Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(54)

“You’ll stay back here with your pup, kitten,” Cypher says.

My back must rise at that, because he lifts a hand. “Let me and Eric make the approach. Eric can put his scarf on and pull up his hood, and we’ll let them think it’s Jakey. They don’t have much trade with him. Bad blood.”

I arch my brows. “You’re going to let them think Eric is the guy they don’t like?”

“The bad blood is on Jacob’s side. They thought he’d make a fine son-in-law, so they kept bugging him to take a freebie, and when he didn’t, they sent one of the girls to follow him and climb into his sleeping blankets. From what I hear, he didn’t just refuse nicely. Got himself into a right temper over it, which isn’t like our Jakey at all.”

True—Dalton is the brother with the temper—but I can imagine how that would have set Jacob off. After their parents died, Jacob had been on his own. As a teenager, he’d had an encounter where he’d been taken captive and sexually assaulted. Dalton doesn’t know that. I’m not sure anyone does besides myself and maybe Nicole. If someone crawled into Jacob’s bed after he’d made his refusal clear, he would not respond with a gentle rejection. I don’t blame him.

Cypher continues. “Jacob stays away as much as he can. I haven’t seen them myself much since I’ve opened trade with Rockton. They’re a nasty bunch. Not fit to raise dogs much less…” He trails off and shoots me a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

“I’ve gotten the message loud and clear,” I say.

“And she doesn’t need it on constant repeat,” Dalton adds. “Casey’s going to need to talk to these people herself. We both want to evaluate the situation.”

“I understand that,” Cypher says. “But if all three of us tramp in there, we’ll put them on the defensive. Especially once they realize you two are from Rockton. I can pull a little sleight of hand with you, Eric. When they find out you aren’t Jakey, they’ll be pissy, but I am not responsible for a misunderstanding. With Casey, though, you could only pretend she’s Edwin’s granddaughter, and believe me, that’d be worse.”

The plan seems overly complicated and makes me wonder exactly what we’re dealing with here. But if it is a delicate situation, Cypher is right that all three of us shouldn’t go marching in. There’s also an advantage to having me and Storm hang back where we can come to their aid in case of trouble.

They continue on, and I take Storm off the path. I know not to wander far, but that rising smoke is an easy landmark. In a small clearing that’s been intentionally clear-cut, I take off my snowshoes and perch on a tree trunk. I expect Storm to drop at my feet in exhaustion, but she sits, looking up at me. Looking up … looking down … looking up.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh, toss my pack down and then drop onto the ground.

Storm grunts in satisfaction and curls up with me. From puppyhood, we taught her that she can’t sit on laps and sofas and beds, and we’d congratulated ourselves on our forethought. While it was difficult to keep her on the floor when she was a tiny bundle of fur who only wanted to cuddle, we knew that one day she’d take up the entire sofa. The problem is that, to indulge her need for puppy cuddles, we’d get down on the ground with her. Perfectly reasonable … except that she came to expect that, and while she’ll curl up at our feet, if she’s tired and cold, she wants us to cuddle with her … on the snow-covered ground.

We curl up together, resting and snacking on venison jerky. I listen for trouble from the direction of the camp, but the murmured voices stay low and calm.

Once Storm has had her cuddles and her food and water, she’s ready to play. I pick up a stick and say, “I am not chasing this. Just so you know.”

She dances in place. I throw it. She hesitates, looking my way, then chuffs a look of disappointment at my old-lady frailties before taking off after the stick. We do that a couple of times, but it’s clear I’m being judged, so I switch to hide-and-seek. This is one of her favorite games. She sits, looking the other way, while I run a twisting trail before hiding downwind.

I make this one as tricky as I can. I hop on a couple of stumps and leap off them to interrupt the trail. I even climb a tree and slip into the branches of another. When I finally hide, I pick a spot behind a bush where some small beast has crawled under and died, masking my scent. I crouch behind it, mitts over my nose, hoping Storm appreciates this.

Peering through the bush, I watch her untangle my trail. My stump jump doesn’t stump her at all. The tree leap does, but only for a moment before she’s tearing through the snow following my trail and—

Metal glints in the midday sun. I’m not even sure what I see—some instinct processes the sight before my brain fully comprehends, and I charge from my hiding spot with a “No!” as I race toward Storm. As I do, I see the long barrel of a rifle pointing through the trees. Pointing at my dog.

I slam into Storm’s side, and we skid across the snow, me sprawled over her. There is no shot. Just a grunt of surprise, and then footsteps approaching and a man’s voice saying, “What the hell is that?”

I lift my head. As I do, I see his face and … There is still a gut instinct women have, an inner alert system that says, “Do not go home with this charming guy you met in a bar.” One glance at the man with the gun makes me decide I will not tell him who I am. Maybe it’s the set of his thin lips. Maybe it’s a glitter in his dark eyes. Maybe it’s merely a sixth sense that says beware.