First Sign of Danger (Haven’s Rock #4)

Chapter One

Our daughter is six months old, and our dog is still clearly convinced that we have no idea what we’re doing and, without her intervention, our child will crawl into the woods and be devoured by wolves.

We’d been hiking for an hour, with Rory happily bouncing along in the carrier on Dalton’s back.

I’d walked behind him, so I can ensure she’s okay … and make faces at her.

We’ve stopped in a clearing, taken her out, and put her on the ground, and Storm is in full herding mode.

Despite the fact that Newfoundlands are not herding dogs.

Despite the fact that Rory is crawling around gurgling gleefully.

Also despite the fact that we walk this route once a week and put Rory down in the exact same spot every time.

When Storm’s anxious growls turn to full-throated Newfie woofs, I cover my ears and shout to be heard over the noise. “One of these days, we are leaving you behind, dog.”

She keeps barking. We keep wincing. And Rory grins up at her massive black-haired mop of a big sister.

I order Storm to lie down, which makes barking impossible, so she resorts to loud grumbling as she watches Rory, ready for … I don’t know, our baby to leap to her feet and make a run for it?

I drop to the ground beside Rory, which seems to calm Storm. Dalton roots around in my pack and pulls out the water canteen, granola bars, and one digestive cookie for our red-cheeked teething baby.

“See, Casey?” he says as he hands me the canteen. “She just needed a distraction from her teeth. Long walks always work. Now, the trick is to tire her out so she falls asleep on the way back and then we can ease her into her crib and really enjoy our day off.”

I stretch out in the long grass. “I’m enjoying this.”

His brows rise. “And that’s all you want for a very rare shared day off when the baby is actually sleeping?”

I smile. “No, I’ll take whatever you’re offering. I just mean that I like this. And not just because she’s finally quiet.”

“Rory? Or Storm?”

“Both.”

I lay my head on Storm’s flank as I watch our daughter grabbing at a grass strand. My miracle baby. A miracle in the sense that I didn’t think I’d ever be able to have children. And a miracle because I never thought I’d find someone I wanted to have them with.

Dalton and I wouldn’t have dared try for a child until the town was fully functional, but nature intervened and gave us Rory.

As for Haven’s Rock, it’s been chugging along uneventfully for six months, and uneventful is exactly how we like it.

The town continues to fill with people seeking refuge, and we’re growing confident in our ability to provide that refuge.

It’s early September now. In southern Canada, it’d still be summer, with fall on the horizon. Up here, it’s been autumn for a few weeks, the world turning golden and quiet as we begin the descent into another long winter.

Dalton finishes his bar, stretches out in front of Rory, and prods things for her to explore—twigs, rocks, a bug.

He grew up in the wilderness and has never left, and I smile as I watch him engaging our daughter in her environment.

Storm might not like seeing Rory crawling about on the ground, but this is the life she will lead, and she’s already happiest here, in the sunshine watching a bug crawl up a twig.

When Storm leaps up, unceremoniously dumping me to the ground, I barely have time to recover before she resumes barking.

“Really?” I say. “What’s wrong now? Rory hasn’t moved from…”

I trail off as I realize Storm is looking into the forest. Of course, my husband has already realized this and is on his feet, scanning the trees, fingers resting on the butt of his gun.

Yes, Dalton carries a sidearm. So do I. In Rockton, he was the sheriff and I was his detective, and we continue those roles in Haven’s Rock, mostly because we’ve learned it makes people feel safe, and when the majority of our residents are victims, feeling safe is critical.

We no longer wear the guns around town—that was a Wild West affectation the Rockton council insisted on.

But we usually wear them when we leave Haven’s Rock.

Dalton doesn’t take his out, though. Just rests his fingers there.

We’re not readying our weapons when the “danger” is almost certainly a fox or moose.

Newfoundlands aren’t known to be vocal, and Storm never was … until we brought a baby into the house. Last week, she went into a barking frenzy at a vole that snuck into our chalet. Apparently, it wasn’t only wolves that could devour our child.

As she barks, I lay my hand on her head, telling her we’ve got this. It’s not until I scoop up Rory that Storm quiets. She moves beside Dalton, who’s listening intently. Something’s out there. Big enough that he can hear it moving.

Dalton surveys the clearing. He’s trying to decide whether it’s safe to leave me here while he investigates.

If Storm’s barks didn’t send the animal fleeing, it’s not small, and at this time of year predators may actually come closer when they hear her.

Snow on the mountaintops warns that winter is coming.

Sick or elderly predators can become desperate.

That goes double for bears, looking to store up fat to get them through hibernation.

Stories of unavoidable grizzly attacks often happen at this time of year, and that’s why I’m not only carrying my sidearm—I also have a rifle on my back.

We have a baby now. We are ridiculously careful.

I motion for Dalton to take the rifle and investigate.

Then I hold Rory in one arm as I tug the bear spray from my pack and put it in my jacket pocket.

Usually, if I saw a bear I’d go for the spray first. With Rory, I’ll make that judgment call when the time comes.

Bear spray is very effective under normal circumstances, but a desperate bear does not behave normally.

It’s only after Storm and Dalton are gone that I realize I have too much to juggle here—baby, bear spray, gun.

Storm may have a point. As careful as we are, we’re still new parents.

I look around and then back against a thick pine.

Rory fusses. She was happily on the ground, playing with Daddy, and now Mom is awkwardly holding her in one arm, and Dad and Storm are gone, and it’s boring. Really boring. Which reminds her that her mouth hurts where her first tooth is breaking through.

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 my breath, 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—my husband—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 they were actually injured … but not actually a hiker.

One of the reasons we chose this region is that hikers are exceptionally rare.

Placer miners and hunters and trappers are a 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 does not lead 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.

“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 ankle is a 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.”