Stony River by Ciarra Montanna

him, not unkindly: “Stay, Thistle.” The lamb halted, and watched Joel disappear down the slope.
    Sevana jumped up to see if she could catch sight of them—and spotted Joel walking the errant sheep back up the hill. She went down to meet them. “He must not have gone too far,” she said, glad Joel had gotten him back without trouble.
    When Joel stopped, the sheep also stopped, looking back at him so indignantly that Sevana burst out laughing—and Joel, too, had to grin. “Never seen a sheep with such wanderlust,” he said, with a rueful shake of his head.
    “Is that the one who squeezed under the fence?”
    “The one and same. I’m going to sell him this fall, for a straying sheep can teach others to do the same.”
    “Oh no, don’t sell him!” she objected instantly, with round eyes.
    “I have to sell a few back to the breeder this year, because for the first time I have more than can winter in my barn,” he explained. “But he will sell them to other people who are looking for that same specialized breed of wool-bearers.”
    Sevana felt better then. “Won’t it be hard to decide which ones to give up?”
    “I do get pretty attached to them,” he admitted. “But in Brook’s case, the decision will be easy—if I can manage to hold onto him that long.”
    Sevana considered the troublesome sheep, who had returned to grazing as though having done nothing amiss. So that was Brook. She remembered Joel calling him a yearling. He was at a gawky stage, too big to be a cuddly lamb and too small to be impressive like the stronger, full-grown rams. There were several others in that same inbetween stage, and she felt sorry for them as well. She couldn’t think of their names, though.
    But she remembered Goldthread, the littlest lamb, standing apart from his mother, Lightning, who ignored him while she grazed and kicked him if he tried to nurse. He seemed resigned to it, and stood watching her out of quiet eyes. Wanting to comfort him, Sevana knelt down and called to him—but even though he looked her way, he wouldn’t come. “Doesn’t he know his name?” she asked Joel.
    “He knows it.” He called to him, and Goldthread came running over at once. Hunting in the grass, Joel pulled up a yellow violet and fed it to him, leaves and all.
    Then the other lambs crowded in to see what favor Goldthread had received, cocking their heads and looking up with beggars’ faces, so that Joel looked helplessly to Sevana. “Now I’m in trouble with them all, for favoring one. And how am I going to find enough violets on this hillside to give them each a treat?” And though he spoke wryly, laughter was in his eyes.
    Sevana smiled back at him, realizing more all the time what a good nature he had. Jumping up, she went in search of more violets, and brought back a double handful for the lambs—who pressed in eagerly to receive a share.
    “There!” she said when all the flowers were gone, opening her hands to show she had no more. “Now you can go back to grazing, for you’ve all had a treat.” But they crowded in closely as ever, waiting expectantly for more.
    “It seems you have made some friends.” And Joel, who had been looking on in amusement, had to send them off with a wave of his hand.
    Sevana could have lingered with Joel much longer in that wonderful place, but she didn’t feel she should stay. It was his pasture and his flock, his scenery and his life—and she was only an onlooker who had a long walk ahead of her. Reluctantly she said she should go, and thanked him for lunch and the view.
    Perhaps he sensed what she was thinking, for he told her she must find a way back whenever she wanted another look at the mountains. She thanked him gratefully—touched by his kindness—and set off, leaving him on that high slope with his well-kept sheep beneath the shining backdrop of the snow-drifted crags. Slowly she walked down the trail, wondering what it would be like to live up there day after day, and never