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KATE

M cKinley Homestead

Wild Hollow, West Virginia

Thirteen Years Ago

It’s snowing fat, wet flakes when I find him.

Hank, puffed up and pissed off, is huddled in the corner of the chicken coop, honking like a maniac whenever a hen twitches. He’s got a mean streak, even for a Canada goose, and a beak like a snapping turtle. But I see the tremble in his wings.

I see something else, too—something I recognize. That stubborn refusal to go quietly. That look that says, 'I know you’ve already decided what I’m worth, but I’m not done fighting.' Maybe I’m not just saving him. Maybe I’m saving something in myself, too. I see the fear behind the bluster.

And I see the red string tied around his foot—the McKinley family version of a death sentence. It’s something he’s done since before I was born. None of the others ever question it—everyone seems to approve and most of them even help.

Granddad—the unofficial alpha of our bloodline, even if we never said it out loud—does it every year.

He picks one bird, marks it with the string, and says, “That’s Christmas Dinner.” Then someone—usually a cousin looking to score points—rings its neck before supper on the twenty-fourth. It’s tradition.

Hank doesn’t know about tradition. He just knows he’s cold and alone and that something bad is coming.

I crouch down, boots sinking into the straw and mud, and whisper, “Easy now.”

He hisses.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” I say, edging closer. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

He lunges. I lunge faster.

I wrap my arms around his flapping, furious body and haul him to my chest. He bites me.

Twice. Draws blood. I swear like my Uncle Joey and clutch him tighter, ignoring the sting.

I know I’m not just risking bruises—I’m defying the rules written in blood and family loyalty.

Girls in this family don’t make waves. They don’t steal dinner.

They don’t stand up to Granddad. Not just in this house, either.

It’s a rule written across most of the McKinley pack: girls keep their heads down while the boys inherit the fire.

But I do. And there’s no going back now.

“You wanna die out here, go ahead,” I mutter. “But if you wanna live, shut up and come with me.”

He keeps honking. Loud enough to wake the mountains. But I don’t let go.

By the time I get back to the house, my hands are frozen, feathers cover my coat, and Hank is still fighting as if he believes he can win.

Inside, the McKinley kitchen is nothing but clattering chaos. Cousins. Uncles. Wolf-shifters in flannel and denim, and too many opinions. The smells of cider and smoke and roasting meat fill the air. Laughter bounces off the walls.

“Kate, what the hell is that?” Aunt Frankie demands, brandishing a ladle like it’s a weapon.

I square my shoulders. “His name’s Hank.”

“That’s Christmas Dinner, girl.”

“Not anymore.”

Granddad’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. He doesn’t shout. He never has to. “Put the goose down, Kathryn.”

He’s sitting at the head of the table, nursing a mason jar of apple pie moonshine—eyes like chipped slate. His beard’s white, his temper worse. And when he calls me 'Kathryn,' it means I’ve crossed a line.

But I don’t back down. Not this time.

“No.”

There’s a pause. A hush. The kind that only happens right before something breaks.

“What did you just say?”

“I said no,” I repeat, louder now. “He’s not food. He’s mine.”

Laughter bursts from the table—half of it mocking, the other half disbelieving. A few of the younger cousins nudge each other. One of my uncles snorts. Even my mama looks like she wants to disappear into the floorboards.

I know what they see: a girl with windburned cheeks and straw in her hair, holding a feral bird like it’s some kind of puppy. But I also know what I feel: something sharp and electric, twisting in my gut like it wants out.

Power.

I never thought it would feel like this. But it does. It's like the moment right before a storm hits.

Granddad rises. Slow. Deliberate. “You live under my roof. You eat what I put on the table.”

“I’ll make something else,” I say. “I’ll cook for myself.”

“You don’t get to decide...”

“I just did.”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t forget who you are, girl.”

“I’m a McKinley,” I snap. “Same as you. And if being one means killing something just because it’s tradition, maybe it’s time we made a new tradition.”

Someone whistles. Someone else groans. Mama’s eyes go wide. Dad looks like he wants to crawl under the sink.

But I don’t care. I’m tired of following rules I didn’t make. Tired of playing quiet and sweet while the men talk and the women clean up after them. Tired of pretending I don’t see the cracks in everything they worship.

Hank lets out a defiant honk, as if to second my declaration.

Granddad glares at the bird, then at me. “You’re soft.”

“No,” I say. “I’m just not cruel.”

He stares for a long beat, then downs the rest of his moonshine and slams the jar on the table. “Fine. Keep the damn goose.”

I don’t smile. I don’t gloat. I just turn and walk out, Hank still clutched in my arms, heart thudding like a drumbeat in my chest.

I make a nest in the corner of my room. Two years ago, I carved out a part of the attic and claimed it as mine—my first real act of independence.

A space above it all, away from the eyes and expectations downstairs.

I don’t trust my family not to try to eat Hank, so I turn my sanctuary into his, too.

It started as a retreat. One day it might have to become a fortress.

I line the corner with old towels and half a bag of pine shavings, tucking him in like he’s always belonged here. Hank watches me like he’s waiting for the punchline. I bring him a bowl of grain and warm water and sit beside him on the tile floor, nursing my bleeding fingers.

“You bit me,” I tell him. “I hope you know that means we’re bonded for life.”

He flaps one wing and settles into the corner like he owns the place.

Outside, the snow’s still falling, blanketing the mountains under a silent shroud of white. Inside, the McKinley house goes back to its noise and smoke and stubborn traditions. But something changed tonight. I can feel it.

For the first time in my life, I said no. And no one dragged me back into line.

I curl up beside the goose I saved and whisper, “You’re not just a bird, you know.”

He tilts his head.

“You’re a middle finger with feathers.”

Present Day

Hank’s still here.

He’s meaner now. Older. Smarter. He stays behind the counter at McKinley’s Mercantile like it’s his personal command post, but he’ll fly at anyone he considers a threat to me. He still doesn’t like strangers. But he likes me.

The store’s mine now. Has been for years.

It’s been in my branch of the McKinley family for generations, but I’m the first woman—hell, the first anyone under forty—to run it on her own.

The pack didn’t like it. Said I should stick to stocking shelves, not signing vendor agreements.

Said the store needed a man at the helm, someone to 'keep the family’s reputation intact,' which is kind of funny considering most everyone in the Appalachian Mountains knows we're moonshiners and have an outlaw streak a mile wide.

I wasn’t exiled. Not exactly. They still invited me to family dinners and kept a box of my favorite tea in the kitchen of the main house. But I was the question mark in a long line of periods. The one who didn’t marry young, didn’t join the hunt, didn’t pretend blood meant blind loyalty.

One of the older pack members even tried to freeze me out by canceling supplier routes through our territory. I found alternative routes. Better ones. Outsmarted him and made a profit doing it.

Broke with tradition. Again.

And every time I look at Hank, I remember I didn’t just save a goose.

I remember snow soaking through my boots, the weight of a hundred eyes in that kitchen, and the rush in my chest when I realized I wasn’t afraid anymore.

That night ignited a fire within me that I never let die.

Every decision I’ve made since—the store, the fights, the independence—traces back to that moment. To that choice.

I saved a part of myself that day. The part that refuses to roll over and obey. The part that knows love doesn’t have to come with a leash.

And God help the next man who tries to tell me otherwise.