I bounce her and put my other arm around her, while keeping it ready to grab my gun or spray. I whisper to her under mybreath, singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” which is one of three nursery songs I know, and I’m probably getting the words wrong, but she’s six months old—it doesn’t matter. And it really doesn’t matter right now, as I try to keep her quiet—
Rory roars. She came into the world that way, and she’s never stopped. It’s even the joking version of how she got her name. I kiss her cheeks and her forehead and she roars in rage and the remembered pain of her teething, her round face going beet red up to the roots of her wild black hair.
“Shh, shh, shh,” I say as I bounce her faster.
Crashing sounds in the bushes. A dark shape appears maybe ten feet beyond the clearing.
My hand drops to my gun. Screw the spray. I have a baby, and I am not taking chances—
“Hey!” Dalton shouts. “Back the fuck up! Now!”
It is a testament to my fear that, for a moment, I think he might actually be talking to me.
When a human voice answers, I stop, hand on my gun. It sounds like a woman. It’s not Lilith, the wilderness photographer who lives out here. There’s also a mining camp, but there aren’t any women among the miners or staff.
Could it be one of our residents? We have thirty-three women in town now, and unless I know them well, I’m not going to recognize their voice when they’re freaking out… which they would be if Dalton caught them on a secret hike.
Rory has stopped, too, as she turns toward the voice. Something new. Something interesting. I move in that direction slowly, listening until I can make out words.
“—husband was trying to see where we are, and he slipped and fell. His ankle’s twisted. I heard the dog barking and came running. Then I heard a baby. Is there a town here? A settlement?”
I keep walking toward the voices as Dalton says no, there isn’t a town for a hundred kilometers or more. When I step out onto the path, he glowers my way, but I shake my head. It’s not as if she didn’t hear the baby.
I also see the reason for her panic. Dalton has his gun out. His finger isn’t anywhere near the trigger, but all she sees is a man with a gun and a very large dog. When she spots me, she makes a noise almost like a yelp of relief and hurries in my direction.
“Stop, please,” I say calmly. “I understand you’re in some trouble, but this isn’t a campground. We don’t expect to bump into anyone out here, so we’re naturally going to be cautious.”
“O-okay,” she stammers. “Right. Yes. Sorry. But that’s why I came running. We didn’t think we had a chance of finding anyone out here. Especially this time of year. I know it’s off-season for hiking, but this is when my husband had vacation time, and a friend said it was gorgeous here, and the forecast was good and—” She stops and takes a deep breath and then puts out her hand. “I’m Gretchen. We’re from Whitehorse.”
I don’t move close enough to shake her hand. “You said your husband is hurt.”
“Not badly hurt. It’s just… We lost our GPS the other day. It was a really stupid…”
She trails off and catches her breath again, trying to calm herself. I use the pause to get a better look at her. She’s average height, slender, white with light brown hair in a ponytail. Weathered tan skin and blue eyes. Maybe late thirties. Dressed for backcountry hiking.
“We were crossing a creek,” she says. “I slipped on a rock and fell in. I was wearing the equipment belt—with our sat phone, GPS, compass, maps, wallets… I must not have fastened it right because it came off and went downstream. Blake—myhusband—went after it, but the water was running too fast. We spent all day following the creek, which emptied into a lake. There was no sign of the belt. Everything we had to navigate with was in there.”
“So you’re lost.”
She nods. “We still thought we could handle it. We’ve been doing this for decades. We met when we came to the Yukon for summer jobs as students. We fell in love with the north and moved up here after graduation. We go out every year, exploring some new corner. We know what we’re doing. Blake thought if he could get some elevation, he might see where we needed to go. We climbed that mountain over there”—she points—“but when he tried to get a better vantage point, he slipped and twisted his ankle.”
“Where is he now?”
“Back at camp.” She waves. “Maybe a ten-minute walk? We heard the barking, and I set off running. It went quiet, so I slowed down. Then the baby started crying.” She exhales. “I know I freaked you out, appearing from nowhere, but I am so glad to see you.”
“He twisted his ankle?” I ask.
“Not too badly. We were able to keep moving. But if there’s a settlement nearby, we could get medical attention, maybe map out a route to our pickup spot.”
Map out their route? If her husband is hurt, wouldn’t they be looking for an exit strategy that doesn’t involve walking on a sprained ankle?
I keep my expression impassive, as does Dalton. We’d encountered a badly injured hiker once in Rockton. Turned out theywereactually injured… butnotactually a hiker.
One of the reasons we chose this region is that hikers are exceptionally rare. Placer miners and hunters and trappers area little more common, but that still means we’re only likely to see signs of one a year. This isn’t the middle of the Arctic, but it’s not Banff National Park either. There are no trails, much less facilities.
I’ve been cool because I’m suspicious, but it’s time to warm up, at least seem as if I buy her story.
“We’re camping ourselves,” I say, waving in a direction that doesnotlead to Haven’s Rock. “Running trap lines before winter sets in. We were just out hiking for the day. We can certainly look at your husband’s foot, though. We’re both first-aid certified, with wilderness medical experience.” The certified part is a lie, but living out here means we’re fully prepared for both first aid and wilderness medical emergencies.
