Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(19)

I hand him my notes. He takes the page.

“If you learn anything, let us know,” I say. “Otherwise, we’ll be off for the First Settlement before dawn.”

He grabs his jacket from a chair by the bed.

“It’s not that big a rush,” I say. “I think Isabel wanted to speak to you first. I’ll send her up.”

Dalton and I head downstairs, to where Isabel is at the bar, writing something.

“He’s all yours,” I say. “Better hurry, though. It’s almost five.”

She holds up what she’d been writing. It’s a sign.

The Roc will open at 6 PM today, so as not to interfere with the wassail party.

“You’re so considerate,” I say.

She hands me the sign. “Hang it, and lock the door, please.”





NINE


As much as we’d love to head out again, chasing answers, it’s already dark. The investigation will need to wait until morning. I stop by the wassail party long enough to announce that there is a baby in town. Residents will hear her, so they need to know she’s here and why. I say that I understand people may want to see her, but she’s very young and we don’t know the full state of her health and immune system and must restrict contact to caregivers only.

After that, Dalton and I pick up Storm and then have an early dinner, while taking the baby for a couple of hours to give Jen time to eat. Overnight, she’ll stay with Jen.

Because the Roc opened late, Isabel extends the pre-brothel hours, and at nine, we’re there with Anders and April, with Storm gnawing a bone under the table. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow will be another long one. We can afford an hour off to enjoy a mug of mulled alcoholic beverage and kettle corn, the festive snack of the evening.

By the time Dalton is two-thirds done with his cider, I’m on his lap. I did not put myself there. I’m not quite sure how I arrived there, either, which may suggest I’ve imbibed more alcohol than I intended.

Isabel stops by to refill the popcorn bowl and smirks at us, Dalton with his arms tight around me, his head on my shoulder, nuzzling my neck. If he’s doing that in public …

“Exactly how much rum is in this cider?” I ask.

“In general?” Anders says. “Or in ours?” He lifts his mug. “I do believe Iz was feeling generous tonight.”

“It does seem…” April stares into her barely touched drink. “Strong.”

“I owe you for earlier,” Isabel says to me. She waves at Dalton. “Enjoy.”

“This isn’t a gift,” I say as I firmly move Dalton’s hands to my waist. “It’s payback.”

“We don’t ever get to see our sheriff drunk,” Isabel says as she refills his mug before I can stop her. “It’s adorable.”

“It kinda is,” Anders says as she leaves. “However…” He looks around the Roc, at residents watching their hard-ass sheriff nuzzling his girlfriend.

“Not a good look?” I say.

“He’s fine,” April says. “There’s nothing wrong with mild acts of public affection.”

“Nah,” Dalton says, straightening. “There is when it’s the sheriff slobbering on his detective. And, yeah, you don’t need to talk about me in the third person. I’ve had more than I should, but I’m not that drunk.”

“Also, for the record,” I say, “there was no actual slobbering. You’re just very cuddly. As Will said, it is adorable but…”

I slide off his lap. He lets me go with reluctance and a last squeeze before saying, “Yeah, time to cut me off.”

“Unless you want the rest of your cider to-go.”

The slow smile that crosses Dalton’s face has Anders making gagging noises. April stops him with a sharp rap on the arm, which proves that her drink is indeed strong. Dalton gets to his feet.

“I’ll grab take-out cups,” he says.

“I thought we weren’t allowed take-out alcohol,” April says.

“Eric is special,” Anders says.

I give Storm a pat under the table as I watch Dalton cross to the bar. He’s walking steadily, no sign of inebriation in his gait or his stance. It’s still very obvious that he’s tipsy. Normally, even here socially, he carries himself with a certain stiffness. Tenser. Harder. Gaze constantly scanning for trouble, the set of his jaw warning that a wrong move could land the miscreant in the water trough outside.

Tonight he’s the guy I see at home. Relaxed. Calm. Happy. A slight bounce in his step and the ghost of a smile on his lips. He looks younger, too, and this is one of the reasons he doesn’t drink more than one beer in public. When he relaxes, the walls come down, his guard dropping, and people suddenly remember he’s only thirty-two, and they start to wonder why he holds so much power, or why a glare from him can have them straightening in their seat, their hearts beating faster.

Isabel fills two bottles with hot mulled cider, leaving them uncapped, steam rolling out. Someone cracks a joke about Dalton getting special privileges, and there’s a moment where I can tell Dalton’s ready to joke back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then he remembers himself and sobers. “You want my job? Privileges come with that, and I don’t think you want this”—he raises the bottles—“that badly.”