This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(68)

“I just did.” He points the gun.

The girl sits so fast she almost falls.

I say, “Storm, guard.” Which is a meaningless command, but I pair it with a hand gesture that means she can approach the girl to say hello. The girl shrinks back as the big canine draws near. Storm sits in front of her and waits to be petted. Patiently waits, knowing this is clearly coming.

“Three people,” Dalton calls. “I want to see you all on this path by the count of ten. Your girl seems a little nervous, and if she runs, I can’t be held responsible for what our dog will do.”

Storm plunks down with a sigh, her muzzle resting beside the girl’s homemade boot, as if resigned to wait for her petting.

“Just don’t move,” I say to the girl. “You’ll be fine.”

Dalton begins his countdown. By the time he finishes, a man and a woman have emerged from the trees. Both are on the far side of fifty.

“It’s only us,” the woman says. “You have miscounted.”

“And you have mistaken me for an idiot incapable of counting.” He raises his voice. “I see you coming around beside me. Do you see the gun pointed at your fucking head?”

Silence. Then a dark figure appears from the shadows, heading for Blaze.

“Yeah, no,” Dalton says. “If you’re planning to spook my horse, thinking he’ll unseat me?” Dalton lowers the gun a foot over Blaze’s head and fires. Cricket does her two step and whinnies, but Blaze only twitches his ear, as if a fly buzzed past.

“Now get up there with the others,” Dalton says.

A young man steps out. He has a brace of rabbits over his shoulder.

“Good hunting?” I say.

He only stares. Keeps staring, his gaze traveling over me a little too slowly.

“Answer her, and keep your fucking eyes on her face,” Dalton says. “She asked you a polite question, as a reminder of how civilized people behave when they come across one another, each out minding their own business in the forest.”

“You his girl?” the young man asks.

“She’s . . .” Dalton hesitates, and I know he wants to say “my detective” because that is the respectful way to introduce me. But it might imply I’m single, and from the looks this kid is giving me, we’d best not go there.

“I’m his wife,” I say, and Dalton’s gaze cuts my way, but he only grunts and says, “Yeah. My wife and my detective.”

“What’s a detect—” the girl begins, but the older woman cuts her off with a look.

“I was a police officer down south,” I say. “Law enforcement.”

“Down there and up here,” Dalton says.

“Here being Rockton,” the older man says. “I know you. You’re Steve’s boy. Jacob’s brother.”

“And you’re from the First Settlement.”

The man nods.

“We’re looking for Jacob,” Dalton says. “You seen him?”

The older man and woman nod. The younger man’s gaze alternates between me and Blaze, the look in his eyes suggesting we are of equal value, both chattels he covets. When he glances at Dalton, I see the dissatisfaction of a child looking on an older one, wondering what he’s done to deserve all the good toys.

The girl is busy staring at Storm, and while Dalton talks to the woman and older man, I murmur, “Storm? Up.”

The dog rises, and the girl falls back. No one else notices, and I tell her not to worry, the dog is safe unless I give her a command.

I lean over Cricket’s neck and murmur, “Do you want to pet her?”

The girl frowns, as if “pet” is as foreign a word as “detective.”

I say, “Storm?,” and she bounds over to me. I bend as far as I can and scratch behind her ears.

“This is petting,” I say. “She likes this, as you can tell.”

The girl rises and approaches carefully.

“Put out your hand,” I say. “That gives her a chance to sniff you, and it warns that you’re going to touch her.”

The girl lays down her bow first. It’s a beautiful one etched with wolves. Then she lets Storm sniff her fingers and lays a tentative hand on the dog’s broad head. As she strokes Storm’s head, she says, “It’s soft.”

I smile, and as Dalton continues talking with the older settlers, I show the girl where to pet Storm, and I point out her black tongue and webbed feet. She runs her hands over the dog, fingers in her thick fur, and smiles when Storm licks her arm. She asks questions, too, like whether Storm hunts and if she ever runs off. I tell her about the cougar, and her eyes round at that. I may give Storm a little more credit for “rousting” the cat than she deserves, but it makes for a better story.

By the time Dalton is done, the girl is throwing sticks for Storm, fascinated by the dog fetching them back.

“Harper?” the woman says. “It’s time to go.”

The girl pats Storm again and gives her the stick.

The younger man says to Dalton, “If you’re looking to camp, there’s a good spot just west of here. Follow the path and take the first left. You’ll see the clearing.”

“Sounds good,” Dalton says. “Thank you.”

I straighten on Cricket. “Jacob isn’t the only one we’re looking for out here. There’s a man. Young, maybe your age.” I describe Brady. “He’s dangerous. He doesn’t look it, but he is.”