White Tiger

A length of split-rail fence loomed up out of the darkness, marking the edge of a property along the road. Barbed wire was more commonly used out here, effective for keeping cattle within a range, but ranchers sometimes lined the drives to their houses with split rail, a decorative choice.

Kendrick saw no lights, no closed gates, nothing to tell him the place was inhabited. The house at the end of the drive might be half fallen down or abandoned and full of vermin. Most mice, rats, and snakes would vanish when a wolf walked in, however, even if he looked like an innocent little boy. They knew. A full-grown white tiger was nothing they wanted to encounter either.

Kendrick slowed and turned onto the rutted track that met the road at the end of the fence. Addison’s hands tightened on his middle but she said nothing, asked no questions. Kendrick sensed her exhaustion, her need for rest.

The dirt drive led up over a rise filled with mesquite and scrub, effectively curtaining whatever was back here from the little-trafficked road. About half a mile later, Kendrick pulled the bike to a halt in front of a long, low house whose windows and roof were still intact. A front porch ran the length of the house, and rocking chairs had been placed at intervals so inhabitants could sit and watch the night.

Kendrick turned off the motor, carefully swung his leg over the front of the bike, and stood up.

The silence was immense, which Kendrick liked. Cities made him itch. He couldn’t properly use his Shifter senses in a town—he was assaulted by too many scents, sights, and sounds, which ran together to form a jumbled mass.

Out here, the night was vast, the sky thick with stars, the constellations that humans called the Big and Little Dippers hanging sharp against the fainter stars around them.

Addison swung down from the bike, yanked the helmet from her head, and rubbed her backside. “Where the heck—”

Kendrick motioned her to silence. The cubs hadn’t said a word. They knew to let Kendrick surveil a possible campsite, waiting quietly while he sussed out any dangers.

He approached the front door of the house from an oblique angle, staying in the blackest shadows. The place didn’t smell deserted but he detected the scent of only one human.

That human yanked open the door and shone a lantern flashlight full in Kendrick’s face. “Can I help you with something?” A voice belonging to an elderly man came at him, and Kendrick heard the click of a cocking shotgun.

If Kendrick hadn’t heard that sound earlier tonight, hadn’t thrown his sons over the counter and rolled after them, he wouldn’t be standing here, and neither would the cubs or Addison. But his reactions were those of a cat, and Kendrick could move fast.

He had the shotgun out of the man’s hands in a heartbeat, pointing the barrels well away from his cubs and Addison.

The lantern dipped, and the gray-haired man raised one hand in surrender. “Now, no need for violence,” he said in a slow Texas drawl. “I just need to be careful about who walks up to my door in the middle of the night. What y’all want?”

Addison, who truly needed to learn about caution, approached. “We hate to bother you, sir,” she said in her pleasant waitress voice, “but we saw your house, and there isn’t much else out here, is there? Is there a town close by where we can spend the night?”

The man glanced at Kendrick, who still held the gun by its barrel, and Addison, who was smiling, a Texas-born girl who knew how to be polite.

“Ain’t no towns around here,” the man said. “There’s Marfa, but it’s about a hundred miles that way and the hippies have taken it over. No, this is the best place to stay in these parts. Welcome to Charlie’s Dude Ranch. Can I book you a room?”