Alone in the Wild

by Kelley Armstrong

  I smile. “Nice try, but if the council caught us buying guns for you, they’d kick us out. Later, I can try to negotiate to get you one, but I can’t promise that now. It’s the five hundred in random goods or two-fifty in goods of your choice, same as I offered Cherise.”

  She blinks. “You offered Cherise so much for finding this baby’s parents? That was … unwise.” She says it carefully, an adult gently admonishing a child too young to know better.

  “In retrospect, it probably was. Fortunately, it seems I’ll be paying you instead.”

  “I will take your goods minus the price of a gun, which you will get me before spring or pay me double its value in additional goods.”

  That’s fair, but I pretend to consider it before agreeing.

  “The baby’s mother is from the First Settlement,” she says. “She is—was—a companion of mine. We’d meet up with a couple of the Second settlers around our age. My grandfather doesn’t know this, and I would appreciate you not telling him.”

  “I won’t. I’m sure he’s seen it with others, though. You’re two small communities with a limited number of people your own age. Down south, that’d been like the kids from neighboring small-town schools hanging out together.” I smile. “It widens the dating pool.”

  She frowns, and I’m about to explain when she figures it out, deciphering unfamiliar words from the context.

  “You mean our choices for marriage prospects,” she says.

  “Or just romantic relationships.”

  A wave of one hand, dismissing the concept. I suppose, to them, dating would be similar to wooing a hundred years ago. There’s always an end goal, and that goal is finding a marriage partner.

  “I sought out their young settlers for an exchange of ideas,” she says. “I see advantage in that where my grandfather does not. We hunted together. We camped together. We grew close.”

  “You became friends.”

  A twist of her lips. This is a girl who sees friendship—like romance—as a frivolity for those who can afford to be frivolous, and she cannot.

  “You became allies,” I say, and she nods, clearly more comfortable with that. “But your friend—your companion—found more. She found a marriage partner.”

  Felicity’s face darkens. “That was not supposed to happen. Intermarriage between the communities is forbidden.”

  I chuckle. “When it comes to romance, nothing tastes as sweet as the forbidden fruit. People have written a thousand stories about it.”

  “Romeo and Juliet,” she says, her lip curling. I must look surprised because she gives me just the faintest hint of an eye roll. “We are not savages. The first generation brought their stories, and my grandfather brought books. We all know Romeo and Juliet. A ridiculous tale of two foolish dolts.”

  I have to smile at that. “They were very young.”

  “I heard the story when I was younger than the characters, and my reaction was no different. Romeo is madly in love with some other girl, sees Juliet, and falls madly in love with her. The boy wanted to be madly in love, nothing more.”

  “I’m not disagreeing.”

  “Even Sidra said Romeo and Juliet were dolts. And then what does she do? Falls madly in love with a boy from the Second Settlement and runs away with him.” Felicity harrumphs. “They might as well have committed suicide. For all I know, she died in childbirth, with no one to help her.” Felicity’s face stays dark, scowling, but I see the fear in her eyes. Fear and worry and hurt.

  “The baby has been well fed,” I say. “She’d need her mother alive for that.”

  She nods, the relief seeping out. Then she snaps, “Then Sidra was lucky. But what about next time? Is she going to continue breeding with him? Without any help? I could have—” Her teeth shut with a click, and she retreats into a deeper scowl. “Dolts.”

  “You didn’t know she was pregnant,” I say softly.

  “How could I? She left the summer before last, and I warned her that if she went, I wouldn’t…” Felicity swallows and doesn’t finish.

  “You said you wouldn’t help her, but you didn’t really mean that. She took you seriously and stayed away.”

  “I was angry. I begged her to stay. Not to give him up. I knew better than to ask that. But if she’d given me time, I could have brought Grandfather around to the idea. She didn’t even give me time to ask him. She staged her own death, like Juliet. Can you believe that? They both did, the fools. They left bloodied clothing, and I was supposed to grieve as if she’d died.” Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t. That would feel like a lie. So I pretended I didn’t believe she’d died, and everyone thinks I just can’t handle the truth.”

