Alone in the Wild(46)

“A microwave would be faster,” I say.

“But it wouldn’t give the meat that nice, smoky taste. And if you were so hungry, maybe you shouldn’t have insisted on sex halfway through dinner.”

“Insisted?” I sputter. “I don’t even remember asking.”

“Exactly. That only makes it worse.”

I pitch a pillow at him. He catches it, scoops me up, and deposits me on the sofa, then drops the pillow on my head. When I go to throw it back at him, he lifts my wineglass, and I stop.

“Thought that’d work,” he says, handing me the glass as he takes away the pillow. “Don’t wanna spill the wine.”

He’s about to settle in beside me when the baby wails. He levers up, but I put a hand on his knee.

“I’ve got this,” I say.

I root my panties and bra out of the pile of clothing—somehow, this seems the proper line between acceptable and unacceptable attire in front of an infant who can’t see more than blobs. I pull them on as I head upstairs.

By the time Abby is changed, our meal is warmed.

“You eat first,” I say. “I’ll handle cuddling duty.”

I sit on the sofa with Abby, and she snuggles against my bare skin. Storm lies on my feet. I have Abby cradled in my arms, which apparently is the proper position for breastfeeding, because her head turns and her tiny mouth clamps down on my bra. I laugh and shift her away, murmuring “Sorry,” as I sweep my hair back over my shoulder.

I look over at Dalton, and I’m about to make a comment when I see he’s staring, and the look on his face … It’s the same look I’m sure I had, watching him cradle the baby that first time, an expression of revelation and a pang of unexpected longing from some instinctive place.

He looks away quickly and says something, too gruff to make out. I slide over and kiss his beard-rough cheek. He turns to meet the kiss, hand slipping into my hair. It’s a quick one, and then I’m back in my corner, watching him eat as he sneaks almost guilty glances my way.

We’ll have to deal with this. With the questions Abby raises for us. But I’m no longer freaking out at the thought. For now, we have other concerns. I start by telling him Maryanne’s story. He stops eating several times as I talk, chewing over my words with his dinner, but he says nothing until I’m done. Then he’s done, too, and he wordlessly switches his plate for the baby so I can eat.

“Huh,” he says as he bounces Abby, hand behind her head, as if this has become second nature.

“Yep,” I say. “Huh, indeed. Thank God I didn’t tell anyone else about my ‘council is responsible for the hostiles’ theory. You should have seen the look I got when I asked Maryanne whether anyone else could be involved. I felt like Brent with his crazy conspiracy theories.”

I pull my legs up, sitting sideways and cross-legged as I dangle one hand to pet Storm. “For the record, I knew I was being paranoid suspecting the council.”

“Yeah,” Dalton says. “Because they are never behind the weird shit that happens here. It’s not like they’re bringing in killers without warning us or setting spies among us or planting a goddamn secret agent to assassinate liabilities.”

“Petra will love ‘secret agent.’ She might want a badge.”

He snorts. “Nice job of ignoring my point, Detective. You never blamed the council. You only floated the possibility. Your primary suspicion was simply that the hostiles didn’t just devolve into fucking savages after a year or two in the wild. Now we know your main hypothesis is correct. The hostiles aren’t residents-gone-wild. They’re a cult.”

My brows shoot up.

Shades fall over his eyes—the pride of a brilliant man who realizes he can misunderstand concepts those from “down south” take for granted. It only lasts a second, though, before he relaxes as he remembers who he’s with.

“Yeah,” he says. “That might not be the right word. We had someone up here, a few years back, escaping a cult, so I did some reading. Maybe not as much as I should have.”

“The fact that you did any research to help understand a resident’s situation puts you head and shoulders above most of us, Eric. And my look didn’t mean you had the wrong idea. It was surprise that you had the right one.”

When he chuckles, I say, “Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m not surprised that you had a good idea. I’m surprised because I hadn’t thought of it that way. While I never dealt with cults down south, I did attend a seminar on them. Most times, you have a charismatic person recruiting easy targets—people who want to get rich or feel loved and accepted, depending on what your cult is selling. They’re always selling something. The hostiles don’t fit that.”

“Yeah, crappy analogy.”

“No, it’s not, because the basic idea still works. People who leave Rockton are seeking something. A more natural way of life and a stronger community. Most of all, though, they’re looking for a new experience. That’s what Maryanne wanted. The hostiles aren’t willing recruits, though. Sure, I suppose it’s possible someone could be attracted to that lifestyle, but mostly, they’re being brainwashed. That’s where the cult analogy works best.”

“It starts with the tea,” Dalton says. “A group of settlers, maybe with some experience in drugs, looking for that kind of back-to-nature experience. Rockton got a lot of that in the early years. People grew their own marijuana, their own mushrooms. Neither was particularly conducive to productivity, though.”