When I pet her, she is indeed reassured, and she relaxes. Both the whines and the growls subside, and she eyes the wolf, taking his measure. Then she puffs up in a way that makes me smile. She pulls herself straight and tall, displaying her full size. Her tail stays high, indicating welcome but not submission. Her head lifts, and her ears relax. If she is nervous, she doesn’t show it. She has assessed the wolf, declared him to be a lesser beast, and stands before him as a haughty queen, giving him permission to approach.
With Raoul, Storm is the “alpha.” She’s bigger and older, and so she is in charge. This wolf looks like a larger version of her pack mate, and so she will not bow to him.
The wolf continues his slow approach. When he’s within a couple of feet, he stops and the silence is broken by two canines sniffing the air madly. Then he stretches his muzzle, and their noses touch. As adorable as it is, I’m tensed for trouble, the mom assessing another child, still not convinced he doesn’t pose a danger to her baby.
While I have my gun, I’m also ready with my foot. I do not want to shoot a wolf for a show of dominance. I’ve dealt with enough stray dogs to know that a well-placed kick will allow us to retreat into the cabin.
The wolf circles Storm, sniffing her. I instruct her to stay standing. Her head turns, though, following his progress. When he reaches her rear, he sticks his nose under her tail, and she jumps. He backs up only a second before returning, determinedly sniffing her there as he begins to whine and quake with obvious excitement. That’s when I realize why this wolf has conquered his fear of humans to make his way here.
“Oh,” I say, the word coming on a laugh.
They both startle.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
The wolf tries sniffing under Storm’s tail again, but she keeps it firmly down, and I have to chuckle at that. I also give her the release word. I’m not going to make her stand there, suffering the unwanted interest of this wolf.
She turns to sniff him. He keeps trying for her tail, but she shoulders him aside and huffs. I tense. He accepts her annoyance, though, and lets her sniff him. Greetings over, she hunkers down, an invitation to play. He races around her, and she spins, ready to give chase, but he’s only trying to get behind her again.
Storm snaps and growls, and she issues the play invitation again. He seems to accept … and then swings behind and tries to mount her. I don’t need to intercede. Storm yanks away, grabs him by the foreleg and throws him down with a growl that very clearly says there will be none of that.
Two more invitations to play only result in two more aborted mountings. Finally she huffs her disgust at me, and I have to laugh.
“I know,” I say. “You want to be friends, and he’s just looking to get laid. Some guys, huh?”
It’s clear that the wolf really is only interested in one thing, and he’s not getting it—Storm won’t let him, and I wouldn’t either. She retreats behind me, and I shoo him off with a “Hie! Hie!” as I lunge in his direction.
As the wolf flees into the night, the cabin door bangs open and I hear, “Shit! Casey!”
I look around the corner to see Dalton, staring at the retreating wolf.
“Uh…” I say. “Did you forget something?”
He looks down.
“Yep, clothing for one thing. Please get back inside before you lose any body parts I’d really rather you kept. I was, however, referring to…”
I lift my gun. “What were you going to do? Punch the wolf in the nose?”
He blinks, obviously still waking up. Then he says, “Wouldn’t be the first time. The last one was a feral dog, though.”
“Back inside,” I say.
Storm and I follow Dalton. He’s shivering, not surprisingly.
“Was that the same wolf?” he says.
“Yep, remember how we were talking earlier about unwanted advances and guys who don’t take no for an answer? It seems Storm has a suitor.”
He blinks, still bleary-eyed. “What?”
“She must be coming into estrus,” I say. “I haven’t seen signs, but she’s old enough, and that wolf picked up a scent that said, if his advances weren’t accepted right now, they might be soon.”
“Shit.”
“Yep. I know when we took her for her annual shots, the vet mentioned spaying, and we hadn’t made a decision on that. We’re going to need to.”
I crouch and hug Storm, running my hands over her as she trembles in lingering excitement from the encounter.
As I pet her, I say, “Down south, spaying would be a no-brainer. No one needs more dogs. Here, though? I don’t know. There could be some advantage to breeding her once. If we do want more working dogs in Rockton, we know she has good genes. On the other hand, we don’t want every wolf and feral dog volunteering as puppy daddies.”
“Is there some way to control her cycles?”
“Doggie birth control? I have no idea. More research for our next trip to Dawson.” I give her one last pat as I stand. “At least one of us might be able to have babies, huh?”
I say it lightly, but I feel Dalton’s gaze on me.
“I was kidding,” I say.
“Kidding … and not kidding.” He checks his watch. “It’s after five, so I think we’re up for good. If I put on the kettle for coffee, can we talk about this?”
I shrug. “Nothing to talk about, really. Yes, it’s on my mind lately, for obvious reasons, but talking is just treading the same ground over and over. It doesn’t get me anywhere.”
He fixes me with that look, trying to extract from my brain the answers I’m not giving. Then he puts the blackened kettle directly on the fire.
“You need to teach Ty how to set that up properly,” I say.
“Guy drinks instant coffee with powdered creamer. I don’t think he cares whether he’s heating the water right.”
