Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(55)

“It’s … it’s a dog,” I stammer, pitching my voice low. “My dog.”

I stay on the ground, over Storm, my face turned down just enough to let my hood shadow my face.

The man tilts his head. “Where’d you come from, boy?”

I mentally nod in satisfaction as he makes the mistake I hoped he would when I changed my voice. I remembered the first time I met Cypher, when he mistook me for a boy. It’s easy to do, with my size and build, especially if I’m wrapped in my winter wear.

Cypher also mistook me for Indigenous. I could roll my eyes at that, but it happened even down south. I am a racial puzzle that strangers want to solve, even when I’d rather they looked at me and only saw a person.

“I’m with my dad, trapping.” I lift my chin a little. “I have a right to be here. My mother’s family is Tr’ond?k Hw?ch’in.”

His snort suggests he isn’t the type to respect territorial rights.

“Get up, boy.”

When I hesitate, he points the gun and growls, “I said get up. This ain’t your land. Hasn’t been in five hundred years, so don’t pull that shit on me. You know who this land belongs to? Whoever has these.” He taps his gun. “So get on up and let me see that so-called dog of yours.”

I rise slowly, my hand on Storm’s collar. I pat her head and murmur words of reassurance.

“That’s a dog, huh?” he says, eyeing Storm.

“Yes, sir.”

“Never seen one like that.”

I shrug. “Dad got her for me in Dawson. He didn’t know how big she’d get.”

He eyes Storm. “Good for pulling sleds, I bet.”

I laugh softly. “No, sir, she’s no sled dog. No hunter either. Dad calls her a waste of good food, especially in the winter, but I hunt for her, so he lets me keep her.”

His hand snatches my jaw. I don’t see it coming until his icy fingers clamp on my chin. Storm growls, but I twist her collar, a warning for silence.

“I need to get back to my dad, sir,” I say, as calmly as I can.

“Do you?” He turns my face. “You’re a pretty boy, aren’t you? Pretty little half-breed.”

My eyes narrow at the slur, and he laughs. “Got some fire, huh?” He strokes my cheek with his callused thumb. “Such soft skin. Makes me wonder…”

He yanks down my hood. My hand flies up to stop him, but again he moves too fast. Then he grins, and there is no humor in that grin, no lasciviousness either. There’s something deeper, hungrier, uglier. His hand vise-grips my chin, fingers digging in.

“Look at this,” he says with a low whistle. His other hand rakes through my ponytail hard enough to pull out hair along with my elastic. I still don’t fight. I just breathe through my mouth, keeping my temper down so I don’t alarm Storm.

“Not a boy after all,” he says.

He reaches for my parka zipper. I beat him to it, yanking it down as I glower up.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say as his gaze moves to my breasts, nearly invisible under my double layers.

“Nothing wrong with that,” he says. “You might not be a boy, but some men like to close their eyes and pretend.” He winks. “Not my style, but I don’t judge. And I can see the appeal of a woman who can pass for younger, if you know what I mean.”

My stomach churns at that. I’ve only unzipped my parka to my waist, so he can’t see my shoulder holster, but the weight of the gun reassures me.

“I’m going to take my dog and go now,” I say.

He throws back his head and laughs. “You really do have some spark. What part of this conversation made you think leaving was an option?”

“I would suggest you might want it to be,” I say.

He reaches for me. I see that one coming, but it’s too dangerous to fight. He grabs my hair. His fist wraps in it, and he throws me to the ground.

Storm lunges. I’m still gripping her collar, and she yanks me up as she lunges for the man, snarling. He raises his rifle.

“Get your dog under control, girl,” he says.

I pull her to me and stay down, sitting on the ground. Storm positions herself over me.

“I said get your damned dog under—”

“What you have got there, Owen?” a woman’s voice says.





TWENTY-SIX


I twist as a figure emerges from the trees. She’s wrapped tight in a parka, hood pulled up, bulky boots on her feet. In her hands, she holds another rifle. When she turns to me, I see a face even harder than the man’s.

She pulls down her hood to get a better look at me. She’s younger than me, maybe mid-twenties. Blond hair. Wide-set blue eyes. High cheekbones. A mouth that looks like it should be pouting in some sultry ad for fifty-dollar lipstick. Pretty, in a chilly Nordic way.

I glance at the man, having not paid close attention to what he looks like until now. He’s closer to my age, dark-haired, sporting a solid build with a scar cutting across his nose.

As she approaches, he gestures at me, grinning like a child showing off newfound treasure.

“Huh,” the woman says. Her gaze is as coldly assessing as his. “Where’d she come from?”

“She says she’s with trappers, but I ain’t seen no trappers. I think she’s all by her lonesome. Just her and that thing.” He motions to Storm. “She claims it’s a dog.”