Alone in the Wild(58)

Cherise doesn’t reply. She hasn’t spoken, and in that silence, I feel her assessing, evaluating, and I suppress a shudder. A keen intelligence always catches my attention, but this isn’t the kind that promises a challenging game of Scrabble. This promises a knife through your back when you least expect it.

Owen says, “I thought cops had laws about height and whatnot. She’s such a tiny thing.”

“And yet she had you and Cherise at her mercy, both of you armed, too. Size isn’t everything. I’m sure Cherise tells you that all the time.”

Owen only throws off the insult with a laugh. He’s not the bright one. Nor is he particularly dangerous, much slower to take offense than his partner. I don’t want to be alone with Owen, but he isn’t the type to pull a knife over what’s obviously just ribbing between men.

Cypher continues, “If we’re done chitchatting and waving guns and trying to sell human beings, I’d suggest we go back to camp. We were just chatting with your family, Cherise. I think you’ll want to be part of the conversation.”

Family?

Oh, shit.

This pair didn’t just happen to stumble on me close to the traders’ camp. If I hadn’t jumped to that conclusion sooner, it’s because when I thought of this family’s poor daughters forced to prostitute themselves, I had not pictured the woman standing in front of me.

At first, I only deliver a mental kick in the ass for my preconceptions. Then it sinks in.

These two people—this couple—are part of the trading family we’ve come to see about Abby.

I look from Cherise to Owen, and my insides freeze.

No. Please, no.

The same thoughts connect in Dalton’s mind. His eyes widen, just a little. Then they harden to cold steel, and when he looks at me, his jaw is set so tight every muscle stands rigid.

I want to tell him we can stop here. Cypher’s right. Jen’s right, too, God help me. We need to retreat and forget this madness, and keep Abby, because if these two are her parents…?

My breath comes fast and hard, and I swallow. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and push down the panic. Nothing will change if I stick around for a definitive answer. It’ll just save me from second-guessing later.

Cherise and Owen never need to know we found a baby—possibly their baby. I don’t care if that isn’t my decision to make. I will make it.

As we head out, Dalton falls in beside me, leans to my ear, and says, “Yes,” and my eyes mist. I squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

“No question,” he murmurs. “No question at all.”





TWENTY-SEVEN


We enter the traders’ camp. It’s more of an encampment. I’m not sure if there’s actually a difference between the terms, but to me, a camp is a small and temporary arrangement. An encampment is bigger and more permanent.

They have three tents plus two igloo-like snow structures. There are sled dogs, too, which confuses Storm, who’s never seen so many canines in one place. She sticks close to us, like a child hiding behind her parents on the first day of kindergarten. I let her stay there. The dogs seem friendly enough, but unless we’re told she can visit, it’s unwise to presume. And we aren’t told anything of the sort.

Near the fire sits two young women and a man in his fifties. I don’t see the matriarch, and when I look around, Cypher says, “The girls lost their ma about six months ago. We were just talking about that when Eric heard the shot and took off like one.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say to the man.

The patriarch—I haven’t been given names—shrugs and says, “Cancer. It got bad, and she decided she was done.”

I hope I don’t blink at that. I can’t tell if he’s saying she committed suicide or they helped her. I’ve known people who died of cancer, and I cannot imagine what it’d be like out here, with no access to doctors or painkillers. What shocks me is the way he says it, so matter-of-fact. It’s like saying one of the sled dogs had to be put down … and not even a favorite dog at that.

None of the three daughters give any other reaction. They just wait for us to get on with the conversation. Or so it seems until I notice the youngest daughter’s eyes glistening. When Cherise shoots her a sneer, the girl blinks fast and straightens. They are very clearly sisters. All blond and pretty with a similar look—tall and thin and a little bit distant.

If I’d peg Cherise at mid-twenties, I’d put the middle sister a few years younger and the youngest at maybe nineteen. When the youngest glances Cypher’s way, there’s trepidation and anxiety in the look. I remember what he’d said about one of the girls asking him to take her. Those looks say she’s worried that he might say something and get her in trouble.

As I’m thinking this, the middle girl says to Dalton, “I knew you weren’t Jacob.”

Dalton turns to her. “Never said I was.”

“You’re nothing like him,” she says. “He’s…” She wrinkles her nose. “Skittish. Weak. I don’t know how he survives out here.”

“I would suggest that you don’t know my brother very well. And you don’t know me at all.”

She smiles. “We could fix that.”

“I’m married,” he says.