Chapter 2

• I fight the grimace that always arises when he uses that nickname. I am almost 21 and he still calls me "kiddo".
• "I'm sorry, Dad. I know you don't like to talk about it," I apologize.
• He breathes in deeply.
• "No… Well, I don't, but I should. There are things you need to know."
• He stops as though he is unsure of what to say next.
• I move my attention to the rings on my fingers. A nervous habit of mine. Three simple bands don my right hand. A large gold band filled delicately with intricate details such as trees and a hidden wolf has found its home on my thumb. A simple gold wedding band on my middle finger and a delicate diamond ring sparkles softly on my ring-finger. My mother's engagement and wedding band, and my father's family ring. I study them quietly as I wait for my father to say something. The rings have found a permanent home on my hand ever since my mother died when I was 14.
• "I promise I will be more forthcoming with you, but unfortunately you slept away most of the ride!" he laughs, if somewhat nervously.
• I look his way, studying his profile. He is a good-looking man with only a few streaks of grey splattering through his dark hair. There are a few wrinkles here and there on his face, but they suit him. His black moustache has been a permanent fixture on his lip for as long as I can remember. I smile. He looks great, lighter somehow than I have ever seen him.
• I am pulled from my silent browsing when I feel the car turn onto a small dirt road. My father looks my way, his dark eyes cautious. When his eyes met mine, he smiles encouragingly. However, I can see tension in his eyes and mouth that wasn't there earlier. Although he has been very clear about wanting to move back home, something about returning to this place is bothering him. I have thought about this several times over the last month, since he mentioned moving back here. As usual, I don't question it. My father is a quiet and serious man who doesn't like to speak about feelings. But he is also a man who would never do anything he didn't want to or feel passionate about. That was partly why I had accepted the move with no question.
• The stifling weather in Arizona and lack of safe areas where our wolves could run free, was yet another reason for me to agree to the move. With my father's help, I'd easily been able to transfer to a small hospital where I could continue my work as a nurse. I had some friends I would miss, but in all honesty, I had always felt out of place in Arizona. My father was the only other shifter I knew. He had tried to help out and be supportive when I first began to phase, but my mother had just passed and… well it just wasn't a good time for either of us.
• I breathe in a shaky breath and hold it as the car turns onto a long dirt road. After a short while, butterflies begin a wide driveway with a wooden arch. In the distance I can see a large white barn. My mouth widens as I read the beautifully carved letters:
• Swan Ranch
• I turn my questioning eye towards his, but he seems to be ignoring me. He doesn't even slow down. We own a ranch?
• Four large wooden log houses lay in front of us, the road curving in front of each house creating a semi-circle. Far to the right I can make out a barn and a pasture with a few grazing horses. There are a few other small buildings scattered around. Most surprising, or intimidating, of all are the amount of people. 10, 15 maybe 20 people are working the grounds, all pausing to stare our way as the car moves up the curvy road. This is not something I'm prepared for.
• "Dad?" I ask, my voice quivering slightly.
• "Yeah."
• He clears his throat.
• "I guess I kind of left out that we would be living on a ranch, huh?" There is a sheepish smile on his face.
• "Yeah, that has our name on it!" I exclaim childishly.
• "Yeah, it's been in the family for years," he replies, distracted. His attention is on the group of workers near the barn. He drives the car in their direction, parking expertly in something that appears to be a very familiar spot for him.
• My father's eyes are drawn to a particular man in the group now right outside of the car. The man appears to be a little younger than my father. His long hair is pulled back into a ponytail, trailing down between his shoulders. His skin is dark from being out in the sun. But his face… He's the spitting image of my father. The man's strides are long as he takes the last steps towards us, almost running. A wide, carefree smile fills his face, one I see is mirrored on my father's. I don't think I've ever seen my father smile that widely.