching chickens and repairing the old coop. The chickens were easy to persuade with a bit of food and settled in. It was so hard not to eat the first eggs they laid, but after a few months, we had a flock. Last month they started really laying eggs like crazy and haven’t stopped.
We are currently in egg heaven.
I’ve pored through old cookbooks, trying to find recipes that involve eggs and no flour. I do miss bread, but having eggs makes things easier. The How to Farm guidebooks say that chickens stop laying in the winter (which surprised me) so we’ll feast while we have them and go heavy on red meat when they stop.
It’s nice to plan ahead for the future. I impulsively crack a few more eggs and then dice some summer squash into the mix. Maybe we can make a quiche? That’d be nice.
Rabbit cuts through the kitchen, a laundry basket in her arms. Kermit rests atop the folded blankets in the basket as my daughter sets it down. “Did you know the cats have been nesting in the guest room?”
“Have they? I didn’t check.” I pull a tiny tomato out of our veggie basket and chop it up, too. “Mommy nesting or just regular nesting?”
“Mommy nesting,” Rabbit says. “Shortcake had kittens in there. Four of them. All over the nice clean blankets.”
I grimace. Kittens have been a bit of a problem with so many cats. We’re in talks with a vet back at the fort to discuss what to do for the future, but for now, we keep getting more kittens. The fort has been taking some of the cats that have proven themselves as mousers, and Gwen has talked about taking some of the cats to Fort Shreveport, her home fort, because they have a rodent problem.
Murr is happy to keep all of them here, of course, but we need to be practical. I eye my daughter. “You know what that means.”
“Oh, I know,” my daughter says in a harried voice. “Laundry for Rabbit. I hate laundry.”
“You’d hate it even more if Jonah didn’t come this weekend,” I singsong, whipping eggs like I’m Betty Crocker.
She groans all over again, picking up Kermit from the blanket nest and setting him on the floor of the kitchen. “I know. Trust me, I’m on it. Come get me when breakfast is ready.”
“Will do.”
Rabbit hauls the blankets through the kitchen, heading for the mudroom and then outside. Back when we were traveling, it was easier to discard blankets (or use dirty ones). Now that we have a home, I insist on chores. We’re going to be civilized, damn it.
We’ve raided every antique store in what feels like all of North Texas and supplied our house. Rabbit has an old-fashioned laundry bucket, complete with an accordion scrubber and a crank to wring out the water. We have clothing lines up in the backyard so everything smells fresh and clean. Does it make washing things less of a beast? Not really, but if we’re going to have visitors, I want them to sleep in a nice bed that smells like sunshine and not a fort.
Jonah and Rabbit’s teenage romance is still going strong, six months later. He spends a weekend here about once a month, with Sleepy (now called Greta) at his side. Rabbit goes to the fort with Murr when he runs errands or when there’s trading to be done, and Jonah and my daughter send each other little gifts constantly. It’s sweet, and I trust that Jonah is a good kid and isn’t going to take advantage of my daughter.
I still make sure that they’re not left alone together for any length of time, because they’re still teenagers and I remember being a teenager myself. When Jonah stays with us, his room is right next to mine and Murr’s, and Murr will hear if Jonah so much as breathes differently. We’ve invited Samir to come and visit, too, but he’s always too busy to get away. Something tells me that he and Thess enjoy their alone time when Jonah visits us. There’s not much privacy in that shipping container.
Buttering my skillet, I add the egg mix and grimace as the eggs immediately stick to the bottom. There’s supposed to be a way to cook eggs in a cast iron without them gluing themselves to the pan, but I have no idea how to do it and the books I have don’t cover that particular bit of context. The scent of burning eggs fills the kitchen, and I move breakfast to a cooler burner and open the window.
A chorus of meows start up throughout the house. Little feet hop down the stairs, and suddenly the kitchen is full of watchful cats. They like eggs, too, but they mostly like the burned bits I scrape off the bottom of the pan. “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, scrambling the eggs.
Maybe not quiche just yet. I need to level up with cooking before I try that.
I salvage most of the eggs, scraping the worst burned bits off for the cats, and plate up breakfast. I cover the food so the cats don’t get to it (because they’re spoiled) and then go hunt everyone down. I’m humming to myself as I poke my head out the door. “Breakfast, Rabbit.”
“Be right there,” she says, adding another bucket of well water to the laundry tub on the side of the house.
I close the screen door and head around to the other side of the house. As I do, I feel a sigh of pure contentment as I look at all of our wonderful things. The living room of the old farmhouse has several comfy couches to lounge on, and bookshelves line the walls, crammed with the books we brought from the bookstore. Lining the couches are even more cats, curled up and sleeping piled atop one another. We brought all of our cats from the fort. Even the ones that don’t like anyone but Murr now live in the great big barn and have the time of their lives roaming our property.
I pet a few of them as I pass by and then head to the back door of the house and toward the barn. The chicken coop is near the big barn, a gated and fenced off area with a miniature house set up just for the chickens. We’ve got an entire flock at this point, with more on the way, and the once-empty chicken pen is now full of white and brown hens, all of them clucking and ruffling feathers. I find Aggie and Dottie here inside the coop, with Dottie tossing handfuls of dried corn for the chickens while Aggie fishes out eggs from the coop itself. Stella is at the gate of the coop itself, her wet nose pressed to the chicken wire as she watches over everything.
“Breakfast is ready,” I call to the two women.
Aggie pokes her head out of the henhouse. She’s not wearing a wig yet today—she wears a handkerchief over her nearly bald head in the mornings because she feels it’s “more farm-y.” Did you burn the eggs again?”
“No,” I say defensively.
Dottie shoots Aggie a look. “She’s lying.”
