Cold as Hell (Haven’s Rock #3)

Chapter Thirty-Four

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

This is not how I expected our baby to be born. At least it’ll make a good story, although we’ll keep out the serial-killer part until she’s older. Much older.

Dalton and Anders wrap me and the baby, and then Dalton insists on carrying us back to town.

“I was carrying them both upstairs when she was pregnant,” he says when Anders hesitates. “Only difference now is that the baby is on the outside. Oh, and they’re a little lighter, without all that…” He waves a hand back at the placenta and fluids on the snow. “Goop.”

“You have such a way with words,” I say.

“I have an excellent way with words,” he says. “And I may have learned a few new ones today, while you were giving birth.”

He adjusts me in his arms as he walks, and I check on the baby, sound asleep again and swaddled in Dalton’s sweater.

“Speaking of words,” Anders calls from behind us. “Do we have a name, now that you’ve met her?”

“Eric Junior,” Dalton calls back.

Anders laughs. “I think that should be Casey Junior.”

“What?” Dalton glances over his shoulder. “That’s a little sexist, isn’t it?”

“We’ll discuss names,” I say. “No rush.” I lean back into Dalton’s arms as they tighten around me. “No rush at all.”

It’s such a peaceful walk back that I almost fall asleep, between the slumbering baby in my arms and the rhythm of Dalton’s gait. He says something about Jacob and Storm being back in town and hearing my screams, but I barely register his words. Then we reach the clinic, and all hell breaks loose.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But after that peaceful wilderness walk, it feels as if I’m plunged into the maelstrom. That maelstrom being my big sister.

Baby? Why is there a baby? Why didn’t someone come for me? No one said she was having the baby? Give her to me. No, give them both to me. Did Casey pass the placenta? Is she bleeding? Why is the baby sleeping? Has she woken yet? Have you checked her breathing? Is she breathing?

The fact that April can think, for one second, that we’d hike back without checking that the baby was breathing is a testament to her worry. Also, a bit insulting to all of us, but I’ll let that pass.

Then she finds out about me being held captive by Jerome, and I realize it’s probably a good time to mention that my foot went through the ice—which I hadn’t told Dalton or Anders, being a little busy, you know, giving birth.

Cue a freak-out from everyone, as April and Anders both check my leg. It’s fine. It really was a quick plunge, with my boot on, that boot having been removed shortly after by Jerome. The bigger issue would have been me walking around without boots and sweatpants, but labor seems to have kept my body warm enough for that.

It’s then—in testament to my own muddled mind—that I finally remember Yolanda, who went a lot longer half dressed. She’s in the next room, sleeping, and April says that’s what she needs. Sleep, lots of sleep. She’ll need plenty of recuperation time—her heart went through a trauma—but the only real worry April has is those couple of toes that seem frostbitten.

As for the baby and me, we’re fine. The pregnancy may have been rough, but the birth process went as designed. Still incredibly painful and not something I want to do again anytime soon. Really, like Nicole said, it is a wonder anyone has more than one child. Of course, it might be slightly easier in a hospital, with medical professionals and painkillers, instead of on a frozen lake fighting off a serial killer.

During the examination and discussion, my adrenaline kicks in again, and I’m wide awake, especially when April examines the baby and starts making little noises of dissatisfaction.

After the examination, we get “She’s a bit small,” and “We need to keep an eye on that umbilical cord” and “Did you cut that with a sterilized knife?” and “Her hair will probably fall out.”

Yep, April is April, but she ultimately declares we have produced a perfectly adequate offspring. Okay, she says “she seems in excellent health” but of course qualifies that with pointing out that she’s not a pediatrician.

All that poking and prodding rouses the baby, and I feed her. Well, I try to feed her. It looks so much easier in movies, where babies latch right on as if they’ve been eating that way for months instead of through an umbilical cord. I won’t say it goes well. I won’t even say she gets more than a few drops. But it’s a work in progress. We’ll get it.

After that, Dalton takes me where I want to be, more than anyplace else in the world. Home.

It’s evening now, and I can barely believe this is the same day we woke in Dawson City. I’ve napped. The baby has napped. I’ve tried to feed her again. I got most of the milk on myself, but again, I’m not going to stress about this. Oh, who am I kidding—I’m totally going to stress about it once the endorphins of giving birth wear out and I start to panic that my child is starving.

She won’t starve. However it goes, we’ll get her fed. She seemed satisfied enough with the dribbles she got, and she’s back to sleep. I’m not the only one who had an eventful and exhausting day.

I’m curled up in my chair as Dalton rests stretched out on the couch, with the baby nestled against his bare chest. Storm has been rescued from her brief stay with Nicole and Stephen, and she’s dozing in the corner, one eye cracked open to watch this strange little creature and make sure it doesn’t cause any trouble.

“You two look adorable,” I say to Dalton. “She has your snore.”

He lifts a middle finger. “She sounded a whole lot more like her mother when she first came out. Roaring at the world.”

“You’d roar too if you came out butt naked in subzero temperatures.”

“She has your hair.”

“Which, as April pointed out, is probably temporary.”

“She has my eyes.”

“Closed?”

He shakes his head. “Also, you’re supposed to point out that the gray-blue is probably temporary, too.”

“I’m not my sister.”

“Speaking of which, what do you think she’ll say when she finds out we’re using April as a middle name?”

I pull the blanket over me. “She’ll be delighted, of course, and will definitely not point out how it doesn’t go with the baby’s first name at all.”

“We haven’t chosen a first name.”

“Doesn’t matter. It absolutely does not suit, and what were we thinking?”

He smiles and strokes the baby’s head. “Thoughts on a name?”

“Leaning toward Riley, but I’m not sure.”

“Could go with Rory.”

I arch my brows. “Please tell me that isn’t a bad pun because she came into the world roaring.”

“Of course it is. Rory April Butler Dalton. Or Dalton Butler.” His lips purse. “Or should that be Dalton Duncan? We haven’t discussed that part.”

I shake my head. “Dalton Duncan really is a tongue twister, and April and I don’t use Duncan up here. Butler would be better but…” I shrug. “It’d get complicated for legal purposes.” Butler is my “Rockton” surname, which I continue to use. “I think just Dalton is fine. Rory April Dalton. Initials ‘RAD’ because you are totally rad, right, baby?”

“I… don’t even know what that means.”

“Slang from my distant youth. It means cool, so it’s good.”

“You like Rory then?”

I slide from the chair and walk over to sit beside them, my head leaning on Dalton’s arm around the baby—around Rory.

“It’s perfect.”