He backs from the fire and pulls on his sweatpants. He’s still adjusting them, not looking at me, when he says, “You had so much other shit to deal with after the beating. Just getting up and around again. Then getting your strength back. Getting on the police force. All the things they said you couldn’t do, and you did. This other thing was…”
He struggles for words. “It’s an injury to a muscle you weren’t sure you’d ever want to use. Except it’s more than just a muscle that doesn’t work. It’s something they took from you, on top of all the rest, something you can’t fix through sheer determination and hard work.”
Tears roll down my cheeks. I don’t even realize it until he reaches for me. He has put into words everything I’ve been feeling these last few days, and it’s as if I’ve said them myself, but better, because I didn’t have to.
Fourteen years ago, four men beat me and left me for dead. They took my mobility, leaving me with a leg injury that doctors said meant I’d never run again. They left me with scars—physical and psychological—that people said meant I’d never become a cop. They took my pride, too, and my dignity and my self-confidence.
But I triumphed because I fought back in the way that really counted. I can run. I am a cop. And while there’s still psychological damage, in regaining my mobility and achieving my career goal, I won back my pride and my dignity and my self-confidence. Wherever those four thugs are now, I have a better life than they do. I’m sure of it. So I won.
Except now, as Dalton says, there’s this one thing they took that I cannot regain. It didn’t matter before because I never saw myself as a mother. I had an all-consuming career and no interest in long-term relationships. Being with Dalton changed both those things and nudged that old scab. Then came Abby, and seeing Dalton with her and feeling my own reaction to her has ripped that scab clear off, and it hurts. It hurts so much.
Tied up in that pain is rage. Those men did take something from me, something I cannot get back, and here is this life choice that I’m not even sure I want, but I should damned well have that option. I don’t, and it is their fault.
I say all this to Dalton. The kettle boils
and it boils, and I’m still talking, the words rushing out. Finally, there’s nothing more to say, and I take the kettle and pour the coffees, brushing him off when he tries to help. I measure in the creamer with such care you’d think it was powdered gold. Then I stir, slowly and deliberately, giving myself time to recover.
“There are options,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”
“I’m not sure it is. I have no idea right now, and no time to sit and think about it. There’s no point either. If we don’t find Abby’s family, then she’s one option, and I’d do that before I’d even try carrying a baby to term myself. If we do find her family, then I need to figure out whether what I’m feeling is just a surge of maternal instinct. Then you and I need to talk about it, either way, and…”
I wave my hands. “Part of me wants to consider options, and another part says that’s like deciding which university to send your kid to before she’s even born.”
Dalton settles onto the bed with his coffee and motions for me to sit beside him. I do, and Storm moves to lie across our feet.
“So,” Dalton says. “You know that the council has threatened to kick me out of Rockton. Even when they don’t say it, I feel the weight of that hammer over my head. This woman, who is very smart, once told me that the best way to cope with that is to figure out a game plan. What I’d do if it happened.”
“I never said it was the best way. Just one way.”
He waves off the distinction. “The point is that my brain works like hers does. We need solid footing. I need to know that if I get kicked out, I have a plan. So I’m going to suggest that she needs the same thing. A plan for what we’d do if we ever decide we want one of those wrinkly things that screams for us to feed her and screams for us to change her shitty diaper and won’t let us sleep more than three hours at a stretch.”
“You make it sound so enticing.”
“I know. But in spite of their unbelievably selfish behavior, I will admit that I do see an appeal to babies that I never did before. Which is not to say that I want one. If we don’t find Abby’s parents, then I would seriously consider it and lean toward yes. Otherwise, I’d back up to just seriously considering it, for some point in the future.”
“Agreed.”
“So, let’s jump past Abby and jump past the soul-searching and decide on a plan of action, should the answer be yes, we want kids. How would we do that?”
I exhale. “Okay. Well, the problem, according to the doctors, isn’t whether I could get pregnant but whether I could carry to term. I would try, but it’s not like taking endless shots on a basketball net, waiting to sink one. Trying and failing would be…”
“Traumatic.”
When I make a face, he shakes his head and says, “My mom—my birth mother—lost a couple of pregnancies after Jacob, and I might have been young, but I remember it was really hard on them. So that’s an option, but with a limited number of trials.”
I nod.
“And if those trials put you in danger, would I have the right to say stop?” he asks.
“You would.”
“Good. Next option.”
I go quiet for a moment. Then I say, “Adoption is the most obvious. Maybe even the best to start with, but it’s not easy getting a baby. Even if we could…”
“You’d prefer your own. Our biological child.”
I’m about to shake my head. Then I pause to consider it more. “All other things being equal, yes, I suppose I would, as selfish as that is. But I’d take another baby in a heartbeat. Having our biological child isn’t that important. It’s just…”
I squirm, and his arm slides around my waist.
I continue, “I would worry that, given your situation, even if you felt okay with adoption, you might have misgivings later. What if it’s a very young mother who later regretted her decision? What if the child grew up wanting answers, wanting his or her biological family? That’s probably natural at some point, but I think it would be … difficult for you.”
