Alone in the Wild Read online

  I reach the top of the steps. “Isabel? It’s Casey. I’m looking for Phil, and I was told he was here—”

  The door at the end opens, and a woman steps out dressed in a wrapper. Isabel Radcliffe. Former therapist. Current bar and brothel owner. And while I’d love to claim the title of most powerful woman in Rockton for myself, I have to concede it to her. She controls the booze and the sex, and that makes her the queen.

  Isabel is forty-six years old and quite possibly the most glamorous woman I have ever met. She’s full-figured and attractive, but it’s more than that. It’s confidence and style, and she oozes both. Brilliant. Manipulative. A sheer force of nature, one I have butted heads with since I arrived, which doesn’t stop me from now considering her one of my closest friends. Nor does it stop the head-butting. We’d hate to lose that.

  “I found Phil, didn’t I?” I say as she pads barefoot down the hall.

  Her smile answers for her. It’s wicked, and it’s very, very pleased with herself, and I can’t help laughing. She’s had her eye on Phil since he arrived, which I’d been glad to see. She’d spent the last year in mourning for a lover—claiming she was over him, while not so much as glancing at another man. This is a welcome turn of events.

  I’m about to comment when footsteps sound behind me. As Dalton comes up the stairs, I say to Isabel, “So, was he worth the chase?”

  “Definitely,” she says, leaning against the wall. “I’ll admit I was concerned about that. He’s very pretty, and too often, men use that as an excuse for lackluster sex. Women do, too, I presume. So it’s a relief to get a partner who is both pretty and proficient.” She glances at Dalton. “Am I right, Sheriff?”

  Dalton arches his brows.

  “Just say yes,” I say.

  “Considering I don’t know what she’s talking about, that seems unwise,” he says.

  Isabel smiles. “Oh, believe me, it’s wise. Unless you want to say that Casey here is lovely to look at but terribly dull to bed.”

  Dalton looks at me and jerks a thumb toward the closed door down the hall. “Phil?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And Isabel assures us he’s both pretty and good in bed.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear.” He strides down the hall and bangs his fist on the door. “Phil? Get your pants on. We need to talk.”

  “Don’t keep him long, please,” Isabel says as she heads downstairs. “Twenty minutes would be optimal.”

  I shake my head and join Dalton as the door opens. Phil is fully dressed, as if he’d just been talking inventory with Isabel because the bedroom is a more comfortable place to do business. His fly is down, though, and the back of his hair stands on end.

  “Zip up,” Dalton says as he walks past.

  Phil does and then spots his glasses on the nightstand and grabs them, which is a shame, because I was going to try confirming my suspicion that the lenses are plain glass. Phil reminds me of those stock-photo pictures of young businessmen, where they stick glasses on a male model and take a picture of him with a stack of files, as if every corporate department is filled with guys who look like this.

  “I was just…” Phil begins, struggling for an excuse.

  “Taking Isabel’s inventory?” I say.

  He actually blushes. It’s kinda cute. He’s stammering an excuse when Dalton says, “No one cares if you’re sleeping with Isabel.”

  “Well, yes,” I say. “I can think of a few women—and men—who’ll be disappointed that you’ve chosen a partner. But we don’t care. It’s a long cold winter, and Isabel is a good choice to make it a little warmer.”

  “Yeah,” Dalton says. “Up here relationships can get complicated. Expectations start low and soar fast. Isabel’s a safe bet. It’ll be straight sex. No danger of attachment.”

  Phil checks his glasses for smudges and then puts them on. “Yes, of course. That was my thought. As much as I admire Isabel, you don’t need to worry about me forming any undue attachment.”

  “I meant there’s no danger of her forming one.”

  Phil goes still, and the look on his face … I could say something, smooth over Dalton’s bluntness. Once upon a time, I would have. Now, well, Phil will get over it, and if this makes him work harder to win Isabel’s favor, she’ll appreciate that.

  “So, we’re back early,” I say.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Phil says, adjusting his glasses. “You are. What happened?”

  “We have a baby.”

