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Carter hands her a bag of dog treats as we step through the gate. “Get ready for fourteen new BFFs.”

All the dogs hit her at once, and she goes down on her knees in the snow to meet them. She’s got both hands deep in fur as she talks to them in a voice I’ve never heard her use, reading their names off their collars. Somewhere in there, she gets a name wrong and gives that dog two treats and an apology. When she comes up for air, cold-bitten and eyes bright, her mouth opens like she’s gearing up to say something.

“Before you ask, no, we are not getting a dog.”

She shoves me. “Stop reading me.”

Carter laughs. “Irritating, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Thank you,” she says.

“Let’s go in by the fire, and I’ll make some tea.”

We follow him to the house.

There’s no kitchen to speak of, just a timber counter and a farmhouse sink. Stainless-steel dog bowls left to drain on the side, two hundred pounds of kibble stacked in the corner where an oven should be, and one mug on a shelf above it.

Ellery’s eyes go around the room twice, and I follow her trail. Not a single photograph is on the walls of this house. I’ve been coming out here for years and never noticed. My place is the same, but I know why mine is.

Carter digs up a packet of tea and holds it up to the light. “This is about two years old. I bought it for a woman who came out here for a while and never came back. I’m not going to take that personally.”

Vet records and kibble orders are scattered across his kitchen table, and he gathers them up into a manila folder to make room and sets the teapot over the fire. I quietly fish the snacks I packed for Ellery out of the overnight bag.

“How are you liking Ravenslight Creek?” he asks her as we take a seat.

“Aside from nearly being mauled by a vampire, it’s been great.”

“So a good time all around, then?”

“Honestly? Yes.” She nibbles on some jerky. “I work with Nick and at the cafe. I learned to build a fire without crying. It’s a whole thing.”

“You write for Roslyn.”

Ellery stops chewing. “How do you know that?”

“I read the paper.” He says it like it should be obvious. “Jessalyn told you the festival’s a waste of everybody’s time and then admitted the salon was booked solid for weeks before and after. I enjoyed it enormously.”

Ellery blushes. “Roslyn cut two hundred words.”

Carter brings the teapot to the table and scoops in the tea, pouring some into the mug for Ellery.

He sits and tips his chair back on two legs. “Roslyn Thorndale hasn’t let another living soul put a name on a page of that paper since Fairbanks got the internet, and I’ve personally seen her make a grown man cry over a semicolon.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second, staring down at her tea.

“How long have you lived out here?” she asks instead.

“Two leaders.” He scratches his short, full beard. “About thirteen years if you want to think about it that way.”

“And before that?”

“Everywhere.” He waves it off. “Lisbon for a while. Dublin, Buenos Aires, Istanbul. Two winters in New Zealand. One very long road trip through Romania I could’ve done without.”

“Where was the best?” Ellery sits forward like she’s conducting an interview and doesn’t want to miss a word.

“Bolivia. Salt flats, after the rain. Standing in the middle of it, sandwiched between two skies. Cried like a baby. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I bet you did.” I grin.