Alone in the Wild

by Kelley Armstrong

  That’s one of the prearrival suggestions, because we can’t supply contacts or easily replace glasses.

  “However,” she says, “I’ve aged since then, and I’ve had trouble with my sewing lately. I tried a book last night, and I can manage it, but yes, evidently, I’m getting old.”

  “Considering the median age here is late thirties, reading glasses are a must,” I say. “There’s a stash of them in the library. I’ll grab a few for you to try. Also, let me know if you want a specific type of fiction or nonfiction. If Eric grabs books, you’ll end up with everything from historical romance to archaeology to biographies of obscure ancient warlords.”

  She smiles. “Not because he’ll randomly grab a handful, but because he’s read them all himself. I remember that. Especially the romance. One of the militia razzed him for reading one, and Eric said he was learning skills that guys obviously hadn’t, considering he was always complaining about his three ex-wives.” Her smile deepens. “Guess he did develop those relationship skills.”

  I return the smile. “He did indeed.”

  “Well, presuming you have historical romances and weren’t just teasing me, I’ll take some of those. Maybe fantasy, too. And mystery. Oh, and nonfiction, textbooks or whatever…” She waves a hand. “Honestly, you can do exactly what Eric would. Just get me a random selection of everything. I’ll be like a kid in a candy store.”

  * * *

  Despite his presumably good night, Cypher isn’t any easier to deal with than he was yesterday. He does not want to tell us where to find Abby’s mother, and Jen isn’t helping. She hovers with the baby until she overhears the situation, and then it’s “What kind of monster are you, Casey?” in far more profane language. And also “If you don’t want the baby yourself, at least give her to someone who does,” until I snap.

  “Come on, kitten,” Cypher says when I tell them off. “We’re only trying to help.”

  “By accusing me of wanting to turn this baby over to a family who’ll whore her out when she’s twelve?”

  “Jen didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Yeah, actually, she did. You might want to get to know someone before you sleep with her, Ty. We’re on a schedule here. I’ll take Abby with us, and we’ll see if we can track down Jacob and get his help finding this family. Because I will find them. I will evaluate the situation. If there is no way to resolve it, then I will keep this baby.”

  Both of them look over my shoulder. I turn to see Dalton standing there.

  My cheeks heat. “I didn’t mean— Obviously, I wouldn’t decide on my own to…” I swallow. “I was only reassuring them that I wasn’t trying to get rid of Abby.”

  Dalton glares at Cypher and Jen. “What the fuck?”

  “Yes,” Jen says. “We upset your princess.”

  “Hey,” Cypher rumbles, turning a look on Jen. “I figured you were just sounding off. If you were really accusing Casey of wanting to get rid of this baby, maybe you oughta head on home, ’cause that’s some world-class bullshit right there.”

  I expect Jen to tell him to go screw himself and storm off. Her mouth does set in a firm line. Then she says, still glowering, “Casey knows I didn’t mean it. She’s a bit sensitive.”

  “Yeah, I’d be sensitive too if you accused me of that.” He turns to me. “I will take you to this trader family, kitten. I’m trying to make the situation easy for you, but that’s not my place.” He turns to Jen. “We’ll be back before dinner. Can I ask you to join me? Or did I just blow my chances?”

  Jen’s eyes widen, as if she’d figured she’d blown her chances. Then she shrugs and says gruffly, “I guess so. Better be back by seven, though. I need to eat.” She hesitates, considers. “If you’re late, we can grab a drink.”

  “If I’m not late, then we’ll do both. Now, you mind taking the tyke from Casey? I think we’re best leaving her behind for now.”

  I agree. Unlike with the First Settlement, I will definitely want time to evaluate the situation before I hand Abby over.

  * * *

  We are gone before dawn … if not quite as early as we anticipated. As we’re slipping into the forest, I swear I see Phil standing at his bedroom window, watching us with disapproval, as if we’re teens who promised to leave the house quietly and did everything short of setting it on fire as we went.