  Phil blinks. “You’re having…”

  “Already have one. She’s at the clinic.”

  More blinking. Dalton’s lips twitch as he leans against the wall to enjoy the fun.

  “She…?” Phil says. “You had a … baby?”

  “No, we have a baby. Rockton does.”

  “I…” Phil sits on the bed. “I don’t … understand.”

  “I found an infant,” I say. “She was with a woman who I presumed was her mother. That woman was dead. The baby was buried under the snow with the body. There was no one around, so I had to bring her back. She’s at the clinic.”

  It takes a moment for his brain to assimilate this new information. Then he says, “We are not equipped to handle a baby, Casey.”

  “No shit,” Dalton says. “That’s why we’re talking to you. We need supplies.”

  I hold up my hand. “We are well aware that this isn’t an abandoned puppy. We aren’t adopting her. First thing tomorrow, we’re heading out to find her family. Given the vastness of this wilderness—and the fact it’s winter—that might take a while. It’s not like we can go on TV and announce we found a child. The plan is to go to the First Settlement. If they can’t help, we’ll need baby supplies while we continue looking for her family. So this visit is partly to ask—”

  “Inform,” Dalton says.

  “Yes, inform you that we may be making an unexpected supply run. That’s a given. The ‘ask’ part was me suggesting that we use the run to treat residents to some extras for the holidays, since we’d be going to Dawson and only bringing back diapers, formula, and whatever.”

  “It’s been a shitty year, and they deserve a good holiday,” Dalton says. “So we’re requisitioning—”

  “Asking for extra funds to do that. We’ll even say you suggested it, if you’d like. You can be Santa this year.”

  “Thank you,” Phil says dryly, but I know I’ve spun this the right way. Phil is a shrewd businessman, and this is a wise investment toward cementing his local reputation.

  I continue, “We also need you to speak to the council. Tell them we have a baby. Explain the situation. Give them no opportunity to later rap our knuckles for covering this up. Even they can’t argue that we should have left an infant in the forest.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We want that done right away, because we know past situations have fostered an environment of mistrust, and we want to be totally aboveboard with this.”

  “Uh-huh. Which is an excuse for contacting them quickly, when what you really want is…”

  I smile at him. “You’re a quick study. We appreciate that. Yes, informing them of the baby is the excuse. What I really want is to tell them about the dead woman and see if there’s any chance they can identify her. She’s almost certainly a former Rockton resident. We can’t send them a photo, of course—not until we get to Dawson and have internet access—but we’ll give you a full description. If she’s in their files, we may be able to figure out which settlement she’s associated with. Or which settlement’s residents she might know from her time in Rockton. Impress on the council that identifying this woman could return the baby to her parents. Otherwise…” I shrug. “Maybe you’d like a tiny roomie?”

  “No,” he says quickly. “Thank you for asking. I will write up a full description of this woman…”

  I hand him my notes. He takes the page.

  “If you learn anything, let us know,” I say. “Otherwise, we’ll be off for the First Settlement before dawn.”

&nb
sp; He grabs his jacket from a chair by the bed.

  “It’s not that big a rush,” I say. “I think Isabel wanted to speak to you first. I’ll send her up.”

  Dalton and I head downstairs, to where Isabel is at the bar, writing something.

  “He’s all yours,” I say. “Better hurry, though. It’s almost five.”

  She holds up what she’d been writing. It’s a sign.

  The Roc will open at 6 PM today, so as not to interfere with the wassail party.

  “You’re so considerate,” I say.

  She hands me the sign. “Hang it, and lock the door, please.”

  NINE

  As much as we’d love to head out again, chasing answers, it’s already dark. The investigation will need to wait until morning. I stop by the wassail party long enough to announce that there is a baby in town. Residents will hear her, so they need to know she’s here and why. I say that I understand people may want to see her, but she’s very young and we don’t know the full state of her health and immune system and must restrict contact to caregivers only.

  After that, Dalton and I pick up Storm and then have an early dinner, while taking the baby for a couple of hours to give Jen time to eat. Overnight, she’ll stay with Jen.

