Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(13)

“I understand. If you can pop by the clinic and give us anything—maybe some sense of how old the baby is—that’d be great. Right now, though, we need food. She’s not rolling over or lifting her head yet, and as little as I know about babies, I realize that means she’s still on an all-liquid diet.”

“Damn, she really is young. Okay, well, I guess milk will have to do until you can get into Dawson for formula. We’ll need to rig up something to use as a bottle. Let’s go into the store. I have a couple of ideas—”

“You have a baby?” a voice says.

I glance over my shoulder and wince. “Does this look like a private conversation, Jen?”

“Fuck, yeah. Why do you think I’m eavesdropping?”

I used to joke that I always wanted a nemesis. I mean, it sounds cool, and I’m not the type of person who makes enemies easily. Neither friends nor enemies. In Rockton, I have more of the former than ever. I also have my first nemesis, and she’s standing right in front of me.

“Jen…” I say.

“You know, Detective, everyone keeps talking about how smart you are. Not as smart as your sister, but still fucking brilliant. Yet I really have to wonder sometimes. You brought a baby into town, and you think you can keep that a secret? This entire town is going to hear exactly what you’re hiding within … Oh, I’ll bet two hours. Petra, you want in?”

“You know what I want to lay bets on, Jen?” Petra says. “How long you can go without insulting Casey. I’ll give that two hours, though I might be granting you too much credit.”

“Someone has to keep our detective on her toes,” Jen says. “And it sure as hell won’t be you, Miss Artiste. Go draw some rainbows and flowers, think happy thoughts, and keep polishing your nicest-girl-in-town title. You can keep it.”

I look at Petra, and I choke on a laugh.

“What?” Jen said.

I turn to Jen. “Yes, there’s a baby. Yes, people will figure it out. But right now, that baby needs to eat, and we have to figure out what to give her and how to feed her.”

“Powdered milk with an extra fifty percent water plus sugar.”

We both look at Jen.

“That’s why I interrupted your conversation,” she says. “It was too painful listening to you both flounder. A baby needs formula, but watered down and sugared milk will do in an emergency.”

“You have kids?” I say.

“God, no. I was a midwife.”

Now Petra and I are staring.

“I thought you were a teacher,” I say, and I’m still struggling to reconcile that with the woman I know. Jen certainly looks like she could have been a teacher—well groomed, late thirties, pleasant appearance—but I cannot imagine her interacting with children. I don’t want to.

“You know how much a primary school teacher makes? I was a midwife on the side. Also did some day care in the summer, and I specialized in babies.”

“Whoa,” Petra says. “I finally know why you’re here. It wasn’t a real day care, was it? You were secretly conducting Satanic rituals on children.”

“Oh, ha ha. That’s actually not bad. You get a point for that one, blondie, but no, my kids were just fine. I like children. It’s once they hit puberty that they become assholes. Now let’s go get what you need.”





SEVEN


By the time we return to the clinic, April has her report ready. The baby is dehydrated and had mild hypothermia but not frostbite. She appears to be healthy. April estimates she’s approximately a month old. All of this is what I expected. Even the negatives—the dehydration and hypothermia—are minor and easily reversed. She does ask one question that makes me smack myself for not considering it before.

Were the blankets soiled when I found her?

The baby had been naked and wrapped in hide blankets. No diaper. My very preliminary exam on her mother’s body suggested the woman had been dead for hours when I found the baby. The baby has been wrapped in the same blanket ever since. Yet there are no bowel movements in it, and no obvious sign of urination. When I sniff-test, I do smell uric acid, but only faintly. So even before her mother died, the baby hadn’t eaten in a while. Is that significant? Maybe not, but it’s something for me to remember. It also means she’s very, very hungry now. Hungry enough to gobble down our makeshift formula without complaint.

Dalton feeds her. When he’s done and Jen says, “Now you need to burp her,” he hands her to me, and I awkwardly pat her back until Jen says, “Burp her, not jump-start her.” She takes the baby. “You really don’t have any idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“No,” April says. “It isn’t a skill Casey needs when she cannot have children.”

Silence falls. Dalton’s opening his mouth when Anders says, “And that’s no one’s business except Casey’s, but thanks for broadcasting it, April. I’m sure your sister appreciates that.”

April turns on him in genuine bafflement. “I was stating a medical fact. It’s hardly Casey’s fault—”

“It’s okay,” I say. “Yes, these aren’t skills I possess, so I appreciate Jen’s help.”

Anders and Dalton quickly change the subject, but I feel the weight of Jen’s gaze, and even if I can’t tell what she’s thinking, I squirm under that.