“Yep. I know when we took her for her annual shots, the vet mentioned spaying, and we hadn’t made a decision on that. We’re going to need to.”
I crouch and hug Storm, running my hands over her as she trembles in lingering excitement from the encounter.
As I pet her, I say, “Down south, spaying would be a no-brainer. No one needs more dogs. Here, though? I don’t know. There could be some advantage to breeding her once. If we do want more working dogs in Rockton, we know she has good genes. On the other hand, we don’t want every wolf and feral dog volunteering as puppy daddies.”
“Is there some way to control her cycles?”
“Doggie birth control? I have no idea. More research for our next trip to Dawson.” I give her one last pat as I stand. “At least one of us might be able to have babies, huh?”
I say it lightly, but I feel Dalton’s gaze on me.
“I was kidding,” I say.
“Kidding … and not kidding.” He checks his watch. “It’s after five, so I think we’re up for good. If I put on the kettle for coffee, can we talk about this?”
I shrug. “Nothing to talk about, really. Yes, it’s on my mind lately, for obvious reasons, but talking is just treading the same ground over and over. It doesn’t get me anywhere.”
He fixes me with that look, trying to extract from my brain the answers I’m not giving. Then he puts the blackened kettle directly on the fire.
“You need to teach Ty how to set that up properly,” I say.
“Guy drinks instant coffee with powdered creamer. I don’t think he cares whether he’s heating the water right.”
He backs from the fire and pulls on his sweatpants. He’s still adjusting them, not looking at me, when he says, “You had so much other shit to deal with after the beating. Just getting up and around again. Then getting your strength back. Getting on the police force. All the things they said you couldn’t do, and you did. This other thing was…”
He struggles for words. “It’s an injury to a muscle you weren’t sure you’d ever want to use. Except it’s more than just a muscle that doesn’t work. It’s something they took from you, on top of all the rest, something you can’t fix through sheer determination and hard work.”
Tears roll down my cheeks. I don’t even realize it until he reaches for me. He has put into words everything I’ve been feeling these last few days, and it’s as if I’ve said them myself, but better, because I didn’t have to.
Fourteen years ago, four men beat me and left me for dead. They took my mobility, leaving me with a leg injury that doctors said meant I’d never run again. They left me with scars—physical and psychological—that people said meant I’d never become a cop. They took my pride, too, and my dignity and my self-confidence.
But I triumphed because I fought back in the way that really counted. I can run. I am a cop. And while there’s still psychological damage, in regaining my mobility and achieving my career goal, I won back my pride and my dignity and my self-confidence. Wherever those four thugs are now, I have a better life than they do. I’m sure of it. So I won.
Except now, as Dalton says, there’s this one thing they took that I cannot regain. It didn’t matter before because I never saw myself as a mother. I had an all-consuming career and no interest in long-term relationships. Being with Dalton changed both those things and nudged that old scab. Then came Abby, and seeing Dalton with her and feeling my own reaction to her has ripped that scab clear off, and it hurts. It hurts so much.
Tied up in that pain is rage. Those men did take something from me, something I cannot get back, and here is this life choice that I’m not even sure I want, but I should damned well have that option. I don’t, and it is their fault.
I say all this to Dalton. The kettle boils
and it boils, and I’m still talking, the words rushing out. Finally, there’s nothing more to say, and I take the kettle and pour the coffees, brushing him off when he tries to help. I measure in the creamer with such care you’d think it was powdered gold. Then I stir, slowly and deliberately, giving myself time to recover.
“There are options,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”
“I’m not sure it is. I have no idea right now, and no time to sit and think about it. There’s no point either. If we don’t find Abby’s family, then she’s one option, and I’d do that before I’d even try carrying a baby to term myself. If we do find her family, then I need to figure out whether what I’m feeling is just a surge of maternal instinct. Then you and I need to talk about it, either way, and…”
I wave my hands. “Part of me wants to consider options, and another part says that’s like deciding which university to send your kid to before she’s even born.”
Dalton settles onto the bed with his coffee and motions for me to sit beside him. I do, and Storm moves to lie across our feet.
“So,” Dalton says. “You know that the council has threatened to kick me out of Rockton. Even when they don’t say it, I feel the weight of that hammer over my head. This woman, who is very smart, once told me that the best way to cope with that is to figure out a game plan. What I’d do if it happened.”
“I never said it was the best way. Just one way.”
He waves off the distinction. “The point is that my brain works like hers does. We need solid footing. I need to know that if I get kicked out, I have a plan. So I’m going to suggest that she needs the same thing. A plan for what we’d do if we ever decide we want one of those wrinkly things that screams for us to feed her and screams for us to change her shitty diaper and won’t let us sleep more than three hours at a stretch.”
“You make it sound so enticing.”
“I know. But in spite of their unbelievably selfish behavior, I will admit that I do see an appeal to babies that I never did before. Which is not to say that I want one. If we don’t find Abby’s parents, then I would seriously consider it and lean toward yes. Otherwise, I’d back up to just seriously considering it, for some point in the future.”