A Stranger in Town: a Rockton novel

by Armstrong, Kelley

  I take it slow, easing through the forest until I’m directly behind the two. A man and a woman, pressed as close as Dalton and I had been, sharing a log and body heat in the chill morning.

  The woman talks as the man eats. While she’s speaking, I step from the forest. Five paces separate us. I eye the rifle at the woman’s side. Another rests within the man’s reach.

  I pause when the woman stops talking to sip from a tin mug. Then she resumes the one-sided conversation about plans for a trip into Dawson next month.

  Two more steps. One . . .

  I press my gun to the woman’s blond hair. “Hello, Cherise.”

  Her partner, Owen, gives a start.

  Cherise doesn’t even flinch. “Hey, girl. Wondering when you’d join us. Coffee?”

  Owen and Cherise. Or, more accurately, Cherise and Owen, because in this relationship, there’s no question of who is in charge. Also no question that Owen likes it that way.

  Owen is a former Rockton resident who took off after one too many clashes with Dalton. He went into the woods and met Cherise, the oldest daughter in a family of traders. Her mother died last year, and she took over the clan, despite being younger than me.

  When I first heard about this family, I’d had a very clear idea of what they would be. Downtrodden women enslaved by a patriarch. After all, they were best known for their particular goods—three pretty blond daughters who’d been available for rent soon after they passed puberty.

  What I found was . . . I’m not even quite sure what I found. Dad was clearly not in charge. Mom had been, and now Cherise is, and she’s a viper of a woman, whip-smart and deadly. The middle sister clearly aspires to Cherise-hood, but lacks the intelligence. The youngest is the only one who seems in need of rescue, but when I quietly offered it, she was insulted. She accepts her lot until she can find a settler to marry and start her own trading clan. I don’t know what to do with that. I really don’t.

  I lower the gun and step back. Cherise only sips her coffee. She’s mid-twenties, and model-pretty in a cool, Nordic way. Her partner is my age, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a scar across his nose.

  Dalton strides from the forest, gun still in hand.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” Cherise says. “Coffee?”

  “What are you two doing here?” I say.

  “Waiting for you. I knew you’d smell the smoke eventually. Or the coffee. I should thank you for the coffee. It puts him in a much better morning mood.” She hooks a thumb at Owen.

  “Why are you here?” I say again.

  “Hoping to hook up with you guys.”

  Owen waggles his brows. “You must be getting tired of this stick-up-his-ass by now.”

  Dalton tenses. Owen is a sexual predator. Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t see himself that way. His type never do. Good-looking former frat boy known to slip a little something extra into a girl’s drink to ensure his evening ends with a bang. Owen came to Rockton claiming to be a victim and very clearly was the perpetrator. It doesn’t help that I’m apparently Owen’s type.

  What would help is if Cherise took offense and shut him down. She couldn’t care less. If it’d help foster a valuable trade relation, she’d gladly loan me her partner. Yet that same shark instinct means she doesn’t fail to miss Dalton’s reaction, which does jeopardize this trade connection.

  “Casey has made it abundantly clear she is not interested, Owen.” She pats him on the back, like a friend offering sympathy for a strikeout. “Now stop embarrassing yourself.”

  His mouth opens.

  “Stop embarrassing me,” she says, meeting his gaze.

  He nods. “Sure, babe. I ain’t trying to cause trouble. Just goofing around.”

  Cherise rises as I whistle for Storm. The dog’s there in seconds. When she sees who we’ve met, she growls.

  “Yeah, I know,” Dalton says. “We’d have preferred hostiles.”

  “Now, now, don’t be rude,” Cherise says. “I think I might be able to help with that.”

  “With what?” I ask.

  “Your hostile problem.”

  “If there’s a hostile problem, it’s yours, too. Everyone out here is affected.”

  “We can deal with the wild people. You’re the ones who riled them up by killing their leader.”

  “Because their leader attacked us and—” I stop myself. “I’m not here to argue. If you have information, let’s talk trade. It won’t be worth much, though. The hostiles have been quiet lately.”

