Alone in the Wild(26)

I snort a laugh. “Yeah, no.”

He shrugs. “It was worth a try.” The old man rises. “Now, let’s get your hat and scarf back, Eric. I’ll also have you speak to Jamie’s mother, Casey. He’s our youngest resident, and she may have advice for the baby.”





TWELVE


Jamie’s mother seems like a kind woman, if not the sort who’s likely to challenge her spouse. Edwin sends the father on an errand, and we settle into the small cabin, Dalton playing with the boy while I talk to his mother. She cuddles the baby and coos over her, and we discuss the challenges of caring for an infant in the forest. Or it’s a challenge for me. For her, it’s called “life.” She’s third generation herself, twenty-two years old, her son already five, which makes me wonder just how old this baby’s mother is, if Edwin called her “little more than a girl.”

Afterward, Dalton and I leave. We don’t talk for a while—we want to be farther from the settlement before we do. I’m about to speak when Dalton raises a finger and wraps one arm around the baby-bundle under his jacket as he lifts his gun and scans what seems to be a silent forest. Then I catch the squeak of a boot on snow.

I pull out my weapon.

Dalton calls, “You have five seconds to show yourselves.”

He doesn’t finish the threat. He could say “Or I start firing” but then he’d need to, and that’s a waste of ammo.

“Five, four, three…” He wheels, gun aimed, and I hear a sharp intake of breath, though I see nothing in the lengthening shadows.

“You settlers love playing this game, don’t you?” he says. “Let’s test Eric Dalton. See how good a tracker he really is.” He wags the gun toward where it’s pointing. “There’s one of you.” He moves it to the left. “Two.” Then back around behind him. “Three. Please tell me there’s a prize, ’cause there’s never a prize, and I’m starting to feel discouraged.”

“The prize is you saw us before we put an arrow in you,” a voice says.

Dalton grunts. “Guess so. Still, I’d like an actual prize. Okay, kid, step out where I can see you, and let’s have a civil conversation.”

“Kid?” There’s clear affront in the voice, but the young man who steps out isn’t any older than Sebastian.

Dalton shrugs. “Compared to me, you are, though you’re older than your two companions.”

The young man glances around, seeing no sign of his companions. “How can you tell that?”

“Because they let you speak while they cower behind the trees like children.”

That brings the other two out. I can’t say for certain whether they are indeed younger. All three are in their late teens. The one already out is dark-haired and sporting a sparse beard. The second is another boy, towheaded and smooth-cheeked. The third is a girl with straight dark hair and skin the same shade as my own. When she says, “What business did you have with my grandfather?” I’m not surprised.

“That would be between Edwin and us,” I say.

She shrugs off my nonreply, as if she hadn’t expected an answer. “We’d like to trade. We have furs. Caribou, fox, ermine, and mink.” She passes me her mitten. It’s soft suede lined with ermine. “I can make more. Jackets, too.” She looks at mine. “They’re prettier than that.”

I reach into my pocket and tug out the embroidered piece of leather. “Like this?”

Her nose wrinkles. “Better. That crafter has spent too much time on the decoration, too little on the tanning.”

“You know the work?”

She shrugs. “I’ve seen it. You don’t want that. You want mine.”

“What if I wanted both? Something from you, and something from this person. Your grandfather said it’s from a family of traders, and he doesn’t know where they overwinter.”

“He knows,” she says. “And he does you a favor not sending you to them. Your man”—she nods to Dalton—“is too rich, and you are too pretty. They’d offer to trade, and then kill him for his goods and take you.”

She has her grandfather’s directness, but with her, it’s blunt, no coy calculation. Even when she tells me I’m pretty, it’s a simple assessment, devoid of flattery.

At her words, my heart sinks. I’d hoped she’d tell me a story different from her grandfather’s.

“What are you looking to trade for?” I ask.

She points at my gun, and Dalton mutters, “Of course.” I could drop the conversation here. Maybe I should. But an idea sparks. Something I hadn’t asked Edwin, knowing I wouldn’t get a straight answer. It’s too loaded a question to ask outright. This could be a sideways step into it, though.

“Do you know what this is?” I say, lifting my weapon.

Her face hardens. “I’m not an ignorant savage. It’s a gun.”

“I meant the type of gun. You have a rifle or two in the settlement, right?”

“We do.”

“This isn’t a rifle. It a handgun, intended for self-defense. It’ll do a lousy job of taking down a buck—unless it’s charging at you and you just want to empty the entire magazine into it. This is a semiautomatic weapon. A nine-millimeter. That means two things. It fires a lot of ammo, and it fires a very specific type. I know that’s your biggest challenge up here—getting ammunition. No trader is going to carry this.”