  “She put you in a very awkward position.”

  “Yes, she did. Grandfather listens to me, but she didn’t trust me. She thought if she asked, they’d marry her off to Angus. I’ve known her since we were babies, and she is … She was very important to me, and I was not so important to…”

  A deep breath as she blinks back tears and straightens. “She chose him. She met him, and she chose him, and she forgot me.”

  It’s an old story. Diana accused me of shunning her when I fell for Dalton. Of course, that ignores the fact that she dumped me with every new boyfriend since we were in high school together. Also, the entire reason I’m in Rockton is because she and her ex conspired to convince me I’d been found out for Blaine’s murder.

  This has, I suspect, been the complaint of friends since time immemorial. A romantic partner shouldn’t replace a best friend, but they are competition for that role. In circumstances like mine, your lover is also your friend, yet it’s not like simply adding a new friend to the mix, because you want plenty of alone time with this one. That leaves your best friends to the timeworn wail of “you’re always with them,” devolving into the desperate battle cries of “bros before hos” and “chicks before dicks.”

  I doubt Sidra forgot Felicity. It just feels that way.

  As much as I value my friendships, no one can ever be as close to me as Dalton. We work together, play together, live together, plan our futures together. That doesn’t mean I fail to understand Felicity’s hurt. I felt it myself every time Diana swanned off with a new lover, forgetting me until a hole in her social calendar needed filling.

  I could give Felicity advice. But she won’t want it. She needs to work this out for herself. Instead, I ask if she has any idea where to find Sidra and her partner. She doesn’t know exactly where they’re camping, but she has a rough idea. The region is about a half day’s walk from here … in the direction of where we found Abby.

  “May I see the baby?” she asks.

  “Of course.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Petra has Abby while Jen naps. We pass Dalton, who strides by with a gesture that I think means he’ll catch up with us, but he’s moving too fast for me to be sure. I call after him that we’ll be at Petra’s, and he lifts a hand in acknowledgment without slowing.

  When Petra opens the door to Felicity, she does a subtle shift into the young woman’s line of sight, as if blocking her from seeing Abby.

  “This is Felicity,” I say. “She’s Edwin’s granddaughter. She’s a friend of the baby’s mom.”

  Petra nods, but she’s still wary as she escorts us in. We find Abby in a wooden cradle that someone has painted with a carousel of wild animals.

  “We’re gone three days, and you guys have built her a cradle and decorated it.”

  “She was in a box,” Petra says. “A cardboard box.”

  I lift a fur teddy bear from the floor and sigh, shaking my head. Abby’s eyes open, and her head rolls as her lips purse in what threatens to be a wail if I don’t pick her up in the next two seconds. I scoop her out of the cradle and hug her, crooning under my breath. She snuggles in and then stops, head rolling again.

  “No, Eric isn’t here,” I say. “You have to make do with me.”

  “Daddy’s little—” Petra begins, and then her gaze shunts to Felicity and
she stops herself. This isn’t our baby. She has parents, and unless they abandoned her, she’s going back to them. Still, Petra’s lips tighten as she assesses Felicity again.

  I turn to Felicity, who hasn’t said a word. I hold out Abby, and she just stands there, looking at her. Then she touches one finger to the baby’s cheek.

  “Does she look like your friend?” Petra asks, and there’s challenge in that, as if she’s going to make damned sure we aren’t being misled.

  “She looks like a baby,” Felicity says. “My friend does not.”

  I smile at that. “True.”

  “Sidra has skin the color of mine,” she says. “Her grandmother was Arab. That’s what Grandfather called her. Sidra has dark hair and blue eyes. The boy—Baptiste—is French. He also has dark hair, but lighter skin and brown eyes. I see nothing that says this baby is not theirs, but they will need to confirm that, of course.”

  I explain the full situation, and Petra only says, “So you don’t even know if your friends had a baby?”

