Alone in the Wild

by Kelley Armstrong

  “Get up, boy.”

  When I hesitate, he points the gun and growls, “I said get up. This ain’t your land. Hasn’t been in five hundred years, so don’t pull that shit on me. You know who this land belongs to? Whoever has these.” He taps his gun. “So get on up and let me see that so-called dog of yours.”

  I rise slowly, my hand on Storm’s collar. I pat her head and murmur words of reassurance.

  “That’s a dog, huh?” he says, eyeing Storm.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Never seen one like that.”

  I shrug. “Dad got her for me in Dawson. He didn’t know how big she’d get.”

  He eyes Storm. “Good for pulling sleds, I bet.”

  I laugh softly. “No, sir, she’s no sled dog. No hunter either. Dad calls her a waste of good food, especially in the winter, but I hunt for her, so he lets me keep her.”

  His hand snatches my jaw. I don’t see it coming until his icy fingers clamp on my chin. Storm growls, but I twist her collar, a warning for silence.

  “I need to get back to my dad, sir,” I say, as calmly as I can.

  “Do you?” He turns my face. “You’re a pretty boy, aren’t you? Pretty little half-breed.”

  My eyes narrow at the slur, and he laughs. “Got some fire, huh?” He strokes my cheek with his callused thumb. “Such soft skin. Makes me wonder…”

  He yanks down my hood. My hand flies up to stop him, but again he moves too fast. Then he grins, and there is no humor in that grin, no lasciviousness either. There’s something deeper, hungrier, uglier. His hand vise-grips my chin, fingers digging in.

  “Look at this,” he says with a low whistle. His other hand rakes through my ponytail hard enough to pull out hair along with my elastic. I still don’t fight. I just breathe through my mouth, keeping my temper down so I don’t alarm Storm.

  “Not a boy after all,” he says.

  He reaches for my parka zipper. I beat him to it, yanking it down as I glower up.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I say as his gaze moves to my breasts, nearly invisible under my double layers.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” he says. “You might not be a boy, but some men like to close their eyes and pretend.” He winks. “Not my style, but I don’t judge. And I can see the appeal of a woman who can pass for younger, if you know what I mean.”

  My stomach churns at that. I’ve only unzipped my parka to my waist, so he can’t see my shoulder holster, but the weight of the gun reassures me.

  “I’m going to take my dog and go now,” I say.

  He throws back his head and laughs. “You really do have some spark. What part of this conversation made you think leaving was an option?”

  “I would suggest you might want it to be,” I say.

  He reaches for me. I see that one coming, but it’s too dangerous to fight. He grabs my hair. His fist wraps in it, and he throws me to the ground.

  Storm lunges. I’m still gripping her collar, and she yanks me up as she lunges for the man, snarling. He raises his rifle.

  “Get your dog under control, girl,” he says.

  I pull her to me and stay down, sitting on the ground. Storm positions herself over me.

  “I said get your damned dog under—”

  “What you have got there, Owen?” a woman’s voice says.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I twist as a figure emerges from the trees. She’s wrapped tight in a parka, hood pulled up, bulky boots on her feet. In her hands, she holds another rifle. When she turns to me, I see a face even harder than the man’s.

  She pulls down her hood to get a better look at me. She’s younger than me, maybe mid-twenties. Blond hair. Wide-set blue eyes. High cheekbones. A mouth that looks like it should be pouting in some sultry ad for fifty-dollar lipstick. Pretty, in a chilly Nordic way.

  I glance at the man, having not paid close attention to what he looks like until now. He’s closer to my age, dark-haired, sporting a solid build with a scar cutting across his nose.

  As she approaches, he gestures at me, grinning like a child showing off newfound treasure.

  “Huh,” the woman says. Her gaze is as coldly assessing as his. “Where’d she come from?”

  “She says she’s with trappers, but I ain’t seen no trappers. I think she’s all by her lonesome. Just her and that thing.” He motions to Storm. “She claims it’s a dog.”

  “Huh,” the woman says again. She turns that assessing look on Storm and then back to me.

  “You think she’ll fetch much?” the man says.

