“I understand that,” Cypher says. “But if all three of us tramp in there, we’ll put them on the defensive. Especially once they realize you two are from Rockton. I can pull a little sleight of hand with you, Eric. When they find out you aren’t Jakey, they’ll be pissy, but I am not responsible for a misunderstanding. With Casey, though, you could only pretend she’s Edwin’s granddaughter, and believe me, that’d be worse.”
The plan seems overly complicated and makes me wonder exactly what we’re dealing with here. But if it is a delicate situation, Cypher is right that all three of us shouldn’t go marching in. There’s also an advantage to having me and Storm hang back where we can come to their aid in case of trouble.
They continue on, and I take Storm off the path. I know not to wander far, but that rising smoke is an easy landmark. In a small clearing that’s been intentionally clear-cut, I take off my snowshoes and perch on a tree trunk. I expect Storm to drop at my feet in exhaustion, but she sits, looking up at me. Looking up … looking down … looking up.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh, toss my pack down and then drop onto the ground.
Storm grunts in satisfaction and curls up with me. From puppyhood, we taught her that she can’t sit on laps and sofas and beds, and we’d congratulated ourselves on our forethought. While it was difficult to keep her on the floor when she was a tiny bundle of fur who only wanted to cuddle, we knew that one day she’d take up the entire sofa. The problem is that, to indulge her need for puppy cuddles, we’d get down on the ground with her. Perfectly reasonable … except that she came to expect that, and while she’ll curl up at our feet, if she’s tired and cold, she wants us to cuddle with her … on the snow-covered ground.
We curl up together, resting and snacking on venison jerky. I listen for trouble from the direction of the camp, but the murmured voices stay low and calm.
Once Storm has had her cuddles and her food and water, she’s ready to play. I pick up a stick and say, “I am not chasing this. Just so you know.”
She dances in place. I throw it. She hesitates, looking my way, then chuffs a look of disappointment at my old-lady frailties before taking off after the stick. We do that a couple of times, but it’s clear I’m being judged, so I switch to hide-and-seek. This is one of her favorite games. She sits, looking the other way, while I run a twisting trail before hiding downwind.
I make this one as tricky as I can. I hop on a couple of stumps and leap off them to interrupt the trail. I even climb a tree and slip into the branches of another. When I finally hide, I pick a spot behind a bush where some small beast has crawled under and died, masking my scent. I crouch behind it, mitts over my nose, hoping Storm appreciates this.
Peering through the bush, I watch her untangle my trail. My stump jump doesn’t stump her at all. The tree leap does, but only for a moment before she’s tearing th
rough the snow following my trail and—
Metal glints in the midday sun. I’m not even sure what I see—some instinct processes the sight before my brain fully comprehends, and I charge from my hiding spot with a “No!” as I race toward Storm. As I do, I see the long barrel of a rifle pointing through the trees. Pointing at my dog.
I slam into Storm’s side, and we skid across the snow, me sprawled over her. There is no shot. Just a grunt of surprise, and then footsteps approaching and a man’s voice saying, “What the hell is that?”
I lift my head. As I do, I see his face and … There is still a gut instinct women have, an inner alert system that says, “Do not go home with this charming guy you met in a bar.” One glance at the man with the gun makes me decide I will not tell him who I am. Maybe it’s the set of his thin lips. Maybe it’s a glitter in his dark eyes. Maybe it’s merely a sixth sense that says beware.
“It’s … it’s a dog,” I stammer, pitching my voice low. “My dog.”
I stay on the ground, over Storm, my face turned down just enough to let my hood shadow my face.
The man tilts his head. “Where’d you come from, boy?”
I mentally nod in satisfaction as he makes the mistake I hoped he would when I changed my voice. I remembered the first time I met Cypher, when he mistook me for a boy. It’s easy to do, with my size and build, especially if I’m wrapped in my winter wear.
Cypher also mistook me for Indigenous. I could roll my eyes at that, but it happened even down south. I am a racial puzzle that strangers want to solve, even when I’d rather they looked at me and only saw a person.
“I’m with my dad, trapping.” I lift my chin a little. “I have a right to be here. My mother’s family is Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in.”
His snort suggests he isn’t the type to respect territorial rights.
“Get up, boy.”
When I hesitate, he points the gun and growls, “I said get up. This ain’t your land. Hasn’t been in five hundred years, so don’t pull that shit on me. You know who this land belongs to? Whoever has these.” He taps his gun. “So get on up and let me see that so-called dog of yours.”
I rise slowly, my hand on Storm’s collar. I pat her head and murmur words of reassurance.
“That’s a dog, huh?” he says, eyeing Storm.
“Yes, sir.”
“Never seen one like that.”
I shrug. “Dad got her for me in Dawson. He didn’t know how big she’d get.”
He eyes Storm. “Good for pulling sleds, I bet.”
I laugh softly. “No, sir, she’s no sled dog. No hunter either. Dad calls her a waste of good food, especially in the winter, but I hunt for her, so he lets me keep her.”