  I walk up ahead with Storm and Cypher. That gives Dalton time to talk to Maryanne. Cypher regales me with tales of life in the wilderness. He goes overboard being entertaining, as if that’s an apology for earlier.

  Usually Jen’s insults slide past, but sometimes they cut a little too close to truth. I’m not trying to get rid of Abby, but I’m susceptible to the charge because I want to believe Jen’s right—that the proper and humane thing to do is keep Abby here and give her the kind of life every child deserves.

  But isn’t that what Gene Dalton thought when he saw Eric? That child deserves better … and I can provide it. Classic white-savior syndrome. I see this child who comes from a place I deem less “civilized,” and I will save her, and the world will throw laurels around my neck for my selflessness.

  Pimping your child goes way beyond “less civilized.” Few people would say, in that situation, that I should mind my own business. But if I don’t confirm the situation, how different am I from Gene Dalton? Yet if I do evaluate, where do I draw my line? That I will return her if her mother agrees to come to Rockton? That I will return her if they promise—cross their fingers, hope to die—never to prostitute her?

  It’s not as if I haven’t considered this. The problem is that I can’t stop considering it. My brain is a gerbil in a wheel, squeaking endlessly and getting nowhere. Having Jen act as if I’m blithely going to hand Abby off is like slamming a sliver deeper into a festering infection.

  As we walk, I watch Storm explore and let Cypher’s tall tales clear my mind. Then we near Brent’s … and my mood stumbles as I realize I’m going to a place where I lost a dear friend, where I held his hand as he died.

  Dalton catches up then. He gives Maryanne’s supply pack to Cypher with, “You can carry it uphill.” He leans in to whisper to Cypher. “Maryanne’s getting tired. She won’t say it, so tell her you need a rest. Casey and I will go in first.”

  Cypher heads back to Maryanne as Dalton and I carry on. After a few steps, I glance over my shoulder.

  “Maryanne’s fine,” Dalton says. “I just figured we might want to go up alone.”

  I squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

  His hand moves around my waist. “You doing okay?” He pauses. “That’s a rhetorical question—I know you’re not okay, and I know you’ll tell me you are. Not sure why I bother asking.”

  I lean my head against his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. It’s tough coming up here, but it’s amazing that we have this place for Maryanne. I like knowing Brent’s cave and his things will help someone.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking that, too. I also meant, though, that this morning’s bullshit is bugging you. But I get the feeling you don’t want to hash that through with me.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  He bumps my shoulder. “It’s fine. I get it. We’re stuck in a loop we can’t escape until we have additional information, which we’ll get soon, I hope.”

  “Yes.” I move behind him as we start the ascent. “Also, about earlier, when you walked in on me with Jen and Cypher.”

  He chokes on a laugh.

  I slug him in the ass. “Not like … Damn it, don’t put that in my head.”

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  I grumble under my breath. “You knew what I meant. But what you heard me say, that I’d take Abby myself, I wasn’t making a statement. I wouldn’t do that without talking to you.”

  “I know. You were just telling Jen that she’s full of shit. Which, personally, I think we should tattoo on her forehead.”

  “True. But I know it sounded bad, when that isn’t something we’ve discussed.”

  He shrugs
. “It is, though. I said the baby ball is in your court.”

  “I’d rather it wasn’t. If it comes to that, I’d like us to discuss it. I honestly don’t know what I want. I’m not considering the options because I don’t want that to influence my decision about giving her back.”

  “We need more information.”

  “We do. So let’s get Maryanne settled, and then we’ll go get it.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Maryanne is thrilled with her new lodgings. It’s a cave. Literally a cave, and not the kind we see in depictions of Neolithic humans, some massive cavern that opens on ground level. This is up a mountainside, where we need to crawl through an opening that Storm no longer fits. From there, we climb down into a cavern the size of a small room. There’s an even smaller one for sleeping. The main room has a natural chimney, which is what made Brent choose the spot.

  It’s the sort of place I’d consider a wonderful weekend adventure. A truly unique experience. But, well, it’s a cave. There’s a limit to how comfortable and well-appointed it can be. For Maryanne, though, it’s ten times better than where she’s lived for the past decade. So we settle her in and leave her happy.