“Neither of you has to eat,” I retort. “Or how about you make your own eggs.”
“They’re just eggs,” Dottie comments, throwing down a few more handfuls of corn and shaking the last of it out of her pail for the hungry chickens. “I don’t see what’s so hard about it.”
“That’s what she said,” jokes Aggie.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “You two suck. I’m going to go find Murr.”
They chortle, and I try to hide my grin as I walk away. It’s become a running joke that I destroy the eggs every morning, but we eat them anyhow. I’m determined to get it figured out, and until I do, I endure the ribbing.
It’s a beautiful day as I head up the hill to the big barn. In the months since we’ve moved to the farm, we’ve repaired the roof and the interior stalls and swept everything out. The fences are mended in most of the pastures, and we rotate the cattle between fields so they don’t chew the grass down to nubs. Murr is excellent at herding the cattle thanks to his drakoni form, but he’s also surprisingly good with the animals even in human form. It’s like they’ve got a sixth sense that he means them no harm.
I put a hand to my eyes, scanning the distant field for a dragon. I see cows with their heads down, grazing. In one of the nearer pastures, our alpacas and goats are playing, with a baby goat bouncing on an old tractor tire. More farm animals have shown up every month, some wandering in our direction, some found as we scavenge the nearby properties for useful items. Everyone is welcome, even the old blind donkey that hates everyone but the dogs.
We have two dogs now. The puppies have all gone to good homes in the fort, loved on by their people. We still have Stella. Our second dog is an old collie that wants nothing to do with us and spends all his time with the herd, as if they’re his sworn duty to protect. Rabbit calls him Don Quixote, a name that Jonah came up with. We make sure he’s fed and comfortable and leave him be.
Murr isn’t in the field, so I turn towards our gardens. We’ve taken over the massive, overgrown garden that was here and have tried to work it into some sort of shape. Since it’s summer, the tomatoes and cucumbers are growing wild in the heat, and our peppers are turning colors. The corn is reaching to the sky and our watermelons…well, our watermelons look sad, but that’s all right. The next farm over has peaches and plums, and they’re almost ready for picking. No Murr in the gardens, either. There’s a cat laying in Dottie’s boxed herb garden, but no dragon.
I head to the barn, and I’m humming the repetitive chorus all over again. It isn’t until it registers what I’m humming that I realize it’s a song in Murr’s head that I’m picking up on.
“When did you learn ‘Tubthumping’ by Chumbawumba?” I call out as I stroll into the barn.
My dragon husband glances back at me, a sheepish expression on his face. “I don’t know. Is it a bad song?”
“Not bad, just surprising.” Rabbit has taught him a few songs, but this one probably comes from Aggie, if I had to wager money. “It’s a song about drinking.”
“Drinking what?” he asks, ever innocent. God, he’s cute. Even after six months of being mated to him, I’m never tired of looking at him. I’m never tired of his questions, or his protectiveness, or the way he’s determined to save every stray animal that wanders our way. It’s like he wants to make sure every creature we find is safe and cared for and has a family, because he knows what it’s like to be alone.
I’m not sure how I got so lucky to get him, but I’ll take it and thank my lucky stars each day.
I move carefully to his side, keeping my steps slow and measured and my hands down. Our newest arrival at our farm is a horse, so skinny you can see every rib. It’s nervous around everyone so far, the whites of its eyes showing as I approach. It prances in the barn stall, eyeing me.
“You’d think he’d be more grateful after a few days of food,” I comment, moving to stand behind Murr and looping my arms around his waist. “This is the grumpiest horse I’ve ever seen.”
“He is scared and used to being hungry. He will calm down once he realizes we are friends,” Murr says, unbothered. He extends a hand towards the horse, palm up. “I brought you food, Pikachu.”
Oh lord. Rabbit’s naming conventions strike again.
Pikachu-the-horse flares his nostrils at Murr’s gentle words and paces in his stall. There are mounds of fresh grass (courtesy of Murr’s claws) and hay in a bucket for him, cool water, and a bag with cracked corn in it. We’re giving him small portions at first so he doesn’t make himself sick. Once we know he’s not diseased, we’ll move him in with the other farm animals. The books say to keep new animals quarantined for at least a week or two in order to determine if they’re healthy.
“No one will ride you,” my mate croons to the horse. “No one will eat you. You are safe. We have many friends here for you. Be calm.”
The horse snorts at him as if it doesn’t quite believe him, but it calms down a little.
“You are with friends,” Murr continues, keeping his hand out toward the horse. “We will look for your family and bring them here.”
“We will?” I whisper, surprised at this newest revelation. Murr usually flies off in the mornings to find something to eat and to find meat for our cats. Murr doesn’t hunt the herd, because he wants them to trust his presence.
“We will,” he says firmly. “If he has family, we want to find them. We want him to be safe with those he loves.”
My heart squeezes. He’s got such a soft spot for lost animals. “I guess we can go looking for horses today after breakfast.” I’m not sure how we’ll bring them back with us, but one thing at a time.
I’m filled with love for my dragon mate. Murr is the best person I’ve ever met, human or drakoni. The kindness in his heart is endless, from the smallest kitten to the largest, crankiest horse. He never judges them for snapping or hissing. He simply tries to understand the reasoning behind it and make their lives better.
He’s certainly made mine better. That day we ran into each other in the parking lot changed everything for me. I’d been so tired of other humans at that point, sick of everyone but my daughter. Meeting Murr had taught me that I wasn’t dead inside. That I could still fall in love despite losing faith in my fellow man.
Or maybe it’s because he was a dragon instead of just a man. Him having scales and wings put him in different territory. Teaching him English made us slow down and really think about what the other person was saying, was thinking.