  I shrug. “Not really. She expects you to fetch with her.”

  The man snorts a laugh.

  “I don’t get it,” the woman says, in a low tone that warns me she doesn’t appreciate being excluded. She doesn’t know what playing fetch is, meaning she’s from these woods, like Dalton. The man is not.

  “You’re asking how much you can get for me,” I say. “Thank you for your interest, but I’m not for sale. Now, I’m going to take my dog—”

  The woman swings behind me, lightning fast. My hand clenches, itching to feel the gun in my hand, but I’ve missed my chance to do that easily. As my heart picks up speed, Storm growls. I pet her and murmur that it’s all right, even if I’m no longer sure it is.

  “How do you feel about getting yourself a husband, girl?” the man says.

  “I’ve got one. Also, I’m not a girl. I’m older than either of you.”

  “She’s got a smart mouth, doesn’t she?” the man says. “That’ll bring the value down.”

  The woman snorts. “Did it bring my value down, Owen?”

  He grins at her. “That’s a different story.”

  “It’s just a matter of finding the right buyer. Like with any goods, you turn the flaws into assets. You’re not going to sell that mound of fur to someone who wants a hunting dog. And you’re not going to sell this girl to a man who wants a quiet little mouse. Well, unless you cut out her tongue. Which is always an option.”

  I want to say they’re trying to spook me. That’s what Dalton and I would do, the sort of repartee that, afterward, we’d laugh about and say “Can you believe they actually took us seriously?” That could be what’s happening here. They’ll talk about selling me like a side of venison, and then, when they demand my coat and my snowshoes and whatever else I have of value, I’ll gladly hand them over, scamper off into the woods, and consider myself lucky.

  And yet …

  Those words aren’t directed at me. They pass right over my head to her partner, said in the same way she might suggest cutting my hair.

  Cold nestles in my gut. I knew the man was trouble. Manageable trouble, though, like an asshole who might hassle me in the city. The woman is the bigger threat, and I realize I should have pulled my gun earlier.

  Pull my gun when she was nearby? When she was close enough to run in and shoot me?

  No, trying to end it sooner might very well have made it worse.

  Storm keeps growling. The woman says to her partner, “Take the dog.”

  “And shoot it?” he says.

  “If you need to,” she says. “Otherwise, someone will want it, if only as dinner.”

  My hands wrap tight in Storm’s fur. “She’s fine. I can control her.”

  “You keep thinking you’ve got options here,” the man says. “Like this is a business negotiation. Now hand over that dog—”

  “Why not make it a business transaction?” I say. “Wouldn’t that be easier? Yes, you have me dead to rights, but I’m going to be trouble. You see that already. So let’s negotiate. I accept my capture. You find a…”

  I’m struggling to say “buyer,” but my lips won’t form the word. “A man who wants me. I play the scared mouse, and you get your money, and then … Well, then it’s up to me. If he relaxes his guard, I can escape, and you’ve still made your money. You didn’t sell false goods. He just failed to protect his purchase. You keep the money. I get the chance to escape. I’m willing to take that
risk, if we can do this in a civil manner.”

  Owen’s lips curve in a slow smile, his eyes glinting in a way that is no longer mercenary interest. “Clever girl. What do you think, Cherise?” He must be addressing his partner, but his gaze never rises from me. “I do believe we have some room to negotiate.”

  Storm wrenches from my hand. I’d loosened my grip, relaxing as I talked, and now she rips free and I spin, to stop her from going after Owen. But it isn’t Owen she’s leaping at. Cherise is raising her rifle … straight at me.

  Storm slams into Cherise just as I hit the ground. I roll up and grab the barrel. As I do, the gun fires and I glance over at Owen because I do not forget he’s holding a gun of his own. But he has it lowered, and he’s leaning back, watching with amusement.

  Cherise struggles with Storm, who’s snapping and snarling. Not biting, though. Never biting. The sheer weight of her is enough to put Cherise on the ground.

  Cherise’s hand drops to a pocket on her thigh. I grab her wrist, pin it, yank out the knife, and throw it as far as I can. Then my hand goes to Cherise’s throat, as I take Storm’s place.

