She says, “Extra passes will be fine.” Then she looks at me. “Thank you.”
I nod and leave.
THIRTY-FIVE
Before we retire for the evening, Dalton takes Storm for a run through town. And I do mean a run, to the point where he’s carrying her back and she’s not the only one panting. I may have mentioned earlier that, as much as I love my puppy, I’m loving her a little less at bedtime. Hence the run, and then she’s sound asleep in her bed upstairs and Dalton finds his second wind very nicely. Soon we’re both panting, stretched out on the bearskin, legs still entwined.
“Thank you,” I say when we’re done.
“I was going to suggest we work from home for a while earlier today, but I know you’ve been busy.”
“I’m never that busy.”
“Good to know.” He kisses me, and then we snuggle down on the rug, and a few minutes later, as I’m staring into the fire, he says, “Working?”
“Yes, sorry.” I pull my gaze away from the flames.
“I’m asking, not complaining.”
His fingers tickle down my bare side. He just traces right over my scars. I’m sure other lovers thought they were being considerate by avoiding them, but to me it always felt like they were avoiding the ugliness, trying to see past it. Dalton doesn’t even seem to notice them, and I’m so busy enjoying his touch that it takes a moment to see that look in his eyes, the one that means he has something to say.
“Hmm?” I say.
“Anything you want to talk about? With the case? You’re working through something. I can see that, and I know you were busy tonight, talking to Mathias and Val, and…”
And you haven’t told me what it is. You always tell me what it is.
“If you want to talk, I’m here,” he says. “Well, obviously. I’m always here.” He exhales. “Fuck.”
“I love it when you flounder,” I say. “It’s adorable.”
He makes a face. I reach up to push his hair back. It’s just long enough to show a cowlick in the front, which is also adorable, but I refrain from saying so.
“I’m not talking about what I’m investigating because I’m still working it through,” I say. “And, admittedly, also because it’s a subject you don’t seem keen to talk about, so I want to work it through first. Get it straight in my head, before I bring it to you.”
He frowns. “What is it?”
“Hostiles. I know, you don’t think the perpetrator could be one of them.”
The frown grows. “When did I say that?”
“I got the message when I brought them up and you wanted to move on.”
He props onto one arm. “That seemed like I was dismissing the idea? Hell, no. I just didn’t know what else to say. It’s the same as when we considered the hostiles for Powys’s death. It doesn’t get us anywhere. With residents and settlers, we can consider individuals, interview them, question others about them. With hostiles, it’s like saying we think a bear did it. Only way we can stop it is to stop it. Trap it. Kill it.”
“Is that what the hostiles are to you?”
He rubs his cheek, fingers skritching against his beard. “You mean would I kill one if I found out he did something like this? Not unless I had to. Bad analogy, then. I’d trap and relocate. Same as I’d prefer to do with an animal. If I seemed to be avoiding the possibility, it’s because this case is a helluva lot easier if we’re dealing with a settler.”
“Jacob says it can’t be a hostile.”
“Can’t?”
“He was adamant about that. A hostile doesn’t have the mental capacity to pull this off.”
That frown again. “I don’t know why he’d say that. Sure, I don’t have as much experience with them, but of course some could do this. Jacob knows that.”
“I think it’s because of what Beth did to him. He’s equating that with hostiles. He looks back and thinks he couldn’t have held Nicole captive for a year when he was in that mental state, so therefore hostiles couldn’t either.”
“I guess so.”
Dalton goes pensive, and I can tell he doesn’t like that explanation. After a moment, he says, “Yeah, there are hostiles who could do it. I remember this one time, maybe twelve years back, we had a group that left town. Four people. The sheriff … my, uh, father…”
Dalton doesn’t talk about the former sheriff much, and when he does, there’s a discomfort with the language. Sheriff, father, adopted father … kidnapper. What exactly is Gene Dalton to him? I don’t think Dalton knows himself. I don’t blame him.
“My father,” he says, firmer. “He used to be less understanding of runners than the sheriff before him.”
“Ty Cypher?”
“Right. Cypher didn’t give a damn if people left, and my father thought that was just Cypher being an asshole, but I think it was more…” He shrugs. “If you want to go, go. Cypher saw it as a valid alternative. I disagree, but only because people don’t know what they’re getting into. It’s not Little House on the Fucking Prairie.”
“First, there’s no prairie.”
“Exactly.”
“Second, you’ve read Little House on the Prairie?”
His eyes narrow in a mock glare. “You got a problem with that?”