“So you bore a son?” I say.
I’m sure I say it with complete calm, and certainly the others don’t react. But by now, I’ve realized their father is patriarch in name only. I sense that the real power lies in a nearby grave, her position taken over by Cherise, who sees the trap in my words.
“Did you say son?” she says carefully. “A boy?”
She’s gauging my reaction as carefully as I’m gauging hers, like prizefighters in the ring trying to antici
pate the next blow and react accordingly.
I could gamble here. I don’t need to, though. I shrug and say, “Okay, you got me. It’s a girl.”
She leans back. “Of course it is. I know my own child.”
I take my backpack, dump the water from my canteen and hold it out. “I’ll need proof.”
Her face screws up.
“Proof that she’s yours,” I say. “Proof that you’re a nursing mother.”
Leila bursts out laughing. Cherise swings on her so fast, the next thing I see is blood in the snow and then Leila cupping her nose. She didn’t make a sound, only glares at Cherise before dropping her eyes in submission. Cherise’s gaze turns on Missy. I expect the youngest to look away fast, but she holds her sister’s gaze with a level, open stare. Not challenging her, but not backing down either. Cherise snorts, and it’s an animal sound, the alpha accepting that no threat is forthcoming and leaving the younger one be.
“That’s enough, girls,” their father says, and it is the voice of every parent who doesn’t want to seem as if he’s lost control of his children. The girls ignore him—they’re already settling in after their scuffle.
“So the baby isn’t from here,” I say. “That’s all I wanted to know. However, if you have any idea who she does belong to, and you’re correct, we’ll pay for that information.”
“Two hundred dollars’ worth of goods,” Dalton says. “Tell us what you want, and I’ll get it in Dawson or Whitehorse.”
The patriarch’s eyes glitter. “Alcohol. That’s liquid gold out here, especially this time of year.”
“We’ll take some alcohol,” Cherise says. “Among other things. And we want a thousand dollars’ worth.”
“First you need to get us the information,” Dalton says. “Then we need to confirm it. Then you can choose between two hundred dollars from your shopping list or four hundred from ours.”
“Five hundred.”
Dalton looks at me. He’s not verifying the amount. With my bank account, that’s pocket change. He’s seeing if I have any restrictions or limitations to add.
I pet Storm and casually say, “We have a doctor in town who will examine the mother, to be sure she gave birth at the time the baby was born.” Of course, there’s no way to be quite that specific, but these aren’t medical professionals.
I continue. “So if someone claims to be the mother in hopes of getting a reward, it’ll be a waste of everyone’s time. The mother must come to Rockton for the child.”
In other words, I don’t want this family taking the mother captive and then calling us to deliver the cash.
I add, “And if the child was abandoned, we’re fine with that. We won’t judge the mother’s choice, and we will make sure the baby goes to a good home.”
“How much will you get for that?” Cherise says.
“Paid adoptions are illegal in Canada.”
She snorts. “Their laws are not our laws. If you sell the baby—”
“We won’t,” Dalton says. “We may keep it or we may find a suitable home, but no cash will exchange hands. People aren’t trade goods.”
She rolls her eyes at our ridiculous scruples. This is a woman who was sold herself, from a very young age, probably—as I realize now—by her own mother. That practice hasn’t stopped since their mother died. Cherise certainly was ready to see what she could get for me. I would like to say I can’t wrap my head around that—how could you be sold yourself and then do the same to others? The truth is much more complex. Just ask anyone who was abused as a child and does the same to their own offspring.
As we finish the negotiations—which is mostly closing any loopholes for Cherise to exploit—we’re preparing to leave when the father says, “I’m glad we reached an agreement here. I’ve always said that trade relations are important.”
Dalton slowly turns but says nothing, waiting for what we both know is coming.