Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(20)

The resident should leave it at that, but Dalton isn’t the only one who’s had too much, and this guy is new, not yet accustomed to how things work in Rockton. He grins and hooks a thumb at me. “If she’s one of those privileges, I’ll take it.”

Silence drops so fast it ripples through the entire bar, those too far to hear the exchange noticing the hush and following it. A buzz of anticipation follows. A sense of schadenfreude that tells me that this guy has not made friends, no one even taking pity on him by leaping up to pull him back.

“She is our detective,” Dalton says, his voice tight with warning.

The man chuckles and thumps Dalton on the shoulder. “No offense, Sheriff. I’m just saying you’re a lucky guy. Hot booze. Hot chick. Gotta love a position with perks.”

Dalton reaches over and dumps the contents of one bottle down the guy’s shirt.

“Huh,” Dalton says as the guy lets out a high-pitched shriek. “You’re right. It is hot.” He looks at Isabel. “You heat it up a little extra for me?”

“I wouldn’t want your drink getting cold on the walk home.”

Dalton grabs the front of the guy’s shirt. “Special treatment from the barkeep? That’s a perk. Detective Butler? That’s a person. Learn the difference.”

“You—you burned—”

“First degree, if that. Lucky for you, the doc’s sitting right there.”

Anders rises. “I’ll get this one, April.” He puts an arm around the man’s shoulders, and the guy flinches, but Anders only gives him a friendly squeeze. “We’ll have a nice chat, too, while I’m looking at that burn.”

They nearly bump into Kenny, who’s just come into the Roc. He looks from Anders to the burned guy. Then he sees Dalton and nods, as if this is all the explanation he needs.

I wave Kenny to our table. “Perfect timing. We were about to abandon my sister.”

If it were anyone else, April would say that she’d been leaving. For Kenny, she’ll stick around.

Isabel holds out a fresh bottle of cider. Dalton takes it before I can, and he motions me to the door. Storm follows at our heels.

We’re outside and away from the Roc before I snatch one of the bottles and take a long draw from it.

My eyes water, and I gasp. “I think she made these even stronger than the ones we got inside.”

I take another gulp, and Dalton laughs at that. His gloves go around my hips, and he hoists me onto the railing of a shop, dark and closed for the day. Then he pushes between my knees, and I get a long, cider-sweet kiss.

Storm sees what’s happening, sighs, and plunks down to wait, the model of patience. Dalton sips a far more cautious drink from his bottle. Hesitates. Gulps a larger swig.

I laugh and put my arms around his neck, bottle dangling from one hand.

“Having a good night, Sheriff?” I ask.

“It started off good. It’s getting better.” Another gulp. Another kiss. He blinks, forcing his eyes to focus, and I have to laugh at that.

“You are such a lightweight,” I say.

“I’m not the only one.”

“Hey, I shoot tequila. Straight.”

“Yeah, Miss Two-Shots Max. You like to look like a badass, but I definitely saw some wobbling as we left the Roc.”

“Which is one of the reasons we left.” I hoist my bottle. “If I’m having more, I’m having it with just you.”

“Ditto.”

As he kisses me, his gaze shunts to the side, and he gives a start. Then he chokes on a laugh. I look to see …

It looks like a person standing there. It’s actually a dummy, sitting on a wooden chair. A very homemade dummy, constructed of stuffed trousers stuck into boots and an equally stuffed red flannel shirt. The head is cotton stuffed into a nylon and painted with a red smile and round eyes. More cotton forms a beard. On the figure’s head is an old red knit hat.

“Is that supposed to be Santa Claus?” Dalton asks.

I shudder. “Reminds me of the mall Santas my parents made me sit with. We had to get a duty photo every year to send to family—one of me sitting on the knee of some very sketchy Santas. April got out of it, naturally.”

He scoops me up.

“No!” I say. “Don’t you dare—”

He turns at the last second and plunks onto Santa’s lap, crushing the poor dummy. Then he settles me onto his own lap and tugs the knit cap onto his head.

“So, little girl, what do you want for Christmas?”

“Oh God, now I really am scarred for life.” I shudder. “Wrong, wrong, so wrong.”

He tosses the hat aside and leans back, arms tightening around me. “I’ll ask the question like this, then. What do you want for Christmas this year?”

I twist to look up at him and smile. “I do believe I have everything I want.”

He goes as red at the Santa’s flannel shirt.

“You’re cute when you blush.” I lean over to kiss him. “Still true, though. If we make that extra trip to Dawson, I’ll come up with a completely frivolous wish list for you, but you’ll owe me a list, too. As for what I want tonight—”

The sudden wail of a baby sounds in the distance. We look at each other.

“Not that,” I say.