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 discuss it. 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.”
“Already worked it all through, huh?”
“Yep.” He pauses. “No, I should reassess. Not twenty-five percent legit. More like ten percent, fifteen tops. The rest would be that they’re looking for something other than Haven’s Rock.”
“Lilith or the mining camp.” I shift my weight and Dalton immediately reaches for Rory, who is awake and quiet. I hand her over and stretch my shoulders. “I might put those odds a bit above that. If they’re here for Haven’s Rock, wouldn’t they ask to come back with us?”
“Don’t want to overplay their hand. That could be why she insists they’ll be fine without an airlift.”
“Waiting until we examine her husband, and then they’ll agree that maybe he does need actual medical care. Back at our so-called camp.”
Dalton only grunts, and when Rory fusses, he gives her his knuckle to chew. “I agree you should go on with Storm, and I should hang back with Rory. But I’ll follow along, stay close enough to listen in.”
“That would have been my suggestion.”
“Can you help get Rory strapped to my back? I’d like both my hands free.”
“Good idea.”
If the woman—Gretchen—is surprised that I’ll be coming alone with Storm, she gives no sign of it.
I also watch for her to signal to anyone nearby.
She doesn’t. Yes, there’s part of me that feels guilty suspecting her, and if it turns out that she’s just a hiker with an injured spouse, I’m going to feel like a cold bitch for begrudgingly offering to help.
But that doesn’t mean I’d be less suspicious next time.
We have earned our paranoia, and I’ll continue to embrace it, no matter how it might make me feel. Our residents deserve that paranoia. It’s what they came for—to be someplace where those in charge are hypervigilant, putting their safety above all else.
Even above the safety of their own daughter? No. That’s never going to happen, and Dalton and I have accepted that while our residents are our priority, we are not martyrs. No one who works in Haven’s Rock is.
Dalton and I have our little family, and we have our wider family in Haven’s Rock, from literal family—my sister—to friends who comprise our family of choice. They come first, along with our daughter.
As I walk, I try to relax as if I’ve lowered my guard. Gretchen is friendly and chatty—very chatty, and if her story is true, that would be the chattiness of relief at having found help. My responses land somewhere between polite and friendly, which is the territory where I live.
I act like someone who is happy enough to help but isn’t tripping over herself to be sociable. Again, that’s me.
I don’t look back for Dalton, even surreptitiously. He’ll have left the game trail to slip closer. Of course, with a teething baby, stealth might not be an option. He knows that. If Rory wails, he’ll need to join me and say he changed his mind.
We go pretty much exactly as far as Gretchen said before I spot a man sitting on the ground.
He’s about her age, which fits the “college sweethearts” part of her story.
He has brown skin, dark hair salted with silver and a beard.
He’s holding a hat between his hands, kneading it as if in boredom.
Then he sees us and starts vaulting to his feet before stumbling a bit and wincing.
An exaggerated stumble? An exaggerated wince? I can’t be sure.
“Hello, there,” he calls. “That must be the dog we heard. Wow. He’s a big one. Newfoundland?”
I nod.
He gives a soft laugh. “Don’t see many of those in the Yukon. Mostly husky crosses up here.”
“True,” I say. The north is full of various sled dogs and crosses, which could support their story of living in Whitehorse.
“This is my husband, Blake. Blake, this is—” Gretchen stops. “Oh, I didn’t even get your name.”
“Katie.”
Blake thrusts out a hand. “Very happy to see you, Katie. I’m, uh, guessing you aren’t out here alone? I thought I heard a baby.”
“My husband took her back to camp. I have the first-aid kit, and I’m more experienced using it.”
“Oh, you should have seen the baby,” Gretchen says. “So cute. All that black hair. How old is she?”
“Almost six months.”
Is my tone a little cool? I struggle to warm it, to respond like a normal proud mom, but every enthusiastic comment—the dog! the baby!—only has my hackles rising. It feels like being lured into a van with candy. What dog-and-baby mom can resist someone who flatters their darlings?
On the other hand, the problem might be the vibes I’m giving off.
Coolly polite, maybe seeming as if they’ve interrupted my day with their emergency.
The begrudging Samaritan. Faced with that, they might trip over themselves to be friendly.
They’re lost and injured, their navigation and communication gone.
They need me, and if talking about my dog and baby helps, that’s what they’ll do.
“Katie’s husband gave us a compass, too.
” Gretchen holds out the one Dalton handed her before he left with Rory.
She pulls a notebook from her pocket. “And he fixed our trail map. Showed us where we are and pointed out a few errors, plus a shortcut. I told you we shouldn’t have relied on Matt’s memory. ”
“Let’s take a look at that foot,” I say, lowering myself to one knee.
He starts to take off his boot.
“I’ll do that,” I say. “Just relax and keep your weight off it. You twisted it in a fall?”
