Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(44)

“As it should be,” he says. “But, well, while I’m open to possibilities, there was one lady in particular who caught my eye. That’s what led to the conversation with Deputy Will. She came by to give him shit about something, and he made a comment, and after she left, I confirmed the sex-trade thing. I’m presuming, from his comment, that she’s one of the … ladies for hire.”

“Ah, you already have your date picked out. I’ll ask Will who—”

Before I can finish, Jen marches over. “You steal my baby, and you don’t bring her back? I said her feeding time was six, and it’s already ten after, and I see you just waltzing around with her, while she freezes her tiny ass off.”

As she talks, Cypher steps away—quickly. I don’t blame him. I’d like to escape, too. But something in the way he quickly sidesteps catches my attention.

Jen sees him. “Oh, it’s Grizzly Adams. Come down from the mountain, did you? You don’t need to jump. I don’t bite.”

“I wasn’t jumping, miss. I was moving downwind so you don’t smell me before I get a shower. Which I was just about to do.”

“I’ve spent the last two days changing shitty diapers. You can’t smell any worse than that.” Jen reaches for Abby. “Gimme.”

I catch the look Cypher is giving her, and I accidentally say “Jen?” aloud, and she turns on me with a snapped, “What?”

I motion to Dalton, whose eyebrows disappear under his hat. He looks from Cypher to Jen.

“What?” Jen repeats.

“I think we’ll keep the baby for now,” I say. “We’ll feed her, and then Petra wanted a visit. We’ll leave her and Storm there over dinner. Would you mind doing us a favor, though? Tyrone’s going to get cleaned up and grab dinner at the Lion, and I’m not sure we’ll be done with the baby in time. It’s probably best if he doesn’t walk into the Lion unescorted.”

“You want me to eat dinner with Grizzly Adams?” She looks over at him and shrugs. “Fine with me, but you’d better make sure he wants to have dinner with me. He looks ready to bolt back into the forest.”

“Like I said, miss, I just don’t smell too good.”

“It’s Jen. I haven’t been a ‘miss’ for a long time. If you’re okay eating with me, then sure, go get your shower. I’ll come by in thirty minutes. Just don’t make me wait. I’m hungry.”

She leaves before he can answer. I call after her, “Thanks, and dinner’s on us!”

“It better be,” she calls back.

When she’s out of earshot, I say, “That’s all we’re paying for, too.”

Dalton watches Jen. “She’s the…?”

“Can’t even get the rest out, can you?” I murmur.

“She’s a little rough around the edges,” Cypher says. “But I’m not exactly smooth myself.” He eyes her retreating form. “You think I have a shot? I mean, if I pay, obviously.”

“Here’s the thing,” I say. “When Will said we have sex workers, he didn’t mean Jen. Yes, he may have made a smart-ass comment to her. That’s because she’s been known to moonlight, which is strictly prohibited. As far as I know, she hasn’t done that in a while. So my advice is to have a nice dinner, see how it goes, and if she makes you an offer, I’ll tell Isabel it’s a special case.”

“A charity case,” Dalton says.

Cypher pokes him in the chest. “How about you just go back to not trying to be funny, boy. I don’t need charity. I just need a long shower, some good soap, and clean clothing. And beard trimmers.”

“Or hedge clippers,” I say.

“Oh, you too, huh? I clean up just fine. As you will see.”

“Actually, we won’t. You get Jen all to yourself. Tell her we decided to eat in with the baby tonight. Go have your date, and try not to spend too much of our money.”



* * *



We’re at home with Abby and Storm. Dalton checked on Maryanne earlier, and she’s fine. He sensed she’d had enough company for the day, so he had Anders take her dinner and a few supplies, and she’s in for the night. Anders will keep an eye on the place and make sure no one goes nosing around. He’ll also let us know if Maryanne gets skittish and bolts.

I feed Storm and then Abby while Dalton makes dinner. He’s better at that. It wasn’t a skill I developed at home—we had a housekeeper who cooked. That’s no excuse, I know. It just always seemed like there were other things to do, and it was easier to buy takeout or cook a pot of pasta or slap together a sandwich. I can cook—I’m just not very good at it, and the limited ingredients here frustrate me. Dalton’s never known anything else.

Tonight, he’s making venison cutlets with a mushroom ragout on a bed of egg noodles. Everything is fresh—the meat hunted, the mushrooms picked and dried, the egg noodles handmade. We may not have a supermarket’s worth of variety here, but the food is worthy of a posh Toronto eatery.

I’m putting Abby to bed when Dalton declares dinner ready. We eat in front of the fireplace, Storm at our feet, Dalton stretched out on the sofa, me curled up at the other end, plates on our laps, wineglasses on the side tables.