  Her burst of laughter has me cursing my misstep.

  “They left two people in pieces,” Cherise says.

  I try not to give anything away in my expression as I say, calmly, “Two people were left in that condition by animal predation.”

  “Oh, don’t mince words, Casey. The wild people killed them. Animals just ate the remains. We heard you two yesterday and got a look. We also overheard you talking to your sister. You believe it was a hostile attack. On outsiders.”

  I glance at Dalton. He lifts one shoulder, telling me he doesn’t see any point in holding back.

  “What do you have for us?” I say, in lieu of confirmation.

  “Something you’ll want.”

  “Eric? Could you take Storm to the stream for a drink? I think Owen wants to go, too.”

  Owen snorts and leans back on his log bench. “I’m good.”

  “No,” Cherise says. “You stink, and unless you plan on sleeping alone tonight, you’ll wash up.”

  He chuckles. “That punishment would last until about midnight, when you remembered why you keep me around.” He kisses her cheek but rises to follow Dalton out.

  Once they’re gone, Cherise says, “If you think I’ll go easier on you with him gone, you’re mistaken, Casey. I don’t need to prove to Owen that I’m a tough negotiator. He doesn’t actually care, as long as he has a roof over his head, food in his belly, and me in his bed.”

  She pauses and eyes me. “But it’s not him you’re worried about, is it? You don’t want to break too easily in front of your man.”

  “Eric trusts me to negotiate. I just want them gone so we can drop the bullshit and do that. Without posturing.”

  Her lips tighten at the unfamiliar word. Then a sniff as she figures it out in context. She doesn’t argue, though. She might not need to prove herself to Owen, but she’s still the alpha here, and this is more easily done without her pack as an audience. Also, perhaps more importantly, I don’t want Owen here as a witness to the admissions I’m about to make.

  “Yes, we have a hostile problem,” I say. “It isn’t just the deaths. It’s the fact that one of their women left them, and they may know she’s in Rockton. I want to resolve this problem permanently.”

  As I realize what I said, and how it can be interpreted, I expect her lips to curve in a smile. Which proves that I don’t know Cherise as well as I think I do.

  Instead, she just eyes me, assessing.

  “I don’t mean exterminate them,” I say, and when her gaze shows no comprehension, I amend it to, “Kill them all.”

  “That would resolve the problem, though, would it not? My father has suggested it for years. My mother called him a fool. She said it was like killing all the grizzlies. Yes, we’d be safer if they were gone, but we’d also be safer if the wolves and the mountain lions were gone. Then perhaps we could also be rid of the winters. Oh, and the cliffs we can tumble off or the vines that can trip us. All are part of the forest. We have even done minor trade with the wild people. Not enough to wish them to remain, but there are too many of them to ‘exterminate,’ as you put it.”

  “Agreed, and we wouldn’t do that.”

  “Because they’re human?” Her lip curls slightly. “This is where you prove yourself unfit for our forest, Casey. You are tough and you are strong, but you are softhearted, and that makes you weak.”

  “Maybe, but imagine if we did kill the hostiles. Wouldn’t you begin wondering who we’d target next? The settlers? The traders? You?” I shake
my head. “Extermination isn’t the solution. We have access to resources that can remove the hostiles and treat them.”

  Her brows crease whenever I mention an unfamiliar concept or term, as when I say “access to resources.” It’s the barest line between her brows, smoothed quickly. It slows her comprehension down just enough that there’s a beat pause before she catches my last words and snorts a laugh.

  “Treat them? Why?”

  “That isn’t your concern. What I need from you is an understanding that this goal benefits us both. Whatever trade you have with the hostiles, as you say, it’s not worth the threat they pose. To get them out of here, though, I need to convince Rockton’s leaders that we’re dealing with a serious threat.”

  “Then show them those bodies. That should be explanation enough.”

  “The council doesn’t live in town.”

  One brow arches. “You allow yourselves to be ruled by outsiders?”

