Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(3)

I hesitate. I’ve learned the hard way that my dog might be the most valuable commodity I own out here. Never mind how well she’s trained; one look at her size gets a settler’s mind turning, considering how she could be used, as protection or as a beast of burden.

Taking her with me is a risk. So is leaving her here, commanded to stay, prey for any human or beast who happens upon her.

I nod and motion for her to stay behind me. She doesn’t like that but communicates her disapproval only with a chuff. Then she’s right on my heels.

After another half dozen steps, there is no doubt that I am hearing a baby. The weak and plaintive cry comes from right in front of me. Yet I see nothing.

I blink hard. I’m in an open area scattered with saplings, not big enough to hide someone clutching a child. The cry comes from right in the middle of an empty clearing, where I see nothing.

Storm whines. When I motion for her to stay behind me, she whines louder, taking on a note of irritation now. She’s asking nicely, but she really, really wants the release command. I won’t give it. This could be a trap, someone …

Someone what? Hiding a recording of a crying child under the snow?

Under the …

I tear into the clearing. The heap ahead looks like a buried log, and it’s too large to be a baby, but that’s definitely where the sound comes from. As I run, the snow deepens, with no tree canopy to block it, and I’m staggering forward in snow to my knees. I plow through, and I’m almost at the heap when my leg strikes something, and I stumble. In righting myself, I uncover a boot.

In two more steps, I’m beside the heap. The cries have stopped, and my heart stops with them. I claw at the snow. My fingers hit fabric. A woman’s body. I can see that in a glance, and again, I don’t stop for a better look. She is still and she is cold, and I cannot help her.

I keep digging, but there’s just the woman, and for a horrible moment, I imagine the baby trapped beneath her. Then, at a whimper, I realize the sound comes from under her jacket. I tear at it, the fabric frozen and stiff.

Blood. I see blood under the snow. I wrestle the jacket open, and there is the baby, clutched to the dead woman’s chest.





TWO


I yank the child free so fast that the momentum knocks me backward. I land on Storm, and my arms reflexively tighten around the baby.

Crushing it.

No, no, no …

I struggle upright as I loosen my grip … so much I almost drop the baby. I squeeze my eyes shut and shudder. I’m not easily rattled. I’ve hung off a cliff, fingers slipping, and only thought Damn, this isn’t good. But here I am freaked out. I know nothing about babies—nothing—and I’ve just dug one out from under the snow, from the arms of the child’s dead mother, and … and …

Focus, damn it! Focus!

Deep hyperventilating breaths. Then I gasp. I’m holding a baby that has been exposed to subzero temperatures. Buried under the snow with its dead mother. There is no time to catch my breath.

Clutching the baby, I look around. I spot the nearest object—a fallen tree. I race over, sit, make as much of a lap as I can, and settle the baby on it.

Baby. It’s a baby. Not a toddler. Not even a child old enough to crawl. This is an infant so tiny …

I suck in a breath. Focus, focus, focus.

It’s so small. I don’t have nieces or nephews. Don’t have close friends with children. I cannot even guess how young this baby might be. I only know that it is tiny and it is fragile, and for once in my life, I feel huge. Massive and clumsy. Even with my gloves off, my fingers fumble with the swaddling.

I’m not sure what “swaddling” should look like, but it’s the word that pops to mind. The baby has been wrapped tight in a cocooning cloth. Animal hide, tanned to butter softness.

As I’m unwrapping the baby, I stop. It’s freezing out here, and I’m unwrapping it? But I have to, don’t I? To check for frostbite? Warm it up?

The panic surges on a wave of indecision. Run the baby back to our tent and unwrap it there. No, unwrap it here, quickly, and make sure it’s fine.

The baby makes a noise, too weak now to be called a cry. The child’s eyes are screwed shut. They haven’t opened since I picked it up.

A bitter wind whips past, and I instinctively clutch the baby to my chest. That wind—and my reaction—answer my question. Get to the tent, to shelter. It’s only a few hundred feet away.

I open my jacket, and as I do, I curse myself for being a spoiled brat. Last winter, I’d fumbled around in oversize outerwear, and I’d grumbled about it, and the next time Dalton did a supply run, he returned with a new jacket and snowsuit for me. Naturally, he bought me a sleek, down-filled parka that fits perfectly, meaning I have to hold the baby against my sweater, jacket stretched only partway across. A quick second thought, and I turn my coat around, leaving an air pocket at the top.

The whole time I’m fussing, Storm whines, which only fuels my panic. Her anxiety feels like a lack of trust. That’s only me projecting, but I snap at her to be quiet. Guilt surges as she ducks her head, and I pat it quickly, murmuring an apology, knowing this is what she really wants: reassurance. I’m freaking out, and that’s freaking her out, and she needs to know everything is okay.

Once the baby is secured, I start from the clearing. Storm woofs, and I turn to see her staring at the woman’s body.