  “We’ll confirm it, like Felicity says,” I counter. “Now—”

  Two sharp knocks at the door, and I see Dalton through the front window, something in his hands. Petra calls a welcome, and the door clicks open and then smacks into the wall, as if he has his hands full.

  “You breaking down my door, Sheriff?” Petra calls as she walks into the front hall. “Ah, you come bearing gifts. You’re forgiven. You will have to pay the toll, though.”

  “Better ask Casey. I promised her a whole batch.”

  He walks in with an insulated box and a thermos. Abby has her head up again, wobbling toward him.

  “Someone hears you,” I say. “Trade?”

  He takes the baby, and I get the treats. The thermos holds spiked coffee, and the box is stuffed with chocolate chip cookies, warm from the oven.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “I love you.”

  “I keep my promises.” He hefts Abby, talking to her. While I know it’s gas, I swear she smiles up at him. “How about you, kiddo? You want a cookie? Irish coffee? Make you sleep really well tonight and let us get some rest?”

  Abby coos at him.

  “She has parents,” Felicity says.

  “Everyone does. I’m hoping that means you can help us get her back to them?”

  Felicity hesitates. There’s annoyance in her gaze, offended on her friend’s behalf at this man who’s playing with Abby as if she’s his. Not unlike Petra eyeing Felicity, ready to defend my claim on the baby.

  I tell Dalton about Sidra and Baptiste as I pass out cookies. Felicity examines hers and then takes a tiny bite, startling at the taste and pulling back as if poisoned.

  “What is this?” she says, touching her fingertip to a gooey chocolate chip. “Fruit gone bad?”

  “Does it taste bad?” I say.

  “Don’t say yes,” Dalton says. “Or she won’t let you finish that cookie. Casey is very protective of her chocolate chips.”

  “This is chocolate?” Felicity touches it again. “I’ve heard of it in books.” She puts her fingertip in her mouth, tasting it and then nodding. “It’s good. I just didn’t know what it was.” She lifts the cookie. “And this is a cookie?”

  “Yep.” I take a mug from Petra as she brings them. “This is coffee. Spiked with brandy. Alcohol. Which you are, by Yukon law, one year too young to drink.”

  “We don’t drink it anyway,” she says. “It is forbidden.”

  “Well, you can try it or we can brew you a regular cup.”

  She considers and then accepts a quarter cup. We sit and make plans for tracking Abby’s parents. It’s too late to head out today, so we’ll start before dawn. Felicity will come with us. She insists before I can offer. She’s making sure her tip is the one that leads us to Abby’s parents and there’s no wiggle room to claim otherwise. Or that’s what she says. The truth, I suspect, is that she wants the excuse to reunite with her friend.

  Stubborn pride. The kind that only hurts yourself, that stops you from having something you really want because God forbid anyone should think you want anything.

  I understand that. I understand it all too well.

  “You can stay in my old place,” I say.

  Felicity shakes her head. “I have a tent and blankets. I will camp outside your town.”

  “Yeah, no,” Dalton says. “First, you don’t trust us to play fair with your lead, and we don’t trust you not to send us on a wild-goose chase like your granddaddy did.”

  “I would not—”

  “Second, I cannot allow anyone to camp outside our town. You are a guest here, but you’re also an intruder. You’ll sleep where I tell you to sleep.”

  “She can stay here,” Petra says.

  Dalton and Petra exchange a look. Petra isn’t being hospitable; she wants Felicity under watch. When Dalton’s gaze slips my way, I hesitate. Petra is the council’s tool. She has killed for them. She has also vowed that her loyalties lie with Rockton itself over the council and even her grandmother.

  At what point is a lack of trust simply caution? And at what point does it tip into pride?

  You hurt me. I feel betrayed. I understand that it wasn’t about me, but I want to stand my ground. Keep that door shut so you can’t hurt me again.

  That’s what I feel, and it is exactly what I suspect Felicity does, with Sidra.

  “I’ll go with you tomorrow, too,” Petra says when I finally agree.

  “We shouldn’t take the baby,” Felicity says. “So we won’t need you to look after her.”

