“We can help you find your way,” Dalton says. “Got a compass we can spare. But we have a sat phone back at camp. Could call for a flight out.”
“Oh, I hope it doesn’t come to that. We’re still hoping to make it up to the ridge and camp for a few days. Our friend said it was amazing.”
“Ridge?” I say.
She points to a mountain maybe ten kilometers west. “On the south side of that. If we can make it there, Blake can get a few days of rest before we rendezvous with our pickup, maybe another twenty kilometers on. That’s in a week, so we have plenty of time. The pickup is prearranged. We don’t need to call anyone, thankfully.”
We must look skeptical, because she says, “It really is just a twisted ankle. Not a break or a sprain. We still have our route plan. We just need directions so we can get back on track.”
A twisted ankleisa sprained ankle, but I don’t say that. It isn’t in our best interests to openly question this story any more than necessary.
“Wait here,” Dalton says, and starts walking in the other direction.
Her brows shoot up.
“He means give us a few minutes,” I say. “It’s getting late, and we need to discuss how we’re going to do this—whether I come along with the baby or go back to camp.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Take your time.”
CHAPTER TWO
Dalton leads me about five hundred feet down the narrow game trail we’ve been using as a path. Then he stands there, gazing back in the woman’s direction and saying only one word.
“Fuck.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes, working it through. We don’t like this scenario, and we know we’ll be on the same page with that.
Is her story an obvious fabrication? No, but it waves red flags in every direction. Hiking past summer, and in an area where you’ll be trail-blazing through rough terrain during hungry-bear season. A woman alone, her husband left behind, because we’re liable to respond better to a woman in distress. Guy’s injured, which will make him seem less of a threat. He’s twisted his ankle, but they plan to keep moving even when we offered to arrange a pickup.
Here’s the main reason we did not intend to have a baby right now. Because protecting Haven’s Rock must be our main priority. A year ago, we wouldn’t have walked away to discussit. We’d have followed “Gretchen” with extreme caution because we need to deal with potential threats immediately.
But decent parents are not going to walk into danger with a baby. Yet what’s the alternative? Send me back to town with Rory? Haven’s Rock is over an hour away. Also I’d never let Dalton face this alone.
We wouldn’t have brought Rory if we expected trouble. But one does not expect to encounter hikers off-season in an area where we have never even seen a single hiker since we built the town.
“Thoughts?” Dalton says finally.
“I don’t want you going with her. If it’s trouble, Rory and I are the weak point. Her partner could circle back for an ambush.”
“Agreed.”
“My best suggestion would be that you stay here with Rory while Storm and I go with her.”
“Don’t like that.”
“I know.”
He exhales and stares off into the distance, crow’s feet deepening around his eyes.
The woman had seemed surprised to see me. Had she mistaken Dalton for some kind of mountain man? I can’t imagine that. My own first impression of him had been “cowboy,” and that’s still what he looks like, slightly taller than average, rangy, tanned white skin, weathered for thirty-six, light brown hair cut short with a close-trimmed beard.
My own looks lean a little more toward “environmentally conscious tourist.” I’m half white, half Asian, just skimming five foot two, stronger than I look, with clothing choices that are a little more, er, high-end than Dalton’s.
If the woman was surprised to see me, is that because I don’t look like anyone she’d picture roughing it in the Yukon wilderness? That would add credence to her story—if she came here for Haven’s Rock, she’d know who she was looking for. We’re always on the alert for someone connected to Rockton tracking us down and causing trouble. However, being a town of refugees means we are even more concerned about someone coming for one of our residents, and those people would not know who to expect running the town.
“What are the odds, you think?” I say.
“Twenty-five percent that it’s legit,” he says without hesitation. “Forty percent Rockton council spy, ten percent tracking down a resident, twenty-five percent unknown.”
