It was late evening and they were in his study. He’d just shared some—never all—of the details of that fateful night almost thirty years ago, when they’d hunted two slaves, and had instead found themselves hunted by a rampaging wolf. He’d spoken of the size of the wolf, bigger than any Ryder had ever seen, its strange endurance after being shot numerous times, and its final death—a silver bullet through the head that had brought it crashing to the ground, and even then, it had taken a few more to finally still its breathing. At that time, he’d had silver bullets because they showed status. Not every slave owner could afford to have bullets made of pure silver, but his father had.“You will excuse my reaction, Mr. Ryder. If you’re being serious about this story, I apologize, but if this is some form of rite of passage for new slaveholders, I am thoroughly impressed.”Arnaud grinned and lifted his whiskey-filled glass to them.Feeling a tingle of irritation at the younger man, Patrick struggled for patience.
