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I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him. It’s meant to be a quick, spontaneous kiss, but something ignites. Joy, I realize, as it takes a moment to identify the emotion. It’s one that had been missing from my life for so long, and now, there are times when I feel like a glutton, gorging on it.
The past eighteen months have been studded with spots of joy, but so much work, too, and frustration and trepidation and fear—the utter terror that we are in over our heads, children indulging a pipe dream. Now, we are here, seeing that dream realized in our new home, which is as wonderful as our old one and yet even better because it is truly ours.
I kiss Dalton, and he kisses me back in the same way, deep and hungry with exhilaration and relief.
“You want to see the rest of the house first?” he asks as I push his T-shirt up his torso.
“Do you?”
“Hell, no,” he says, and lowers me onto the bearskin rugs.
We go to sleep on the balcony off our bedroom. We’d insisted it be built big enough to accommodate that, another oddity that Penny hadn’t questioned. When I first came to Rockton, I didn’t consider myself particularly outdoorsy, but something about my bedroom balcony called to me, and I found myself dragging my bedding out there. When Dalton caught me sleeping there, I’d been embarrassed. It was an odd thing to do, and I grew up learning that “odd” was concerning. Odd behavior meant there was something not quite right about you.
What did Dalton do, when he realized his new detective was sleeping on her balcony? He got me a folding mattress so I could do that more comfortably. That’s the moment when I realized our sheriff might not be the guy I thought he was. And finding I was sleeping out there was the moment when he realized I might not be the person he thought I was either.
We sleep on our balcony, atop a folding mattress, blankets piled over us. I start off sleeping soundly, but then I keep waking, hearing a distant wolf or a nearby owl. I startle awake, remember where I am, cuddle back against Dalton, and sleep again.
When another sound wakes me, I’m not sure what it is at first. I lift my head and strain for wolves or owls or any other night music. What I hear is musical, but a very different sort.
Bells.
I’m hearing the soft tinkle of bells, like a wind chime. I lift onto my elbows and peer into the darkness. The sound continues, and I slide from bed, taking one of the top blankets towrap around me as I move to the railing. Storm rises from her own pile of blankets and pads over.
The night is still, and I’m not sure why my subconscious notices that until I realize that “still” means there’s no wind. I look up over the treetops into a sky lit to indigo blue by a blanket of stars and a bright moon. My groggy brain starts mentally reciting the constellations—taught to me by Dalton—until the bells sound again, and I remember why I’m awake.
I inhale, drinking in sharp, fresh air with the faintest hint of woodsmoke. I glance toward town, but see nothing. Good. We’d been particularly careful about the light pollution that could signal a settlement, every building having the best blackout blinds and shutters for the winter months when lights go on by late afternoon.
Another tinkle of bells tugs my brain back on track.
Is that coming from town? While I’d hate to be the killjoy who complains about such a simple pleasure as wind chimes, we really can’t have them. At night, it is so quiet that we’d catch a whisper from someone on their porch.
I’m making a mental note that we’ll need to ask about the chimes when the sound comes again, and it seems even closer… and from the directionoppositetown. I move to that side of the balcony and squint out into the night.
Darkness. That’s all I see. Unrelenting black.
When another sound comes, it takes me a moment to realize it’s Storm growling. She’s pressed up against me, the barest growl rippling her flanks.
“Eric?” I whisper. I crouch by his head and squeeze his shoulder. “Eric?”
He wakes with a start, blinking around in confusion. I’m about to remind him where we are, but he gives a grunt of recognition. Then the chimes sound, and he cocks his head, frowning.
“It’s not from town,” I whisper. “It’s out in the forest.”
That gets him up. He doesn’t bother with a blanket to wrap himself in. It’s probably ten degrees Celsius, but he’s grown up in a cooler climate and to him, this is warm enough.
When the jingling comes again, his eyes narrow as he peers into the dark.
“I thought it was a wind chime,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Bear bells.”
I know what bear bells are, of course. Most negative bear encounters come from people accidentally startling a bear that didn’t hear them coming. A bell prevents that. I’ve used them when I walk in the forest alone with Storm, but I don’t do that often. Being part of a group—preferably a chatty group—is safer.
Knowing what the sound is makes me relax for a split second. Then I remember where we are and where it’s coming from.
“Someone’s out there,” I say.
Dalton grunts again, turns from the railing, and reaches for his jeans.
