Sebastian gives Raoul a pat and says goodbye to Maryanne and they take off, zooming past Jen on their way.
“He seems like a sweet boy,” Maryanne says.
I make a noncommittal noise and lead her toward town.
* * *
As eager as I am to get Maryanne to the clinic to attempt identification of the dead woman, I know I need to take this slower. Let April examine her first at my house. I want her checked out and I want the rest of her story—whatever can help me understand hostiles, for this case and beyond. Once Maryanne sees the dead woman, though, her obligation is fulfilled and she can flee into the forest. So that will need to wait until post-examination. It’s not as if I can leave town chasing new clues anyway, not while Dalton is gone.
The back door to my old house is locked. Increased tensions with both the hostiles and settlers have made it seem unwise to leave buildings with open access to the woods. For my old place, though, there’s a key under the back deck, since it is technically still my lodgings, and sometimes, if work’s slow, Dalton and I have been known to go on patrol and sneak in the back for an “afternoon nap.”
Maryanne has said nothing since Jen and Sebastian left, and I’ve spent the walk stifling the urge to hold her arm to make sure she doesn’t bolt. My own arm is fine. The blade sliced the skin, nothing more. A bandage will fix it up.
I open my door and usher Maryanne through. She steps in and stops. I’m behind her, and she’s blocking the entrance, but I pause, waiting. When she doesn’t move, I slide past her, and I realize she’s crying. She’s standing just inside the door, silent tears rolling down her face.
I take off her parka. She doesn’t even seem to notice. I bend and unfasten her boots, which really are little more than hides roped around her ankles. I untie the bindings and then head into the living room,
saying, “I’ll start the fire.”
I keep an ear on the kitchen. If the door squeaks, I’ll be there in a flash. Instead, tentative footsteps slide across the kitchen. I hurry to get the fire going. It’s laid, needing only a match to light—at this time of year, an “afternoon nap” is a whole lot less enticing if it means setting a fire first.
I get it started in seconds; then I feed in more kindling and put the kettle on. When I turn, Maryanne stands in the middle of the room. She looks at the roaring fire, the kettle, the sofa piled with pillows, the bearskin rug, inviting in a way only a fireplace-rug-in-winter truly can be. She stares. Blinks. Then her knees give way. I lunge, but I’m too slow, and she falls onto the rug. Tears stream down her face, silent at first, and then ripping out in racking sobs as she crumples, arms wrapped around her chest.
I should go to her. Hug her. Comfort her. Instead, I manage a few back pats and “It’s okay” and “You’re safe now,” which are as awkward for her as they are for me. So I leave her to cry, and I dart around, getting things to make her comfortable. Put pillows on the floor. Grab more from behind the sofa and blankets from under it—in a place this small, you use every cranny for storage. I build a nest around her, as if she’s a toddler who might fall.
Then I go into the kitchen. There’s not much there. Instant coffee and tea in the cupboard. Powdered creamer and sugar. A bottle of tequila hidden under the cupboard. I bring it all. Then I check the kettle. It’s barely simmering.
I don’t ask Maryanne whether she wants tea, coffee, or tequila. She’s crying softer now, collapsed on the rug, hugging a pillow. I drape a blanket over her. Then I pour tequila into one mug, put a tea bag in another and coffee in the third. The kettle gives one chirp, and I have it off the hanger. I fill the two mugs. Then I set them on a tray in front of her.
“Food’s coming,” I say. “But I have tea, coffee, and tequila.”
“Tequila?”
She lifts her face from the rug. I hold the mug out.
She shakes her head, shivering. “It’ll be a long time before I’ll even want painkillers.”
I push forward the other mugs. She accepts the coffee and rejects creamer or sugar. She sits up, blanket still over her shoulders as she wraps her hands around the mug. She leans over it, bathing in the steam.
I put the kettle back over the fire, in case she wants more. Then I look around.
“I should have a sweatshirt upstairs,” I say. “And socks maybe? I’ll run—”
A hard rap at the door. I open it to find Jen with a duffel bag, which she shoves at me.
“Clothing,” she says. “It’s mine, but it should fit. There are snacks in there, too. I’ll drop off a hot meal when I bring the baby.”
“Baby? I really can’t—”
“If you need me to take her a while longer, I will, but she’s fussy and cranky, and she wants her mommy.”
“Yes,” I say evenly. “Unfortunately, we have no idea where to find her.”
She snorts. “Whatever.”
“She doesn’t want me, Jen.”
“Well, yeah, she’d probably rather have Daddy. Typical female, already making eyes at the big, bad sheriff. But since he’s not here, you’ll do.”