  “Ask Owen how Rockton is run. He’ll explain. For now, yes, those with the money and the resources to solve this aren’t in Rockton. Of course I’m going to tell them about the bodies. I can even send photos. I’m hoping the fact that the victims are outsiders will help. The last thing anyone needs is a team from Dawson combing the forest for lost tourists.” I pause. “People visiting from outside the Yukon.”

  She gives me a withering look. “We travel into Dawson, Casey. I know what a tourist is. That’s why I’m hoping to make a trip before summer, when they invade like mosquitoes. I can’t imagine how fewer of them would be cause for concern, but I will take your word on that.”

  She leans back. “Now, I suppose I’m supposed to tell you that I understand and will provide my information for free.”

  “No, you’re supposed to understand that I’ve shared information with you, information I would rather keep to myself. Whatever you have, I expect to pay for it. I just don’t expect the bullshit of posturing and negotiating and spending half my fucking morning prying it from you . . . only to realize I’ve paid for something I could have found out myself for free.”

  She refills her coffee before sitting back on her log. “Oh, you won’t find it, Casey. And you are going to pay for it. Despite all this blathering that’s supposed to convince me it’s in my best interests to tell you everything I know.”

  “I would never not pay for information from you, Cherise, because you’d hold it over my head. I want an even accounting. All this ‘blathering,’ as you call it, is supposed to convince you that I’m not screwing around. If you distract me with time-wasting bullshit, you won’t ever trade with Rockton again.”

  Her blue eyes flash. She doesn’t like that. But she only says, “I want more coffee, and I want condoms. Owen says Rockton has lots of both. I also want money. Five hundred dollars before my next trip to Dawson.”

  “Two pounds of coffee. Two hundred and fifty dollars. And as many condoms as you two need to keep from reproducing.”

  She snickers at that. “Funny girl. You’re going to regret that offer, though. We need a lot.”

  “We get them by the caseload.”

  “Five pounds of coffee. Three hundred and fifty dollars. If you see what I have and you can convince me it’s not worth that, I’ll reopen negotiations. But I don’t think you’re going to be able to do that.”

  “Then we have a deal.”

  12

  Cherise won’t tell me what she has. She needs to show me. Which means more time spent in their company, but it’s quicker to endure than to argue. First, though, we need to return to our camp and dismantle it. We manage to talk Cherise into meeting us partway to her “spot,” so we don’t leave the ATV and dirt bike behind. We break camp quickly and ride the vehicles to the rendezvous spot where the couple are already waiting.

  When Owen eyes my dirt bike, Cherise says, “No.”

  He glances over.

  “First, you’re too big for that. It’s a child’s toy. Fortunately for Casey, she’s child-sized.”

  I could point out that I’m not abnormally small for an adult woman—just small compared to her. That would make Cherise think she’d found a sore point, though, so I keep quiet.

  “Two,” she continues, “it runs on gas. Not air. Not wood. Not water. Not anything we have in abundance.”

  She motions for us to follow her into the woods. She’s carrying one of the rifles and nothing more. Owen gets the pack. He doesn’t complain. As Cherise said, he’s a simple man—food, shelter, and sex, and he’s good, especially if he doesn’t need to bother with the logistics of attaining any of that.

  Behind their backs, I motion from my pack to Dalton and lift my brows. He hooks a thumb at Storm, offering her services instead. I laugh under my breath and shake my head. I wouldn’t want a guy who uncomplainingly carries my backpack when I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself. No more than I’d want one who insisted on carrying it to be chivalrous.

  As we walk, we talk. Or Cherise and I do, while Dalton eyes Owen as one would a rabid wolf. I swear Dalton growls under his breath every time Owen gets within three feet of me.

  In that conversation with Cherise, I learn that they didn’t just happen to come across us yesterday. They’d been keeping an eye out, and hearing us yesterday, they’d abandoned the hunt in favor of more profitable prey.

  They had something to show us, and it wouldn’t keep forever. They knew better than to stop by Rockton, though. We’ve set the town off-limits, with the warning that Owen was still wanted for crimes there. A good excuse for not letting them in, where they might be able to woo residents with the promise of goods we tightly regulate—booze, cigarettes, and, of course, sex.