  Because the Roc opened late, Isabel extends the pre-brothel hours, and at nine, we’re there with Anders and April, with Storm gnawing a bone under the table. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow will be another long one. We can afford an hour off to enjoy a mug of mulled alcoholic beverage and kettle corn, the festive snack of the evening.

  By the time Dalton is two-thirds done with his cider, I’m on his lap. I did not put myself there. I’m not quite sure how I arrived there, either, which may suggest I’ve imbibed more alcohol than I intended.

  Isabel stops by to refill the popcorn bowl and smirks at us, Dalton with his arms tight around me, his head on my shoulder, nuzzling my neck. If he’s doing that in public …

  “Exactly how much rum is in this cider?” I ask.

  “In general?” Anders says. “Or in ours?” He lifts his mug. “I do believe Iz was feeling generous tonight.”

  “It does seem…” April stares into her barely touched drink. “Strong.”

  “I owe you for earlier,” Isabel says to me. She waves at Dalton. “Enjoy.”

  “This isn’t a gift,” I say as I firmly move Dalton’s hands to my waist. “It’s payback.”

  “We don’t ever get to see our sheriff drunk,” Isabel says as she refills his mug before I can stop her. “It’s adorable.”

  “It kinda is,” Anders says as she leaves. “However…” He looks around the Roc, at residents watching their hard-ass sheriff nuzzling his girlfriend.

  “Not a good look?” I say.

  “He’s fine,” April says. “There’s nothing wrong with mild acts of public affection.”

  “Nah,” Dalton says, straightening. “There is when it’s the sheriff slobbering on his detective. And, yeah, you don’t need to talk about me in the third person. I’ve had more than I should, but I’m not that drunk.”

  “Also, for the record,” I say, “there was no actual slobbering. You’re just very cuddly. As Will said, it is adorable but…”

  I slide off his lap. He lets me go with reluctance and a last squeeze before saying, “Yeah, time to cut me off.”

  “Unless you want the rest of your cider to-go.”

  The slow smile that crosses Dalton’s face has Anders making gagging noises. April stops him with a sharp rap on the arm, which proves that her drink is indeed strong. Dalton gets to his feet.

  “I’ll grab take-out cups,” he says.

  “I thought we weren’t allowed take-out alcohol,” April says.

  “Eric is special,” Anders says.

  I give Storm a pat under the table as I watch Dalton cross to the bar. He’s walking steadily, no sign of inebriation in his gait or his stance. It’s still very obvious that he’s tipsy. Normally, even here socially, he carries himself with a certain stiffness. Tenser. Harder. Gaze constantly scanning for trouble, the set of his jaw warning that a wrong move could land the miscreant in the water trough outside.

  Tonight he’s the guy I see at home. Relaxed. Calm. Happy. A slight bounce in his step and the ghost of a smile on his lips. He looks younger, too, and this is one of the reasons he doesn’t drink more than one beer in public. When he relaxes, the walls come down, his guard dropping, and people suddenly remember he’s only thirty-two, and they start to wonder why he holds so much power, or why a glare from him can have them straightening in their seat, their hearts beating faster.

  Isabel fills two bottles with hot mulled cider, leaving them uncapped, steam rolling out. Someone cracks a joke about Dalton getting special privileges, and there’s a moment where I can tell Dalton’s ready to joke back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then he remembers himself and sobers. “You want my job? Privileges come with that, and I don’t think you want this”—he raises the bottles—“that badly.”

  The resident should leave it at that, but Dalton isn’t the only one who’s had too much, and this guy is new, not yet accustomed to how things work in Rockton. He grins and hooks a thumb at me. “If she’s one of those privileges, I’ll take it.”

  Silence drops so fast it ripples through the entire bar, those too far to hear the exchange noticing the hush and following it. A buzz of anticipation follows. A sense of schadenfreude that tells me that this guy has not made friends, no one even taking pity on him by leaping up to pull him back.

  “She is our detective,” Dalton says, his voice tight with warning.

  The man chuckles and thumps Dalton on the shoulder. “No offense, Sheriff. I’m just saying you’re a lucky guy. Hot booze. Hot chick. Gotta love a position with perks.”

