She patted him absently and tossed him half of what was on her plate. “Why is it you always show up when I’m cooking, son?”“He’s a dog. That’s what they do.”“True. He’s a fine bird dog, though.” She took a bite and chewed, wishing she had some herbs or garlic to flavor the bland meat. Still, it was fresh, and better than the dry jerky she’d been subsisting on for the last few days. She reached into her pack for her flask and took a swallow of the fine bourbon she’d set into barrels before Matthew had gotten sick.She passed the flask to her companion when he held out a hand, but her attention was elsewhere. Her second choice was another twenty miles west. She’d have to leave before dawn to have any hope of setting her stake before anyone else.“Where did you get this?” Caleb’s hoarse whisper dragged her attention back to him. She smiled as he cradled the flask like a newborn.“I made it shortly after I married my husband and set it into barrels in 1884.” She sighed heavily as she. Night is falling. Winter is coming, I can feel it in the air. He’s tall, taller than I am, broad shouldered and steady. I feel safe and comfortable in his physical presence. So comfortable, I often drift off and get lost in myself. Tonight, he’s brought me out bear hunting and we are now walking quietly up a deserted logging road and deeper into the dank evening woods. His only words of the evening strike me, ‘Keep your eyes up.’ ‘That’s what I’m gonna title my first book,’ I whisper to him, ‘Keep Your Eyes Up, You’ll Miss It.’ He holds up a finger, my signal to be quiet. I fall into line behind him and fix my eyes on his back. His sandy brown hair pokes slightly from beneath the beanie he wears. He carries a gun and a backpack, both slung over his broad shoulders. The woods are holy to him. I get the feeling that he is in tune here, that this is one of the few places in his life he feels like he fits. I often think he missed his generation — he should’ve been a frontiersmen. He.
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