  Cherise leads us to a mountainside. We hike up it about a hundred feet, and then she motions to Owen, who drops his pack and rolls back a rock over a small cave entrance. It reminds me of going to Easter services with a friend in elementary school, when I’d been transfixed by a painting of disciples rolling back the rock that sealed a crypt. When the smell of decomposition hits, I think it’s triggered by that memory. Then Dalton scrunches his nose and turns to Cherise.

  “What’ve you got in there?” he says.

  “A gift.”

  “Well, we’re not going in after it.”

  “Didn’t say you had to. That service is included in the price.”

  Another wave at Owen. No “please.” No imperious wave either. She isn’t haughtily commanding him to do her bidding. She just expects it . . . and he obeys with neither grumbling hesitation nor groveling obsequence. Maybe this was what the old marriage vows meant: your husband expected obedience, and you delivered without resentment. I can’t imagine being either party in that arrangement.

  Owen has to drop to all fours to enter, and even then, his grunts tell me how tight the passage must be. A moment later, he backs out, boots first, pulling a long, wrapped cylinder after him, and that Sunday-school image flashes again.

  Before I can comment, Owen crawls back inside.

  Two more bodies follow. Three crudely wrapped corpses, the stink of decomposition still seeping out. The wrappings are partly cured skins. Rejects, from the looks of them—too damaged to make proper trade goods.

  I bend to one knee beside one corpse. Gently, I peel back the wrap. The skin sticks a little, and I stop as soon as I can see the face. Male. Heavily bearded. A scar on one cheek, poorly healed, but it’s not ritual scarring. The hair is roughly cut, longer than usual and not exactly clean, but showing no sign of matting.

  “Too early in the year for miner and trappers,” I murmur. “Settlers, then?”

  I glance at the other two bodies. One is definitely female, the other taller but slighter, like an adolescent.

  I wince. “A family of settlers.”

  “If by settlers, you mean people formerly from Rockton or descended from them, then no,” Cherise says. “They came as trappers a couple of years back. Man, woman, boy.” She glances at Owen, who supplies, “Teenager,” and she nods.

  “Teenage
r. They came as trappers and stayed. Built a cabin maybe . . .” Another glance at Owen.

  “Ten miles,” he says.

  “Ten miles that way.” She points west. “They didn’t usually come this far, but the weather’s been good.”

  “Cabin fever, probably,” Owen says. “Long winter, early spring.”

  “We saw them last week and traded. They had skins. Not those ones.” Cherise pauses. “Well, yes, they had those, but they were trash. We only took the good ones. Still ended up with those.” She rolls her eyes. “Missy.”

  “Your youngest sister.” I nod. “She’s a good seamstress. She must have figured she could do something with them.”

  “No, she just wanted a romp with the boy but knows we don’t give that for free.” Another eye roll.

  Missy had taken the damaged skins as “payment” so she could have some fun with a boy her age . . . a boy who now lies at my feet, wrapped in those same skins as a death shroud.

  “Was there . . . a problem with that?” I say carefully. “An argument over it?”

  Cherise’s brows knit. Then she looks at the bodies and back at me and laughs. “You think we killed them because my little sister wanted sex? We aren’t savages. I told Missy if he goes around telling other people how cheaply he got her, I’ll tan her backside, but otherwise . . .”

  She shrugs. “Missy wants a man. This boy would grow into one soon enough, and he’d be a good choice. In the meantime, I wouldn’t begrudge her some fun. That took place last week. We found them like this three days ago. Owen said you’d want the bodies, and you’d want them in the best condition possible. So we wrapped them and put them in here, and then we were keeping an eye out for you.”

  I turn to Owen. “Why did you think we’d want them?” Even as I ask, I know the answer. I just hope I’m wrong.

  “I said you’d want them because of how they died. They were attacked.”

  “By wild men,” Cherise says. “Attacked in their camp, just like those tourists.”

  * * *

  We’re leading Storm through the forest as she pulls a makeshift stretcher with the three bodies roped onto it. While she can smell death, she seems to accept that she is performing a necessary task.