When I come back, I resist the urge to play hostess. Would you like anything, Jacob? How about an energy bar? Water? Do you want to come inside where it's warmer? I'm reminded of when my friend Diana drove me crazy trying to win her ex-husband's parents' approval. That's what I do with Jacob. It's not that he disapproves of me. He's not sure what to make of me. And then there's the fact that I bear scars from our first encounter, when he'd been drugged and out of his mind.
I reme
mber when he spotted one of the scars once as it was healing. I'd tried to make light by joking that it wouldn't be noticed, pulling up my sleeve to show that I had plenty more from the beating that nearly killed me twelve years ago. And yep, that joke went about as well as one might expect. Awkward humor isn't my style, but Jacob brings out that too, in my desperate need to make a connection with the guy who matters most to Dalton.
I say, "I'll go in and pack while you two talk," but Dalton shifts into my path, forcing me to stay.
Jacob looks like his brother, enough that the first time I saw him, there was a moment when I thought he was Dalton. The main difference is the shoulder-length hair, and at this time of year, he's sporting an impressive beard. When he looks in my direction, I'm reminded of the second biggest difference--the gaze that won't meet mine, ducking away, shy and uncertain.
Dalton says, "Jacob was just telling me he saw you out with Will. He went looking for you guys after the storm. He caught the flares yesterday, but by the time he got here, I had the shelter built. So he stood watch."
"You've been out here all night?"
Jacob shrugs and mumbles that it was no big deal, then says, "You okay? Eric says there was a guy."
"I'm fine, thanks. You didn't happen to see anyone, did you?"
He shakes his head.
"Walk back with us," Dalton says. "See if you and I can get that sled going. If not, I'd appreciate you accompanying us to Rockton, in case this guy shows up."
*
We don't get Dalton's sled going. So we walk. Jacob leaves us near Rockton. I know we're close even if we can't see the town. It's kept hidden by methods that grow increasingly high-tech and expensive, as the world outside becomes someplace where you can't hide a settlement, even in the Yukon. Disguised at both ground level and aerial, it uses everything from structural camouflage to technology that I suspect even the average reclusive billionaire can't get his hands on.
What I spot first are the hints I've learned to look for, and then there's a smile on my lips and a quickening of my steps, the sense most people would instantly recognize as the feeling of returning home. I've always felt the relief of closing my apartment door behind me, but this is more. It's a sense of place, of belonging, and it scares me a little. I've only been here four months. I don't know that Rockton is home, that it can be home, that I'll have that choice to make.
We're still on the outskirts when I spot Anders. We radioed ahead, and he's waiting with a thermos of coffee.
"Figured you'd want this at the first possible moment," he says, handing it to me.
"Best deputy ever." I pour a cup and then hand the thermos to Dalton, who drinks it straight. As I resume walking, I say to Anders, "Okay, what's up?"
"I brought you coffee. If you're complaining, then maybe you won't want these cookies Brian baked for you this morning." He pulls a wrapped bundle, still warm, from his pocket.
I take them. "Something's up, and it has nothing to do with why you're bringing gifts. You just do that because you're awesome."
"Can I get that in writing?"
"Casey's right," Dalton says. "Not about the awesome part. That depends on what condition my town's in. Something's up, and it's making me think I might not be awarding you that awesome certificate anytime soon."
"There's a certificate?"
"I have a stack of them," I say.
"That's because you're sleeping with him."
"Will," Dalton says, "what's going on?"
Anders makes a face. "I know the last thing you need is to be plunged into a fresh crisis--"
"Spit it out, Will," a voice says, and I glance up to see Isabel striding toward us.
Isabel Radcliffe. She's forty-five, dressed in a sealskin coat and mukluks, with no makeup or hair color--both being nonpriorities in Rockton--and she still manages to be one of the most glamorous women I've ever met.
Isabel is a former psychologist. Here she's the local bar owner. And brothel owner. I have issues with the latter, but we have become what one might call friends.
She continues, "If you think Eric and Casey are not perfectly capable of leaping from crisis to crisis, clearly your brain has frozen, soldier boy."