Alone in the Wild (Rockton #5)(99)

“Who is it, girl?”

Her body language is relaxed, meaning whoever it is doesn’t worry her. Not Cherise and Owen then. It’s a scent she recognizes, though, someone she has no strong feelings about either way. She glances at me, and there’s question in that look. It suggests she’s smelling another member of our party—Felicity or Baptiste—and while they aren’t her target, perhaps I’m also looking for them?

“Good girl,” I say. Then I tell her yes, please track the new scent. I’m not sure she’ll understand my command, but she sets off at a lope.

I take out my gun. I must, in case this is Baptiste, and I am mistaken about him. We head into thick forest, and I slow Storm, only to get a look that says we’re too close to the target to bother. Yet despite the thick forest, I don’t see anyone.

Storm stops. She goes rigid and whines, anxiety strumming from her. I look around. There’s no one here, no place for anyone to hide.

“What is it, girl?”

I follow her gaze. Just ahead, snow has been flattened. I see prints, multiple sets. That’s when I spot the blood, drops of red sunk into the snow.

I race over.

There’s blood. Definite blood, recently sprayed, droplets falling into fresh snow. Under my feet, the snow isn’t just trampled—it’s flat. Someone fell here. A struggle on the ground, a blow, blood flying.

Two sets of prints, coming from opposite directions. One significantly smaller than the other.

Felicity’s prints. I recognize the imprint of fur around the edge. The other set is male. Not Dalton’s boots. That’s all I can tell. His prints would be instantly distinguishable from the tread-free ones. Felicity was here. Someone attacked her.

Or she attacked someone.

If it was Felicity attacking, though, she lost. I see the male prints leaving the flattened snow of the fight … and dragging something with him. Dragging Felicity.

I’m following that trail when Storm whines. Not the anxiety of smelling blood, though. This is excitement. Her nose goes up, and her entire body wriggles with the joy that can only mean one thing.

“Eric?” I say. “Do you smell Eric?”

She woofs, a deep adult-Newfoundland woof, even as her massive body puppy-gyrates with excitement.

“Good girl.” I glance at the trail where someone dragged Felicity away. Is leaving it to go after Dalton the right move?

“Stop right there!” a voice shouts. Baptiste’s voice, ringing through the forest … coming from the direction Storm is looking.

From Dalton’s direction.

A shotgun blast, and I’m running, running as fast as I can. I hear Dalton’s voice then. Thank God I hear Dalton’s voice, even if it barely pierces the blood pounding in my ears. He’s saying something I can’t catch, his voice calm, and Baptiste shouts at him again, telling him to get back, get back right now, get away from her.

Her?

Felicity?

Sidra?

Either way, my gut drops. I’ve made a mistake. An unforgivable one. Cherise said she saw Baptiste with Sidra after Sidra was supposedly kidnapped. Petra jumped to the obvious conclusion—Baptiste was lying—but I’d wanted to believe otherwise. Yes, there’s a selfish part of me that wants Abby’s parents to be horrible people who do not deserve her, so I can keep her. But there’s another part I only recognize now. The part that wants the best of all possible endings to this story by that little baby getting back to loving and capable parents. I want her to have good parents who love each other and love her and are beside themselves with panic at her disappearance.

That’s the part that decided Baptiste isn’t guilty. Not Baptiste and not Sidra. Neither of them killed Ellen. Neither of them got rid of their baby. Neither of them planned this fake kidnapping to get rid of us. They might be young and naive, but they are good and honest, and they deserve their little girl back. That is who I want them to be.

Then I hear Baptiste telling Dalton to “get away from her” and I realize I’m wrong.

As I work this through, I run. I don’t stop running. Then I hear a woman’s voice say, “Put the gun down, you son of a bitch,” and I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I think it must be Sidra, talking to Dalton, and this means she is just as culpable—

No, not Sidra.

My mind replays the voice, and there is no question who I’m hearing, even before Petra says, “Lower that damned shotgun or I put a bullet through your lying-bastard head, boy.”

I see Dalton now, just ahead. Others are with him, but they’re only meaningless figures until I’ve found Dalton and confirmed he’s on his feet, apparently unharmed.

“Petra, no,” Dalton says. “Everyone just hold on.”

I burst through the trees. The shotgun barrel turns on me.

Petra barks, “Don’t you dare!” echoed by Dalton as he pulls his own gun, swinging it on Baptiste. Then we all freeze, guns pointing everywhere, and a voice says, “Stop, everyone please, stop.”

It’s a girl’s voice, high and tight with fear. I follow it to a stranger, rising from the ground near Dalton as she claws off a gag. A girl no bigger than me, with long black curls. She stag gers in front of Dalton, and Petra snaps, “Stop right there,” but Sidra ignores her.

Sidra makes it to her husband, and he nearly drops the gun in his lunge to catch her. The muzzle is down, thankfully, and Petra doesn’t fire as Baptiste grabs Sidra and the shotgun slides to the ground beside them.