He opens his mouth, and I can tell he’s ready to deny it. Then he pauses, like me, to consider before he says, “I would like to think I’d be fine. I do see your point, though, and it wouldn’t be fair to a kid if I brought my baggage into parenthood. However, if adoption is the best option, I’d be fine. I’d make sure I was.”
“The other is surrogacy,” I say.
He frowns, and I explain.
“So, we rent a womb?” he says.
I sputter a laugh. “It’s a little more complicated, but yes, that’s the basic idea.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “So that’s the plan, then, if we ever reach that stage. Try ourselves, and if that doesn’t work or it endangers you, then option two is surrogacy. Option three is adoption.” He looks at me. “Does that help?”
“It feels a little silly, coming up with a course of action for something we may never want, but…”
“It’s never silly if it makes you feel better.”
I lean over to kiss him. “It does. Thank you.”
THIRTY
We set off after a world-class breakfast of instant coffee, protein bars, and venison jerky. Then we walk all morning in snowshoes, carrying provisions on our backs, stopping only to dine on … water, half a protein bar, and a slab of venison jerky. I can grumble about the menu, but by lunch, I’m like a starving cartoon character, spotting shy Arctic hares and seeing only their plump bodies roasting on a spit.
Off again, and it’s midafternoon before Dalton slows to examine landmarks, like reaching the right neighborhood and slowing the car to read street signs. Storm whines, and we go still, listening. When we hear the crunch of snow he calls, “Hello!”
The footsteps stop.
“I’m letting you know we’re here,” Dalton says. “We’re armed, and we have a dog. That’s not a threat—again, just letting you know so we don’t give you a scare. We’re restraining the dog and lowering our weapons. We’d like to speak to you, please.”
Silence.
Dalton grunts, as if to say he hoped it’d be that easy but knew better. Still, he tries again with, “My name is Eric Dalton. I know the Second Settlement is out here, and we found something in the forest that we’re told might belong to you. We only want to return it.”
More silence. Dalton grumbles now, but I catch the faintest whisper of fabric. I touch Dalton’s arm and direct his attention left, where a figure stands in shadow, watching us as cautiously as any wild beast. It’s a young man, late teens, maybe twenty. He carries a bow, but it’s lowered, and he’s just watching, reminding me of that wolf the day before.
“Hello.” I resist the urge to say we come in peace, though I doubt this young man would get the reference. “We just need to speak to someone from the Second Settlement. My name’s Casey. This is Eric.”
He keeps watching us with wary curiosity.
“And this is Storm,” I say, nodding down. “She’s a dog, not a bear.” I smile. “She gets that mistake a lot.”
No reaction.
“I’m holding her by the collar,” I say. “She’s big, but she’s friendly, if you want to come closer.”
He doesn’t move.
“May we speak to you from there?” I ask.
When he stays silent, I’m beginning to wonder if he understands English. Then he says, “Yes.”
“Before we do,” Dalton drawls, “I’d appreciate knowing if we need to watch for anyone jumping at our backs. I’m sure you aren’t out here alone.”
Silence, and even from here, I swear I see the boy considering.
Finally he says, “The others are close. They’ll come if I call them.”
“Fair enough,” Dalton says.
“I’m going to remove my pack,” I say. “I’m getting something out that I want to show you.”
I take the remaining piece of Ellen’s parka from my bag and hold it out. “We’re told this was made by someone in the Second Settlement.”
He squints. Then he eases forwa
rd, until he’s about five feet away. He reaches out, and I pass him the material. He peers at it and then shakes his head as he returns it.
“It’s not ours.”
“You sure?” Dalton asks.
The young man’s eyes flash. “I know the work of my people. I don’t know what you’ve found, but if that was what led you to think it is ours, then someone has made a mistake. Or someone is trying to cause trouble for us. We don’t want the kind of trouble that comes with you.”
“Me?” Dalton says. “Who am I?”
“It’s not who you are. It’s where you’re from.” His gaze travels meaningfully over Dalton’s clothing. “Rockton. My people separated from yours, and we ask only to be left alone.”
“And you’re not missing anything?” I ask. “Missing anyone?”
“No, we are not.”
“You sure?” Dalton says again.
He gets that same flash of annoyance, stronger now. “If we were missing a person, I’d be out here hunting for him.”
“Maybe you are,” Dalton says.
“Then I’d be more interested when you said you found something of ours, wouldn’t I? We have no quarrel with Rockton. If we had someone missing, we’d be grateful for your help. If we found one of yours, we would return him.”
Despite those flashing eyes, the young man keeps his voice calm. He’s well-spoken. Polite. I get a distinctly different vibe from him than I do from the First Settlement. There’s no challenge here. We’re just two groups occupying the same region, and this one would rather keep those lines of separation clear. Like an introvert neighbor who thinks it’s very nice that you’re throwing a BBQ and hopes it goes well, but doesn’t want to attend, and would politely request that you stop asking.
“You have any idea where this came from?” Dalton says, pointing at the fabric.
“No, and if I did, I would tell you.”
“All right. We’ll keep looking then.”
The young man nods and withdraws without another word.
We watch him go. Then Dalton says, “You buy that?”
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