  Petra looks at Felicity and bursts out laughing. “Yeah, kid, I’m offering to go along as the babysitter. You just keep thinking that.” She turns to me. “I’m guessing you’ll take Abby tonight and—”

  “Her name is Abby?” Felicity says. “How do you know that?” Her expression says she’s guessed the answer, and she’d better be wrong.

  “We don’t know what Sidra and Baptiste named her,” I say. “But we needed something to call her. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Felicity’s gaze moves to the painted cradle and the toys. Then she looks back at me.

  “Yes,” I say, “we have too much free time here. People wanted to do something for Ab—the baby. Sidra will be welcome to take anything they’ve made. Now, I think we should—”

  “I’d like to go along tomorrow,” Petra repeats, as if I’ve forgotten the request. Technically, she should ask Dalton, but her gaze is on me.

  When I don’t answer, she says, “Will has to stay in town. Tyrone is still here, but you’d need to pry him away from Jen. Also, with you both being gone for a few days, it’s been easier on Will having Tyrone around playing backup deputy.”

  “We’ve already found Ellen’s killer,” I say. “This is a simple tracking mission. I’m not even sure both Eric and I need to go.”

  Dalton’s grunt tells me I am mistaken in this.

  “I have tomorrow off,” Petra says. “And I’m requesting permission to accompany you. Who knows, maybe you’ll find another baby along the way and need someone to look after it.” She shoots an amused glance at Felicity.

  She’s really saying that she doesn’t trust this girl. Doesn’t trust we aren’t being led into a trap. If I refuse the request, I’m being stubborn … and maybe a little petty.

  “All right,” I say.

  “Good,” Dalton says. “Now, Felicity, I’m guessing no one has given you a tour of the town?”

  “No, but I don’t need—”

  “We insist. It’s only polite. Get your stuff on, and we’ll show you around.”

  * * *

  Dalton doesn’t insist on the tour to be hospitable. It’s a message, one Felicity can take home to the First Settlement, like when I told her how we store our guns and how tightly they’re controlled. He also shows her that, as part of the “tour.”

  We have guns. More than you do. And they’re locked up so tight even our residents can’t get at them, so don’t even think about stealing any
.

  We introduce her to the militia and explain the twenty-four-hour armed-guard patrols. We show her the storehouses, windowless and well secured. Of course Felicity realizes what’s happening. But we don’t need to point out the security features—she’s already looking and calculating.

  At first, I’m surprised she initially declined the tour. She’s Edwin’s granddaughter, and this is a rare opportunity to assess our wealth and defenses. She must be curious, too. That, I realize, is where I’m mistaken. Yes, she’s curious, but she’s also wary, and this is why she didn’t want to come inside—because she didn’t want to see more.

  I had a friend in elementary school who was from a less affluent part of the city. I know that private and charter schools are popular in the States, speaking to the quality of the public school system in some areas. In Canada, private schools are for the rich. My parents used to say they were for parental bragging rights. That’s not entirely true, but our public school system is good enough that parents like mine rightly declared a private education unnecessary. But there are still differences between schools themselves, and this girl’s parents drove her to ours.

  We became friends, and one day, I got permission to bring her home. I’d been so excited to show her my house, with my big bedroom and private bath and huge yard. That wasn’t showing off—I was too young to understand such a thing. I just wanted her to see my domain, the places that were uniquely mine.

  When I invited her back, she refused, and an invitation to her home never came. It’s only now, as an adult, that I understand. My house was a glimpse into a world of privilege. A world where you don’t share your bedroom with two sisters and your bathroom with your entire family. Where you don’t bother with the neighborhood playground because your yard is bigger. Where you can open the fridge and eat whatever you want because it’ll be replaced as soon as it’s gone.

  In my house, she saw what she lacked through sheer happenstance of birth. Had I gone to her place, I’d have seen the same—except for me, it’d have been spending time with her tight-knit, loving family. If I’d experienced that, would I have stayed away, too, avoiding a very different reminder of what could be?