The same thoughts connect in Dalton’s mind. His eyes widen, just a little. Then they harden to cold steel, and when he looks at me, his jaw is set so tight every muscle stands rigid.
I want to tell him we can stop here. Cypher’s right. Jen’s right, too, God help me. We need to retreat and forget this madness, and keep Abby, because if these two are her parents…?
My breath comes fast and hard, and I swallow. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and push down the panic. Nothing will change if I stick around for a definitive answer. It’ll just save me from second-guessing later.
Cherise and Owen never need to know we found a baby—possibly their baby. I don’t care if that isn’t my decision to make. I will make it.
As we head out, Dalton falls in beside me, leans to my ear, and says, “Yes,” and my eyes mist. I squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
“No question,” he murmurs. “No question at all.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
We enter the traders’ camp. It’s more of an encampment. I’m not sure if there’s actually a difference between the terms, but to me, a camp is a small and temporary arrangement. An encampment is bigger and more permanent.
They have three tents plus two igloo-like snow structures. There are sled dogs, too, which confuses Storm, who’s never seen so many canines in one place. She sticks close to us, like a child hiding behind her parents on the first day of kindergarten. I let her stay there. The dogs seem friendly enough, but unless we’re told she can visit, it’s unwise to presume. And we aren’t told anything of the sort.
Near the fire sits two young women and a man in his fifties. I don’t see the matriarch, and when I look around, Cypher says, “The girls lost their ma about six months ago. We were just talking about that when Eric heard the shot and took off like one.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say to the man.
The patriarch—I haven’t been given names—shrugs and says, “Cancer. It got bad, and she decided she was done.”
I hope I don’t blink at that. I can’t tell if he’s saying she committed suicide or they helped her. I’ve known people who died of cancer, and I cannot imagine what it’d be like out here, with no access to doctors or painkillers. What shocks me is the way he says it, so matter-of-fact. It’s like saying one of the sled dogs had to be put down … and not even a favorite dog at that.
None of the three daughters give any other reaction. They just wait for us to get on with the conversation. Or so it seems until I notice the youngest daughter’s eyes glistening. When Cherise shoots her a sneer, the girl blinks fast and straightens. They are very clearly sisters. All blond and pretty with a similar look—tall and thin and a little bit distant.
If I’d peg Cherise at mid-twenties, I’d put the middle sister a few years younger and the youngest at maybe nineteen. When the youngest glances Cypher’s way, there’s trepidation and anxiety in the look. I remember what he’d said about one of the girls asking him to take her. Those looks say she’s worried that he might say something and get her in trouble.
As I’m thinking this, the middle girl says to Dalton, “I knew you weren’t Jacob.”
Dalton turns to her. “Never said I was.”
“You’re nothing like him,” she says. “He’s…” She wrinkles her nose. “Skittish. Weak. I don’t know how he survives out here.”
“I would suggest that you don’t know my brother very well. And you don’t know me at all.”
She smiles. “We could fix that.”
“I’m married,” he says.
She shrugs. “I don’t care.”
“His wife might,” Cypher says. “You can ask her. She’s sitting right there.”
The middle sister’s gaze trips over me, and she shrugs again. Then she turns to Dalton. “Offer stands.” She smiles at me. “Unless you have a problem with that.”
“Don’t worry, Leila,” Cherise purrs. “His wife is just as helpless as she seems. She’ll be fine with it.”
Leila’s brow furrows as Owen laughs, and she scowls at him. “What’s so funny?”
“Not a damn thing.” He waves at Dalton. “Go for it. Please.”
“It’s not Casey you need to worry about,” Dalton drawls. “If I’m stupid enough to fuck up what I have with her, that’s my problem. And I’m neither stupid nor remotely interested.”
“So you say, in front of her.”
“I’ll say it behind her back, too. You come sneaking into my bed, and you’ll find my brother really is the nice one.”