  I glance over at Owen. I’m awkwardly positioned, with him behind me. He could attack, and I’d never see it coming. Yet he’s still leaning against a tree, not the least bit concerned that his partner is pinned. When he catches my eye, he winks and my stomach clenches.

  I’ve made a mistake here. A very dangerous one. I did think I was being clever, offering a solution that would make them relax their guard so I could escape. But in doing so, I’ve sparked Owen’s interest … and could have earned a bullet from Cherise.

  I should feel shocked and sickened. Instead, rage washes over me. White-hot, all-consuming rage.

  I slide the gun from under my jacket, keeping it close to my body so Owen won’t see. When Cherise spots it, her eyes only narrow and meet mine in defiance.

  I jam the barrel under her throat. “You didn’t like my offer? Then say so. You don’t need to be a bitch about it.”

  I’m speaking low, my words only for her, but Owen hears and his laugh rings out behind us.

  “Cherise didn’t like your offer because she’s the clever one here,” he says. “And no one takes that away from her.”

  “No,” Cherise says, her teeth gritted. “I didn’t like her offer because you were fool enough to consider it, Owen. A pretty girl shows a bit of spirit and intelligence, and you fall over yourself.”

  “So you were jealous? That’s new. I like it.”

  “’Cause you’re a fucking idiot. I don’t give a shit if you want to screw her. I do give a shit if your dick stops your brain from working. She wasn’t going to negotiate with us. She was just buying time and keeping you from hurting her damned dog. Now, since you haven’t noticed, she’s got a—”

  My free hand chops down on her throat, cutting her off in a strangled gurgle. I wrap my hand tight around her throat and twist toward Owen, my gun swinging on him. His eyes widen. Then he laughs. Throws back his head and laughs.

  “Gun on the ground!” a voice snarls as someone crashes through the forest. “Fucking gun on the fucking ground, now!”

  I do not for one second think the newcomer is talking to me. I recognize the voice, the words, even the crashing of brush.

  Storm lets out a bark and races to meet Dalton.

  “Back to Casey,” he says after a pat on the head, and she returns to me, tossing Cherise a growl for good measure.

  “Jacob?” Cherise says, and it’s clear from her voice that she’s trying to come up with another explanation. This man might look like Jacob, but he certainly doesn’t sound like him.

  “Nah,” Owen says. “This is his big bro. Hey, Eric, long time.”

  “Not long enough,” Dalton mutters. “You remember the position, Owen? I put you in it often enough. I’m sure you must remember.”

  “Fuck you.” Spots of color touch Owen’s cheeks. “This isn’t Rockton.”

  “Yeah, it’s not. But I still have the gun, and you’re still a fucking idiot.”

  Cherise lets out a cackling laugh at that, but Dalton ignores her, his attention on Owen.

  “On your hands and feet,” Dalton says. “Ass in the air. I know you remember it.”

  “Eric?” I murmur. His gaze shoots my way, and I subtly shake my head. I’ve already made an enemy here in Cherise, and I don’t want to make the situation worse by humiliating Owen in front of her. Dalton’s gaze goes from Owen to Cherise, and he grunts, and I know he understands.

  “Just put the rifle on the ground,” Dalton says.

  Owen does. Dalton walks over and picks it up.

  “Hers is over there,” I say, gesturing. Dalton nods and collects it.

  Then he looks at me. “You okay?”

  I don’t answer, but he must see something on my face and his goes rock hard.

  “What happened?” he says.

  “I was playing hide-and-seek with Storm,” I say. “These two are the ones who found me.”

  “And…”

  I shrug. “They said something about selling me as a wilderness wife, blah, blah, blah.”

  A laugh sounds. It’s not Dalton, who—despite my light tone—looks ready to spit bullets. Cypher strolls from the forest.

  “That’s your own fault, kitten,” he says. “You are such a sweet and docile little thing. Can’t blame them for thinking you’re in need of a big, strong husband. They were just taking care of you.”

  “Evidently,” I say.

