Before we leave, we stop at Phil’s. He’s spoken to the council. They have nothing to say about the baby. They don’t recognize the description of the dead woman, though I’m not sure how hard they’d try. On that count, all they’re saying is that, while I am free to investigate her death as a way to reunite the child with her family, please remember that I am Rockton law enforcement, and the key word in that phrase is “Rockton.” The death of a settler, while tragic, falls outside my purview.
“I told them that your responsibilities here have been light leading into the holidays,” Phil says. “Also, such an investigation helps hone your skills and foster better relations with our neighbors.”
Unless I accuse one of them of murder.
I don’t say that. I know Phil is trying for a head pat by defending me, and I give him one, figuratively at least. Then we’re off.
Dalton and I share a snowmobile, leaving the other in case Anders needs it. We take turns driving, the other sitting on the back with the baby bundled in their parka. Jen was right that the baby would sleep most of the time. We stop for feedings and changes and cuddles, because the last seems to complete the trifecta of awake-baby needs. When we can’t figure out why she’s fussing, we bounce her and talk to her and dance her on our knees. That seems to do the trick.
We can’t take the snowmobile all the way to the First Settlement. The trails leading into it aren’t wide enough, intentionally. Rockton has horses, ATVs, and snowmobiles. The settlements have none of these, and so for them, wide paths only increase the chance that outsiders will find them … or that folks from Rockton will mistake it for a rolled-out welcome mat. So we hide the sled off the path and cover it with a tarp and snow. Then we head in on foot.
Rockton began as a refuge for the persecuted, no criminals permitted. That ideology lasted as long as the accounting books balanced. With each major shift in priorities, a group would leave. The First Settlement was founded in the sixties. Fifty years have passed since, and they’re on the third generation, with only two original Rockton residents left, including the town leader, Edwin. As the original settlers die out, their town’s connection with ours fades.
The relationship has never been friendly, but it has always been one of mutual disinterest. Live and let live. Dalton fears that will change when Edwin is gone. The younger settlers see Rockton as weak and wealthy. We have those horses and snowmobiles and ATVs, and we are soft, living in relative luxury. We’ve already seen signs of trouble.
While Edwin lives, we are trying to build bridges. While we might be a handful of shepherds protecting a fat flock, we have all the guns we need to repel an attack … and soak the ground with their blood. We don’t want that, so we work on building that bridge while making sure the younger settlers see what they are up against.
The problem is that Edwin is an aging lion, well aware of the hungry eyes on his throne. This is not a time he can show weakness by getting chummy with Rockton—the king of the jungle conversing with the gazelle. He must instead play the sly fox who always gets the better end of any deal.
The subtle tug-of-war exhausts Dalton. Our sheriff has no fear of usurpation and no patience for politicking. His personal history with the First Settlement doesn’t help. He remembers the men who eyed his mother and talked about her like that new resident spoke about me last night, as if she were a potential trade good. When the male settlers give me the same looks, it doesn’t foster good relations. I’m less bothered by it than he is, as I suspect his mother was less bothered than his father. Women expect this. It doesn’t mean we tolerate it, but it is a fact of our lives.
As we approach the settlement, Dalton hears someone outside it and hails them with a “Hello!” We know better than to sneak up—or give anyone an excuse to say we snuck up. It’s one of the men, second generation, maybe in his early forties. He’s hauling wood on a toboggan, and when he sees us, he nods and then keeps going, letting us follow him to the village.
I don’t try to talk to the man. I’ve learned my lesson in this. What seems common courtesy is seen as timidity, as if I’m making nervous conversation.
When the man doesn’t speak, we don’t either, not until we’re entering the village and Dalton says, “We’d like to talk to Edwin.” The man nods and keeps walking, and we stop there, on the edge of the village.
ELEVEN
The First Settlement is also the largest. It’s still a quarter the size of Rockton, with fifteen cabins. On my first visit, I’d counted ten, but there were five more deeper in, like a suburb to the main village. Even the central cabins are sparsely spaced. Protection isn’t really an issue out here, and it helps to have that extra room for gardens and privacy.
As we’re waiting, a shriek sounds, deep in the village. Dalton’s head jerks up, his eyes following the sound. A moment later, a door opens and a man appears, dragging a child by the arm.
“You want to play outside?” the man booms. “Fine. Go to the woodpile and start hauling logs. Come back in when that”—he points at the small heap beside their cabin—“is as tall as you.”
The boy is no more than six. He wails his protest, but the door slams shut. My arms instinctively close around the baby under my parka. Dalton strides forward, and I jog after him, torn between not wanting to cause trouble and seeing the child, shivering and sniveling, barely dressed for the cold.
Dalton crouches beside the boy, who sits in the snow, softly crying. Dalton pulls off his hat and puts it on the boy’s head. Then he wraps his scarf around the child and whispers something to him. The boy nods and rises, pointing. Dalton strides off, the boy tagging along behind. They disappear behind trees, only to return a moment later, their arms stacked with wood.
Dalton may have no head for politics, but I give him too little credit if I expected him to go after the boy’s father, all fire and fury. This is the boy’s life. Crying in the snow wil
l not help. Nor will having strangers fix his problems. I watch Dalton haul logs with the boy, and I cradle the baby under my parka and I think, more than I want to, about things I’d rather not.
Another door opens, and Edwin calls to me. As I walk over, the old man’s gaze shunts to Dalton helping the boy. He says nothing. He just ushers me inside and shuts the door behind me.
The cabin is blazing hot, the fire roaring. I unzip my parka and remove the baby from the makeshift papoose.
“You’d better not tell me that’s yours,” Edwin says. “Or time is passing even faster than I feared.”
“I found her in the snow.”
His brows rise into his hairline, and he looks at me, as if trying to tell whether I’ve misused a word. We’re speaking in Mandarin. Mine is about the equivalent of a five-year-old’s, so it wouldn’t be the first time I misspoke. I’d much rather use English, but I know to indulge Edwin in this. My Chinese blood elevates me in his eyes. He’s an old man, proud of his heritage, dismissive of those who don’t share it.
Edwin settles onto his chair. He isn’t large, and age has made him smaller still. He’s healthy, though, and his mind is fully functional. He’s a former lawyer, which makes this old fox particularly crafty … though that might be my own prejudice as a cop.
“Found her in the snow?” he says finally.
I nod.