“Yeah,” Blake says. “I was being stupid. Gretchen blames testosterone. I told myself if I could get out farther on this narrow ledge, I would absolutely see a landmark we needed. I couldn’t see a damn thing more than I could back where Gretchen was. Then I stumbled and fell.”
At least his story matches hers, with extra detail.
As a former police detective, I know what to look for in corroborating stories.
I also note that she’s beside him, drinking from the canteen, where she can’t sneak him body-language messages.
His gaze is on me. She’s relaxed and making no effort to interject or add to his story.
“How far did you fall?” I ask as I remove his boot.
“We were hundreds of feet up, but it was only about an eight-foot drop to the next ledge, which is why Gretchen didn’t forbid me from trying for a better look.
The problem was how I landed. At first, it seemed okay.
The kind of thing you can just walk off.
I popped a couple of painkillers, and we got down the mountain no problem.
Then we decided to call it an early day, made lunch, and when I went to put on my boot again, it wouldn’t fit. ”
I glance at the boot … which had been on his foot. “This boot?”
“We found a stream,” Gretchen says. “Ice-cold water.”
Blake nods. “I got the swelling down enough to pull on my boot. That’s when we heard your pup here.” He smiles and reaches to pat Storm, who tolerates it. “At first, we weren’t sure what it was. That’s one deep bark. I started worrying about bears.”
“’Tis the season.”
He makes a face. “I know. It’s the wrong time of year to be hiking. But we’re careful, and we have spray. We’ve never had a problem.”
“Yes,” his wife murmurs. “That’s what everyone says before they have a problem with grizzlies. And once they do, it’s the last problem they have.”
“It’s fine,” Blake says firmly. “We haven’t even seen a grizzly on this trip.”
Gretchen’s expression suggests she’d been nervous about a backcountry hike at this time of year. It’s a dynamic I’m always grateful Dalton and I don’t have—where one partner raises concerns and the other dismisses them as overreacting.
It’s a common friction point, though. Suggesting they really are a couple?
My suspicion meter dips a little. Then I see Blake’s ankle. There’s a bit of swelling, but no more than you might see after a long day of hiking. I palpate the foot, and he jumps as if I’ve stabbed him.
“Tender?” I say, my tone neutral.
“Yeah.”
I try pressing my fingers in, but he pulls from my grip.
“I was checking to make sure it isn’t broken,” I say.
“It’s not.”
“Blake, let her check please.”
“It’s not broken. I couldn’t walk on it if it was.”
“That’s actually a common misconception,” I say as I sit back on my haunches.
“Well, it’s not broken. I can tell.”
Huh. Interesting. Is he afraid I’ll realize he’s not actually hurt?
If their goal is to get into Haven’s Rock, wouldn’t they play it up?
You’re right. It does seem broken. I really should get to a doctor.
“I would like to test it for usability,” I say.
“It’s fine,” he says quickly.
“Blake…” Gretchen says.
I tense, ready for him to snap something at his wife, but he sighs and drops his head.
“I’m sorry, Katie,” he says. “I know you’re trying to help. I’m angry with myself, and I shouldn’t be snapping at you.”
Gretchen clears her throat, and he looks her way with a sheepish smile. “Or at you. Sorry, hon.”
“Just let Katie do her thing, okay? You don’t want to be a day’s walk from here, passed out from pain.”
He nods and allows me to run it through some basic usability tests. The problem with those is that they rely on self-reported pain. When he winces, is he faking it? When he doesn’t react, is he suppressing it?
He’d jumped earlier when I was prodding his ankle, but now his reactions are much more muted, meaning I can’t tell whether that means he’s not injured or just trying to convince us he’s fine enough to continue on their hike.
“May I wrap it?” I ask.
“Yes,” Gretchen replies before Blake can answer. “Please.”
I do that as I talk them through care. It’s the basic RICE first aid.
Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. Compression means the bindings I put on, and I show them how to replace them and give Gretchen extras.
Ice will need to mean cold streams. Elevation means raising it above his heart when he’s sleeping.
As for resting, since they already plan a couple of days off, I only agree that this is a good strategy.
“You have pain medication?” I ask.
“Ibuprofen,” Gretchen. “It’ll work on the swelling, too, right?”
“It will. But the meds and the ice are short-term measures. Even if it seems better when you get back to Whitehorse, see your doctor. Don’t keep on with the ice and pills past that.”
“We will.”
Gretchen envelops me in a hug before I can duck it.
I’m not sure I would have anyway. While I’m not really the hugging type, I know she’s trying to show gratitude.
I survive the hug, and Storm survives the petting.
They ask if there are any good spots to camp nearby, and I direct them a little farther west, where they’ll find a small meadow near a stream.
“Just check for berries,” I say. “You don’t want to pop your tent in the middle of a cranberry patch and have bears visit.”
“We won’t,” Gretchen says with a smile, and I motion for Storm to set out back the way we came.