  Dalton reaches over and dumps the contents of one bottle down the guy’s shirt.

  “Huh,” Dalton says as the guy lets out a high-pitched shriek. “You’re right. It is hot.” He looks at Isabel. “You heat it up a little extra for me?”

  “I wouldn’t want your drink getting cold on the walk home.”

  Dalton grabs the front of the guy’s shirt. “Special treatment from the barkeep? That’s a perk. Detective Butler? That’s a person. Learn the difference.”

  “You—you burned—”

  “First degree, if that. Lucky for you, the doc’s sitting right there.”

  Anders rises. “I’ll get this one, April.” He puts an arm around the man’s shoulders, and the guy flinches, but Anders only gives him a friendly squeeze. “We’ll have a nice chat, too, while I’m looking at that burn.”

  They nearly bump into Kenny, who’s just come into the Roc. He looks from Anders to the burned guy. Then he sees Dalton and nods, as if this is all the explanation he needs.

  I wave Kenny to our table. “Perfect timing. We were about to abandon my sister.”

  If it were anyone else, April would say that she’d been leaving. For Kenny, she’ll stick around.

  Isabel holds out a fresh bottle of cider. Dalton takes it before I can, and he motions me to the door. Storm follows at our heels.

  We’re outside and away from the Roc before I snatch one of the bottles and take a long draw from it.

  My eyes water, and I gasp. “I think she made these even stronger than the ones we got inside.”

  I take another gulp, and Dalton laughs at that. His gloves go around my hips, and he hoists me onto the railing of a shop, dark and closed for the day. Then he pushes between my knees, and I get a long, cider-sweet kiss.

  Storm sees what’s happening, sighs, and plunks down to wait, the model of patience. Dalton sips a far more cautious drink from his bottle. Hesitates. Gulps a larger swig.

  I laugh and put my arms around his neck, bottle dangling from one hand.

  “Having a good night, Sheriff?” I ask.

  “It started off good. It’s getting better.” Another gulp. Another kiss. He blinks, forcing his eyes to focus, and I have to laugh at that.
>
  “You are such a lightweight,” I say.

  “I’m not the only one.”

  “Hey, I shoot tequila. Straight.”

  “Yeah, Miss Two-Shots Max. You like to look like a badass, but I definitely saw some wobbling as we left the Roc.”

  “Which is one of the reasons we left.” I hoist my bottle. “If I’m having more, I’m having it with just you.”

  “Ditto.”

  As he kisses me, his gaze shunts to the side, and he gives a start. Then he chokes on a laugh. I look to see …

  It looks like a person standing there. It’s actually a dummy, sitting on a wooden chair. A very homemade dummy, constructed of stuffed trousers stuck into boots and an equally stuffed red flannel shirt. The head is cotton stuffed into a nylon and painted with a red smile and round eyes. More cotton forms a beard. On the figure’s head is an old red knit hat.

  “Is that supposed to be Santa Claus?” Dalton asks.

  I shudder. “Reminds me of the mall Santas my parents made me sit with. We had to get a duty photo every year to send to family—one of me sitting on the knee of some very sketchy Santas. April got out of it, naturally.”

  He scoops me up.

  “No!” I say. “Don’t you dare—”

  He turns at the last second and plunks onto Santa’s lap, crushing the poor dummy. Then he settles me onto his own lap and tugs the knit cap onto his head.

  “So, little girl, what do you want for Christmas?”

  “Oh God, now I really am scarred for life.” I shudder. “Wrong, wrong, so wrong.”

  He tosses the hat aside and leans back, arms tightening around me. “I’ll ask the question like this, then. What do you want for Christmas this year?”

  I twist to look up at him and smile. “I do believe I have everything I want.”

  He goes as red at the Santa’s flannel shirt.

  “You’re cute when you blush.” I lean over to kiss him. “Still true, though. If we make that extra trip to Dawson, I’ll come up with a completely frivolous wish list for you, but you’ll owe me a list, too. As for what I want tonight—”