"What's wrong?" I scoop up the puppy. "Is it Nicole?"
"No, I..." Deep breath. "I saw you from the station, heading toward the forest with the puppy, and I thought you were taking her in there for a walk."
"After dark? And after what's happened?"
He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Sorry. I just..."
"Worried?"
"Yeah."
"Here, have a puppy. It helps."
He takes her, and she snuggles in, going from boundless energy to total exhaustion in two seconds flat.
"I was trying to figure out where to take her," I say. "Are we sleeping at your place or mine?"
"I wanted to talk about that. The dog-rearing books say she'll be more comfortable with a permanent home. Like a den, right?"
"Ah, I hadn't thought of that. So bopping between our houses isn't puppy-friendly. We need to pick a place and stick with it."
"Yeah. Is that a problem?"
"Not at all. Petra said you collected the puppy's things earlier. Are they at my place?"
"Uh, no." He shifts the puppy. "I was walking past mine, so I put them in there. Just for now. Unless you're okay with staying there until she's bigger or ... whatever."
"Sure. Your place is closer to the station, and you're more settled in than I am."
"So that's all right? Moving into my place?"
He's studying my expression carefully, and I'm not sure why, but I smile and say, "Completely all right. Let's go make this puppy a den."
*
An hour later, we're in bed, snuggled up and talking, too tired for anything else and too aware there's a puppy whining on the floor.
"Should I move her bed downstairs?" Dalton asks.
I shake my head. "She misses her mother. She's only been away from her, what, a night or two? You picked her up in Dawson?"
He hesitates. "Yeah, but ... she came from down south."
In other words, he hadn't just happened to learn that someone in Dawson City was breeding Newfoundlands. I ease back onto the pillow and say, "Did you give her a name?"
"Figured that was your job. She came with one, but it doesn't seem like a real dog name. They said it was for registering her."
So she didn't even come from a hobbyist breeding Newfoundlands in her backyard. He bought me a pedigree dog.
"What's the name?" I ask.
"Uh..." He rolls over and reaches for his jeans. It's tucked in his pocket. We don't carry wallets in Rockton, needing neither cash nor ID. Another of those oddities that took a while to get used to.
He unfolds the paper. "Blackmoor Down's Bohemian Rhapsody."
"That's a mouthful," I say.
"Yeah. I tried Rhapsody. She didn't respond to it. So you can call her whatever you want."