  We put on our snowshoes after that. Cypher wore his own homemade ones on the way to Rockton, so all three of us are outfitted. He’s as proficient as Dalton and finds much amusement in me toddling after them like a two-year-old.

  Cypher knows where the trading family winter camps. When the weather turns bad, they switch from traveling salespeople to pop-up store.

  It is not an easy walk. I’ve always kept myself in good shape—it helps combat the muscle aches of my old injuries. I have never, though, been as physically fit as I’ve become up here. Amazing what an outdoorsman lover, an energetic dog, and a lack of couch-suitable entertainment will do for your fitness level. Yet despite all that, by the time we near the spot, I’m ready to collapse. Fortunately for my ego, Cypher is the first to say, “Now this is a workout,” as he starts lagging behind with me, huffing and peeling off his parka.

  Storm feels it, too, giving me her are-we-there-yet look. I don’t suggest a rest. We’ll barely make it by midday, and we already got a brief rest at Brent’s. We stop to give Storm water breaks—and take long pulls at our own canteens—but nothing more.

  “You don’t feel this at all, do you?” I say as I move up beside Dalton.

  “Feel what?” he says.

  At my scowl, he grins and says, “Nah, I feel it, and I’ll feel it a helluva lot more tomorrow.”

  “You’ll be wishing you installed that hot tub,” I say.

  He laughs. “Fuck, yeah.”

  Last year, a group of residents had written a request for a hot tub. It had been posted, along with Dalton’s creatively profane response. Then, a couple of months ago, we went to the hot springs outside Whitehorse, and Dalton discovered the appeal, particularly after a long day of winter work. Curious, I’d gone online and found a radio clip about a guy with a hot tub who lived off-the-grid in the Yukon wilderness. His was modeled after a hot spring—a big barrel of hot water, rather than the modern Jacuzzi-style tub with jets. So, while I may have said earlier that I wanted gift ideas from Dalton, I was totally lying. Kenny’s working on a hot tub for our backyard. If other residents want one, they can commission their own. This one’s ours.

  Cypher tramps up to tell us we’re getting close. We’d guessed that from the faint smell of smoke. When I crane my neck, I see it spiraling up a few hundred feet away.

  “You’ll stay back here with your pup, kitten,” Cypher says.

  My back must rise at that, because he lifts a hand. “Let me and Eric make the approach. Eric can put his scarf on and pull up his hood, and we’ll let them think it’s Jakey. They don’t have much trade with him. Bad blood.”

  I arch my brows. “You’re going to let them think Eric is the guy they don’t like?”

  “The bad blood is on Jacob’s side. They thought he’d make a fine son-in-law, so they kept bugging him to take a freebie, and when he didn’t, they sent one of the girls to follow him and climb into his sleeping blankets. From what I hear, he didn’t just refuse nicely. Got himself into a right temper over it, which isn’t like our Jakey at all.”

  True—Dalton is the brother with the temper—but I can imagine how that would have set Jacob off. After their parents died, Jacob had been on his own. As a teenager, he’d had an encounter where he’d been taken captive and sexually assaulted. Dalton doesn’t know that. I’m not sure anyone does besides myself and maybe Nicole. If someone crawled into Jacob’s bed after he’d made his refusal clear, he would not respond with a gentle rejection. I don’t blame him.

  Cypher continues. “Jacob stays away as much as he can. I haven’t seen them myself much since I’ve opened trade with Rockton. They’re a nasty bunch. Not fit to raise dogs much less…” He trails off and shoots me a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

  “I’ve gotten the message loud and clear,” I say.

  “And she doesn’t need it on constant repeat,” Dalton adds. “Casey’s going to need to talk to these people herself. We both want to evaluate the situation.”

  “I understand that,” Cypher says. “But if all three of us tramp in there, we’ll put them on the defensive. Especially once they realize you two are from Rockton. I can pull a little sleight of hand with you, Eric. When they find out you aren’t Jakey, they’ll be pissy, but I am not responsible for a misunderstanding. With Casey, though, you could only pretend she’s Edwin’s granddaughter, and believe me, that’d be worse.”

