CHAPTER ONE
Our daughter is six months old, and our dog is still clearly convinced that we have no idea what we’re doing and, without her intervention, our child will crawl into the woods and be devoured by wolves. We’d been hiking for an hour, with Rory happily bouncing along in the carrier on Dalton’s back. I’d walked behind him, so I can ensure she’s okay… and make faces at her.
We’ve stopped in a clearing, taken her out, and put her on the ground, and Storm is in full herding mode. Despite the fact that Newfoundlands are not herding dogs. Despite the fact that Rory is crawling around gurgling gleefully. Also despite the fact that we walk this route once a week and put Rory down in theexact same spotevery time.
When Storm’s anxious growls turn to full-throated Newfie woofs, I cover my ears and shout to be heard over the noise. “One of these days, we are leaving you behind, dog.”
She keeps barking. We keep wincing. And Rory grins up at her massive black-haired mop of a big sister.
I order Storm to lie down, which makes barking impossible,so she resorts to loud grumbling as she watches Rory, ready for… I don’t know, our baby to leap to her feet and make a run for it?
I drop to the ground beside Rory, which seems to calm Storm. Dalton roots around in my pack and pulls out the water canteen, granola bars, and one digestive cookie for our red-cheeked teething baby.
“See, Casey?” he says as he hands me the canteen. “She just needed a distraction from her teeth. Long walks always work. Now, the trick is to tire her out so she falls asleep on the way back and then we can ease her into her crib and really enjoy our day off.”
I stretch out in the long grass. “I’m enjoyingthis.”
His brows rise. “And that’s all you want for a very rare shared day off when the baby is actually sleeping?”
I smile. “No, I’ll take whatever you’re offering. I just mean that I like this. And not just because she’s finally quiet.”
“Rory? Or Storm?”
“Both.”
I lay my head on Storm’s flank as I watch our daughter grabbing at a grass strand. My miracle baby. A miracle in the sense that I didn’t think I’d ever be able to have children. And a miracle because I never thought I’d find someone I wanted to have them with.
Dalton and I wouldn’t have dared try for a child until the town was fully functional, but nature intervened and gave us Rory. As for Haven’s Rock, it’s been chugging along uneventfully for six months, anduneventfulis exactly how we like it. The town continues to fill with people seeking refuge, and we’re growing confident in our ability to provide that refuge.
It’s early September now. In southern Canada, it’d still be summer, with fall on the horizon. Up here, it’s been autumnfor a few weeks, the world turning golden and quiet as we begin the descent into another long winter.
Dalton finishes his bar, stretches out in front of Rory, and prods things for her to explore—twigs, rocks, a bug. He grew up in the wilderness and has never left, and I smile as I watch him engaging our daughter in her environment. Storm might not like seeing Rory crawling about on the ground, but this is the life she will lead, and she’s already happiest here, in the sunshine watching a bug crawl up a twig.
When Storm leaps up, unceremoniously dumping me to the ground, I barely have time to recover before she resumes barking.
“Really?” I say. “What’s wrongnow? Rory hasn’t moved from…”
I trail off as I realize Storm is looking into the forest. Of course, my husband has already realized this and is on his feet, scanning the trees, fingers resting on the butt of his gun.
Yes, Dalton carries a sidearm. So do I. In Rockton, he was the sheriff and I was his detective, and we continue those roles in Haven’s Rock, mostly because we’ve learned it makes people feel safe, and when the majority of our residents are victims, feeling safe is critical.
We no longer wear the guns around town—that was a Wild West affectation the Rockton council insisted on. But we usually wear them when we leave Haven’s Rock. Dalton doesn’t take his out, though. Just rests his fingers there. We’re not readying our weapons when the “danger” is almost certainly a fox or moose.
Newfoundlands aren’t known to be vocal, and Storm never was… until we brought a baby into the house. Last week, she went into a barking frenzy at a vole that snuck into our chalet. Apparently, it wasn’t only wolves that could devour our child.
As she barks, I lay my hand on her head, telling her we’ve gotthis. It’s not until I scoop up Rory that Storm quiets. She moves beside Dalton, who’s listening intently. Something’s out there. Big enough that he can hear it moving.
Dalton surveys the clearing. He’s trying to decide whether it’s safe to leave me here while he investigates. If Storm’s barks didn’t send the animal fleeing, it’s not small, and at this time of year predators may actually come closer when they hear her. Snow on the mountaintops warns that winter is coming. Sick or elderly predators can become desperate. That goes double for bears, looking to store up fat to get them through hibernation. Stories of unavoidable grizzly attacks often happen at this time of year, and that’s why I’m not only carrying my sidearm—I also have a rifle on my back. We have a baby now. We are ridiculously careful.
I motion for Dalton to take the rifle and investigate. Then I hold Rory in one arm as I tug the bear spray from my pack and put it in my jacket pocket. Usually, if I saw a bear I’d go for the spray first. With Rory, I’ll make that judgment call when the time comes. Bear spray is very effective under normal circumstances, but a desperate bear does not behave normally.
It’s only after Storm and Dalton are gone that I realize I have too much to juggle here—baby, bear spray, gun.
Storm may have a point. As careful as we are, we’re still new parents.
I look around and then back against a thick pine.
Rory fusses. She was happily on the ground, playing with Daddy, and now Mom is awkwardly holding her in one arm, and Dad and Storm are gone, and it’s boring. Really boring. Which reminds her that her mouth hurts where her first tooth is breaking through.