  I rise off Cherise, keeping one eye on her in case she attacks. Dalton walks over and lowers his lips to my ear. “You okay?”

  “I will be,” I murmur as softly as I can. “But I’d like to ease out of this.”

  He nods. There’s nothing to be gained by getting into a pissing match with these two.

  Dalton kisses the top of my head and tugs my hood back up.

  “Are you shitting me?” Owen says. “The cowboy? Really?” He shakes his head. “You can do so much better, girl.”

  “Girl?” Dalton’s brows shoot up. “She’s a woman, and her name is Casey.”

  Owen ignores him. “What the hell do you see in Deputy Dawg here?”

  Now my brows are rising, as I say, “Deputy?”

  “Owen left Rockton right before my father retired.”

  “Eric’s the sheriff now,” Cypher says. “Casey here is a homicide detective. Or is that homicidal detective?”

  “Depends on the situation,” I say, smiling my thanks at him for continuing to lighten the mood.

  “You’re … a detective?” Owen says. “Like, a cop detective?”

  “That’s usually what ‘homicide detective’ means,” Cypher says. “You picked this boy for his looks, didn’t you, Cherise?”

  Cherise doesn’t reply. She hasn’t spoken, and in that silence, I feel her assessing, evaluating, and I suppress a shudder. A keen intelligence always catches my attention, but this isn’t the kind that promises a challenging game of Scrabble. This promises a knife through your back when you least expect it.

  Owen says, “I thought cops had laws about height and whatnot. She’s such a tiny thing.”

  “And yet she had you and Cherise at her mercy, both of you armed, too. Size isn’t everything. I’m sure Cherise tells you that all the time.”

  Owen only throws off the insult with a laugh. He’s not the bright one. Nor is he particularly dangerous, much slower to take offense than his partner. I don’t want to be alone with Owen, but he isn’t the type to pull a knife over what’s obviously just ribbing between men.

  Cypher continues, “If we’re done chitchatting and waving guns and trying to sell human beings, I’d suggest we go back to camp. We were just chatting with your family, Cherise. I think you’ll want to be part of the conversation.”

  Family?

  Oh, shit.

  This pair didn’t just happen to stumble on me close to the traders’ camp. If I hadn’t jumped to that conclusion sooner, it’s because when I
thought of this family’s poor daughters forced to prostitute themselves, I had not pictured the woman standing in front of me.

  At first, I only deliver a mental kick in the ass for my preconceptions. Then it sinks in.

  These two people—this couple—are part of the trading family we’ve come to see about Abby.

  I look from Cherise to Owen, and my insides freeze.

  No. Please, no.

  The same thoughts connect in Dalton’s mind. His eyes widen, just a little. Then they harden to cold steel, and when he looks at me, his jaw is set so tight every muscle stands rigid.

  I want to tell him we can stop here. Cypher’s right. Jen’s right, too, God help me. We need to retreat and forget this madness, and keep Abby, because if these two are her parents…?

  My breath comes fast and hard, and I swallow. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and push down the panic. Nothing will change if I stick around for a definitive answer. It’ll just save me from second-guessing later.

  Cherise and Owen never need to know we found a baby—possibly their baby. I don’t care if that isn’t my decision to make. I will make it.

  As we head out, Dalton falls in beside me, leans to my ear, and says, “Yes,” and my eyes mist. I squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

  “No question,” he murmurs. “No question at all.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  We enter the traders’ camp. It’s more of an encampment. I’m not sure if there’s actually a difference between the terms, but to me, a camp is a small and temporary arrangement. An encampment is bigger and more permanent.

  They have three tents plus two igloo-like snow structures. There are sled dogs, too, which confuses Storm, who’s never seen so many canines in one place. She sticks close to us, like a child hiding behind her parents on the first day of kindergarten. I let her stay there. The dogs seem friendly enough, but unless we’re told she can visit, it’s unwise to presume. And we aren’t told anything of the sort.

  Near the fire sits two young women and a man in his fifties. I don’t see the matriarch, and when I look around, Cypher says, “The girls lost their ma about six months ago. We were just talking about that when Eric heard the shot and took off like one.”