  The plan seems overly complicated and makes me wonder exactly what we’re dealing with here. But if it is a delicate situation, Cypher is right that all three of us shouldn’t go marching in. There’s also an advantage to having me and Storm hang back where we can come to their aid in case of trouble.

  They continue on, and I take Storm off the path. I know not to wander far, but that rising smoke is an easy landmark. In a small clearing that’s been intentionally clear-cut, I take off my snowshoes and perch on a tree trunk. I expect Storm to drop at my feet in exhaustion, but she sits, looking up at me. Looking up … looking down … looking up.

  “Fine,” I say with a sigh, toss my pack down and then drop onto the ground.

  Storm grunts in satisfaction and curls up with me. From puppyhood, we taught her that she can’t sit on laps and sofas and beds, and we’d congratulated ourselves on our forethought. While it was difficult to keep her on the floor when she was a tiny bundle of fur who only wanted to cuddle, we knew that one day she’d take up the entire sofa. The problem is that, to indulge her need for puppy cuddles, we’d get down on the ground with her. Perfectly reasonable … except that she came to expect that, and while she’ll curl up at our feet, if she’s tired and cold, she wants us to cuddle with her … on the snow-covered ground.

  We curl up together, resting and snacking on venison jerky. I listen for trouble from the direction of the camp, but the murmured voices stay low and calm.

  Once Storm has had her cuddles and her food and water, she’s ready to play. I pick up a stick and say, “I am not chasing this. Just so you know.”

  She dances in place. I throw it. She hesitates, looking my way, then chuffs a look of disappointment at my old-lady frailties before taking off after the stick. We do that a couple of times, but it’s clear I’m being judged, so I switch to hide-and-seek. This is one of her favorite games. She sits, looking the other way, while I run a twisting trail before hiding downwind.

  I make this one as tricky as I can. I hop on a couple of stumps and leap off them to interrupt the trail. I even climb a tree and slip into the branches of another. When I finally hide, I pick a spot behind a bush where some small beast has crawled under and died, masking my scent. I crouch behind it, mitts over my nose, hoping Storm appreciates this.

  Peering through the bush, I watch her untangle my trail. My stump jump doesn’t stump her at all. The tree leap does, but only for a moment before she’s tearing th
rough the snow following my trail and—

  Metal glints in the midday sun. I’m not even sure what I see—some instinct processes the sight before my brain fully comprehends, and I charge from my hiding spot with a “No!” as I race toward Storm. As I do, I see the long barrel of a rifle pointing through the trees. Pointing at my dog.

  I slam into Storm’s side, and we skid across the snow, me sprawled over her. There is no shot. Just a grunt of surprise, and then footsteps approaching and a man’s voice saying, “What the hell is that?”

  I lift my head. As I do, I see his face and … There is still a gut instinct women have, an inner alert system that says, “Do not go home with this charming guy you met in a bar.” One glance at the man with the gun makes me decide I will not tell him who I am. Maybe it’s the set of his thin lips. Maybe it’s a glitter in his dark eyes. Maybe it’s merely a sixth sense that says beware.

  “It’s … it’s a dog,” I stammer, pitching my voice low. “My dog.”

  I stay on the ground, over Storm, my face turned down just enough to let my hood shadow my face.

  The man tilts his head. “Where’d you come from, boy?”

  I mentally nod in satisfaction as he makes the mistake I hoped he would when I changed my voice. I remembered the first time I met Cypher, when he mistook me for a boy. It’s easy to do, with my size and build, especially if I’m wrapped in my winter wear.

  Cypher also mistook me for Indigenous. I could roll my eyes at that, but it happened even down south. I am a racial puzzle that strangers want to solve, even when I’d rather they looked at me and only saw a person.

  “I’m with my dad, trapping.” I lift my chin a little. “I have a right to be here. My mother’s family is Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in.”

  His snort suggests he isn’t the type to respect territorial rights.