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Dalton whispers something in my ear, and I nod.
“I apologize for coming on you like this,” I say. “I know it’s not what you wanted, but we weren’t sure how else to reach out. We’ll leave as soon as we’ve thanked you.”
More silence. All the windows stay shut, no movement to suggest someone has cracked one open to peer out.
Dalton taps my arm and nods. We circle the house and find the “front door” around the back, up so tight against two trees that it would be impossible to completely open it.
“Nicely done,” I murmur. “For the record, I’d like a hiddendoor, too, so no one can come banging on it when we’re trying to take a few minutes to ourselves.”
“Nah, I’m going to put a note on ours asking people not to knock unless it’s an emergency. People are understanding about things like that.”
I snort a laugh. I have seen Dalton’s Do Not Disturb signs. They don’t “ask” anything. They inform you—with all possible profanity—that if you bother him for a non-emergency, you will pay the price. He never specifies the price. No one tries to find out.
I knock on the door. Then we wait. And wait.
“Shit,” Dalton mutters.
I glance over at him.
“No wolf,” he says.
I frown. Then I wince as I realize what he means. “Duh, right. If anyone was here, the wolf would be here, and the wolf isn’t going to let us get this close without making some kind of noise.”
I glance at the door.
Dalton touches my elbow. “I’d rather not.”
I turn my gaze on him.
He looks uncomfortable as he shrugs. “If we have to go inside, okay, but we brought stuff to leave a note, and I’d rather do that. Yeah, we went into the miner’s tent. This is different.”
That was a workplace. This is a home. More than that, anyone who lives out here does so with an expectation of privacy they don’t get down south, and their neighbors should respect that.
Dalton himself had grown up like this. His parents had met in Rockton and fled into the forest rather than be sent home. They’d had two sons out there, and this is where Dalton liveduntil he was nine. He understands what kind of people live out here. Some of them have mental issues. Others—like his parents—are modern-day pioneers, only seeking a different way of life. No matter what their reason, though, one thing is guaranteed—if they’re living in a hidden cabin, they do not want visitors.
As Dalton says, we brought paper and a pen for a message. I also brought a bottle of over-the-counter pain relievers as a peace offering. Yes, as “gifts” go, that’s a little weird, but I’ve come to understand what sort of things people out here prize most. While coffee and tea top the list, those could be adulterated. Ammunition also ranks high, but I don’t know what sort—if any—this person might want. Booze is always popular, but that implies the person drinks, and if they turn out to be Indigenous, that’s insulting. An unopened container of painkillers seems both safe and universally useful.
I write the message, telling who I am and why I’m here. I add instructions for leaving a return message or arranging a meeting. I keep my language simple. Again, I don’t want to make assumptions, but that also means not overestimating their ability to read, especially when their message to us had been a single word.
I’m finishing the letter when Dalton’s head jerks up. He swivels, following a noise I didn’t hear.
“Bear?” I whisper.
No answer, which means he doesn’t know. He motions for me to finish quickly. I set the message and offering on the doorstep, and then we hurry back to Storm. Dalton leads us both into a pocket of forest.
It only takes a moment before I notice movement on the path. A figure appears. Small, with a hood drawn up. The clothing is handmade from skins. The boots, though, are… well, they’re not only modern but they’re expensive.
Down south, I was hopeless when it came to footwear. One pair for each function, only to be replaced when they were no longer wearable. Up here, I have become a shoe fashionista. Or, more accurately, a boot one. In this terrain, decent footwear makes a bigger difference than any other article of clothing, and I have a shelf of boots, none of them cheap. That’s what I’m seeing on the person approaching. High-end waterproof hiking boots.Women’shiking boots.
Bruno had said his rescuer was a woman. Judging by those boots and the size of the figure, he was right.
The woman keeps walking along the path. The wolf follows at her heels, and both seem calm and relaxed.
They reach the spot where they’d need to cut over to the house. There they both stop, in a small clearing, and the wolf moves up beside the woman.
“Hello?” she says.
I glance at Dalton.
