Whit shook off his embarrassment over his straying shaft, and asked cheerfully, “So, why are you two back so soon? Is your patrol nearby? They could all come up too, you know. Papa wouldn’t mind. Or are you on a mission for your Lakewalkers, like that courier fellow who brought your letters and the horses and presents?”

“My bride-gifts made it? Oh, good,” said Dag.

“Yep, they sure did. Surprised us all. Mama wanted to write a letter back to you, but the courier had gone off already, and we didn’t know how to get in touch with your people to send it on.”

“Ah,” said Dag. There’s a problem. There was the problem, or one aspect of it: farmers and Lakewalkers who couldn’t talk to each other. Like now? For all his mental rehearsal, Dag found it suddenly difficult to spit out the tale of his exile, just off the cuff like this.

Fortunately, Fawn filled in. “We’re just visitin’. Dag’s sort of off-duty for a time, till his hurts heal up.”

True in a sense—well, no, not really. But there would be time to explain further—maybe when everyone was together, so he wouldn’t have to repeat it all over and over, a prospect that made him wince even more than the vision of explaining it to a crowd.

They strolled to recapture the horses, and Whit waved toward the old barn. “The stalls you used before are empty. You still got that man-eating red nag, I see.” He skirted Copperhead to gather up Grace’s reins; from the way the bay mare resisted his tugging to snatch a few last mouthfuls of grass, one would take her for starved—clearly not the case.

“Yep,” said Dag, stooping with a grunt to scoop up the gelding’s reins in turn. “I still haven’t met anyone I disliked enough to give him to.”

“And he’s been ridin’ Copperhead for eight straight years. It’s a wonder, that.” Fawn dimpled. “Admit it, Dag, you like that dreadful horse.” She went on to her brother, in a tone of bright diversion, “So, what’s been happening here at West Blue since I left?”