Chapter 32 #2
Officer Hazel's assistance has been invaluable—submitting officialized documentation that declares us a legally recognized pack, ensuring government records reflect our bonded status, and providing a legal framework that strengthens our protection against Gregory's continued harassment.
Legal pack.
Not just biological bonds but official recognition.
Protection under the pack rights legislation.
The peace that knowledge brings is profound—security beyond just physical safety, legal standing that provides a buffer against manipulation and coercion.
Everything's falling into place.
Finally.
After years of chaos and uncertainty, things are actually working out.
Aidric's voice cuts through my contemplation, pulling me back to immediate circumstances:
"Are you going to need help mounting, or can you manage independently?"
The taunt is obvious—challenging my competence, testing whether I'll admit weakness or prove capability.
Competitive bastard.
Always needs to establish hierarchy.
I laugh—genuine sound of amusement at his transparent provocation—and move toward the dappled gray standing beside Calder's chestnut mare.
This one.
Athletic build, intelligent eyes, and the particular energy that suggests a spirited personality.
Perfect match.
The horse watches my approach with curiosity, ears forward with attention that suggests assessment rather than anxiety. I extend my hand slowly, allowing her to investigate my scent before attempting physical contact.
Proper introduction.
Respect for the autonomous creature rather than treating her as equipment.
Her nose finds my palm, warm breath huffing against skin as she determines I'm acceptable. Satisfied with the assessment, she permits touch—allowing me to stroke her neck while I examine saddle configuration.
Standard western saddle.
Higher pommel and cantle than English style.
Designed for long rides and working cattle.
Exactly what I learned during my brief ranch stint in high school.
I gather reins with a practiced grip, position my left foot in the stirrup with proper placement, and swing myself up with fluid motion that speaks to muscle memory rather than recent practice.
Successful mount.
On the first attempt.
Without assistance.
Take that, Hawthorne.
Aidric's expression shifts from smug anticipation to surprised disappointment—clearly, he'd been expecting a struggle that would justify his assistance and demonstrate his superior knowledge.
Disappointed.
Absolutely disappointed that I didn't need rescue.
I settle into the saddle, adjusting reins while projecting confidence, I mostly feel.
"I'm pretty good at riding, if you didn't know," I call toward Aidric with deliberate taunt. "But I suppose there's only one way for you to discover exactly how skilled I am."
Innuendo.
Blatant innuendo.
Worth it for his reaction.
Before he can formulate a response, I encourage my horse forward with gentle pressure from my legs—a traditional cue that she responds to immediately, transitioning from standing to walk without hesitation.
Responsive.
Well-trained and responsive.
This is going to be fun.
"That's cheating!" Aidric's protest carries genuine indignation, like I've violated unspoken rules by taking initiative.
Not cheating.
Strategic advantage.
Learn the distinction, Captain.
Silas and Bear follow my lead—both mounting with varying degrees of grace, Bear requiring a larger horse and a reinforced saddle to accommodate his size. Their laughter carries across the distance, clearly amused by my competitive start and Aidric's resulting frustration.
Calder joins the pursuit, his chestnut mare transitioning smoothly into canter that demonstrates their practiced coordination.
Leaving Aidric behind.
All of us leaving Aidric behind.
Poetic justice.
Aidric gawks at the desertion—expression broadcasting absolute betrayal that Calder specifically would abandon him in favor of chasing after me.
"HE of all people can't leave me behind!" The protest is almost plaintive, wounded pride mixing with genuine hurt. "That's a violation of—of something! Some rule about not abandoning your—your—"
He can't say it.
Can't articulate the relationship that still exists between them.
Can't admit Calder abandoning him specifically hurts more than the rest of us doing it.
Calder's laugh floats back—bright and genuinely amused, clear enjoyment at Aidric's distress.
"Only this one occasion!" he calls without slowing. "But hurry your ass up if you don't want to be left completely behind!"
Permission.
Granting permission for Aidric to catch up.
While making him work for it.
Perfect balance of teasing and inclusion.
Aidric groans—sound carrying frustration and acceptance, recognition that he's been outmaneuvered by collective coordination he didn't anticipate.
He grips the reins with practiced hands, adjusting his position in the saddle before delivering a command that makes his massive stallion immediately responsive.
The whip of reins is controlled rather than harsh—a signal rather than punishment, communication between an experienced rider and a trained mount.
His horse neighs—a powerful sound that speaks to strength and spirit, excitement at finally being permitted movement after patient standing. The stallion launches forward with impressive acceleration, powerful muscles bunching and releasing with each stride.
Magnificent.
Absolutely magnificent.
Both horse and rider moving with synchronized precision that speaks to years of partnership.
The landscape blurs past as we ride—Montana wilderness in full autumn glory, leaves turning spectacular colors, mountains providing a dramatic backdrop that justifies every tourism brochure ever printed.
This is freedom.
Actual freedom.
Not just absence of constraint but presence of joy.
The wind whips through my hair, cool air burning my lungs in ways that feel cleansing rather than painful. My horse responds to minimal cues, is clearly well-trained, and responsive to experienced riders.
I'm good at this.
Forgot how much I enjoyed this.
How long since I allowed myself pleasure that wasn't productive or professional?
Bear and Silas flank me loosely—protective formation without being restrictive, clearly monitoring my position while allowing autonomy. Their horses move with ground-covering strides that suggest endurance rather than pure speed.
Calder rides slightly ahead—natural leader position, his mare setting the pace that others follow. His posture is relaxed, confident, completely at home in this environment in ways that reveal yet another layer of his complex personality.
He belongs here.
Not just capable but genuinely comfortable.
California Alpha with Montana soul.
Aidric charges from behind—his stallion's longer stride allowing him to close the distance rapidly, thunder of hooves announcing his approach before he comes into view.
Competitive bastard couldn't stand being last.
Had to prove his superior riding skills.
Predictable.
The ranch appears on the horizon—sprawling property with multiple buildings, fenced pastures, the particular organization that speaks to working operation rather than hobby farm.
This is their ranch.
Aidric's family ranch, which he walked away from to pursue firefighting.
The legacy he abandoned.
The main house is a substantial two-story structure with a wrap-around porch, an architectural style that balances functionality with aesthetic appeal. Outbuildings dot the property—barn, equipment sheds, what appears to be a guest house or bunkhouse, and corrals for livestock.
Impressive.
Genuinely impressive operation.
Not a hobby ranch but a legitimate agricultural business.
We slow as we approach—horses transitioning smoothly through gaits, responsive to riders' cues as we navigate toward the barn area.
This is good.
This moment—riding through Montana wilderness with pack, approaching ranch that represents their heritage, anticipating weekend of genuine leisure and connection—this is exactly what I needed.
What we all needed.
Space to be packed away from professional obligations and public scrutiny.
Aidric pulls alongside me, his stallion matching my mare's pace with practiced ease. His expression has shifted from competitive frustration to something approaching satisfaction—pride in his home, in this land, in the heritage he's maintained despite choosing a different career path.
This is his.
His family legacy.
And he's sharing it with me.
With us.
The significance isn't lost—invitation to private space, inclusion in family heritage, demonstration of trust that extends beyond professional cooperation.
We're a Pack.
Actually, genuinely a Pack.
Not just surviving together but building life together.
The barn looms closer, horses anticipating arrival with increasing energy. They know this place, recognize it as home or at least familiar territory.
Almost there.
A weekend of connection and discovery.
Almost time to create memories that transform our arrangement into a family.